Monday, June 12, 2023

Laughter

I wrote the following short story on a whim one Saturday this spring to enter in the Bess Streeter Aldrich Foundation's Short Story Contest.  Aldrich wrote A Lantern in Her Hand, a "heart book" for me.  I submitted it at literally the very last minute and sent it to only a couple of people certain to be charitable. You can imagine my shock, incredulity, and delight when I received an email a month later informing me that I'd won the adult division!  

Inspired by stories I've heard from my grandparents and those of my husband, I give you first (and only) short story...

Laughter

The cool of the crisp gray sky penetrated the rows of corn stalks above her.  From where she landed on her back in between the rows, she looked up into it and couldn’t believe she was here. The baby kicked inside her, whether in protest or delight she wasn’t sure.  And then it all struck Dorothy as funny, and she laughed.  With her laugh escaped emotions that had been held captive but building in number and strength in the depths of her soul over the last 15 months.    

She and Ed had loved each other as long as she could remember.  When she was only 4 and her parents had moved to the homestead, Ed’s family had come to be part of the barn raising that introduced the newly arrived Wallace family to the community.  Ed, being the dashing and capable 6.5 year old he was, had earnestly helped the men and watched them work, soaking in so much that he would need to know in the future.  But when the dinner bell rang and the platters heaped with food covered the table, Ed disappeared.  

A short time later he reappeared with a purple crocus in hand.  Where he’d found the flower that chilly early spring day, Dorothy never knew. But as he handed it to her and silently walked away, she felt her innocent, tender heart follow him, and there it had always been - with him.

In the one room schoolhouse, they never really talked to each other though there was a kind of silent appreciation, each for the other, between the two. By the sixth grade Ed could out run in speed or distance any of the 8th graders, and he excelled at arithmetic.  Dorothy was a friend to all the girls, jumping rope, playing cat’s cradle, and first in her class at spelling and writing.

By Thanksgiving of his 8th grade year, Ed was the head of his class.  But his father was building the Frank family a new house and needed Ed’s help to get it finished before spring planting. Ed traded his slate and chalk for a hammer and nails, but was no less adept at his new occupation.  The walls were perfectly square, the trim perfectly finished, and the house ready just ahead of planting. Dorothy missed watching Ed from a distance at school.  None of the other boys were as interesting or handsome to her eyes.  

They’d loved each other all their short lives, and when they were old enough nothing would keep Ed from courting Dorothy.  Nothing except the spring rains and the muddy river of a road that passed for the Wallace’s driveway.  The spring of Dorothy’s 16th year, the rains were so incessant and the ground so reluctant to soak away the deluge that the Wallaces simply couldn’t get off their homestead.  When the half-mile drive was finally passable in the early days of June, Ed came courting every Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.  At 18 years of age, he was tall, handsome, confident, and ready to claim his bride.

But economics got in the way of their marriage.  Ed’s help on his family’s farm was essential just then in his 18th year.  His father’s broken leg in April and slow recovery had made Ed the man of the Frank family and head of the farm for this season.  His two sisters, ages 15 and 12, couldn’t take over the heavy labor of the farm.  And his two youngest siblings, twin boys age 8, were good help, but far too young to run things.  The quarter of farm ground near the river that his dad had promised Ed to help him get his start sat untouched all spring and summer.  

But young true love finds a way.  So one sunny Saturday morning that fall, Ed picked Dorothy up in the old Model-T he’d bought the year before. Under the guise of a picnic with friends from a nearby town, the two drove away through the golden fields almost ready for picking to secretly start their future together.  It took them three hours to get to the courthouse where Ed had made arrangements with a justice of the peace to legally marry them.  In the shade of a giant cottonwood tree by the river, they celebrated their nuptials over the picnic lunch Dorothy had packed.  Then they drove the three hours back to the Wallace homestead where Ed walked Dorothy to the door, shook her father’s hand, smiled at her mother, and thanked them for the pleasure of spending the day with their daughter.  Cheeks still flushed just from the picnic in the warm sunshine, or so her parents thought, Dorothy uttered not a word of their adventure to her parents. Ed quietly returned to his parents’ home, giving nothing away to his family.  

The letter and newspaper clipping that came in the mail 2 weeks later to Ed’s parents from their second cousins who lived just a few hours west revealed all.  With congratulations to the happy couple and the newspaper’s record that Ed and Dorothy had purchased a marriage license, the newlyweds’ cover was blown.  Ed still had to help with the family’s harvest before he could begin building the simple two-room house on the land down by the river that would be theirs.  

That fall was full of hopes and dreams for Dorothy and the hard work of bringing dreams to reality for Ed. A mere three months after their legal marriage in September, Ed and Dorothy finally moved into the cozy little cottage nestled in the grove of cedars and cottonwoods along the river. 

They were on their own, living their dream together. All their lives, they would remember that first Christmas together as one of their favorites.  They had no money to buy each other gifts.  Every penny they found had gone to purchase necessities for the winter or to pay for the building supplies for their home. The windows were bare of any curtains, but the winter’s frost and the cover of the grove gave privacy. The wood floor had only one small rag rug by the bed, but the wood floor was a luxury over dirt.  They had food and supplies enough for the winter, and they had each other. That was all they really wanted.

One blizzard followed another late that winter, and the sun took its time melting the drifts and warming the earth.  The day he finally finished the spring planting, Ed came into the cottage to find Dorothy not herself.  She’d prepared supper for him but couldn’t eat any herself, and by the next morning, she was ill and unable to get out of bed.  After two days of no improvement, Ed called the doctor.  The examination revealed that the illness wasn’t an illness at all.  Dorothy was pregnant.  The baby would arrive early in January.  Shock, disbelief, fear, and joy flashed across Ed’s face before finally settling into excitement at the doctor’s announcement. A baby!

One of Dorothy’s younger sisters tramped a path the 3 miles along the river between her parent’s home and her sister’s during those early days of pregnancy.  She helped Dorothy with the cooking and cleaning as often as she was able, and it was that help that kept the growing family in the little cottage afloat.  By the time of the Annual Independence Day Celebration in town, Dorothy had finally returned to herself and was able to shoulder her share of the responsibilities again.  

“Knee high by the 4th of July,” for corn they said, but that year only a few fields had reached such heights.  Ed surveyed his crops with a look of consternation and concern.  What would he do if the snow came early this year? Dorothy set her jaw and held her tongue about her own concerns.  No sense adding to the weight already on Ed’s shoulders.  Besides, worrying wouldn’t speed the corn’s growth or stop the snow.  

A long Indian Summer stretched throughout the fall so that by Thanksgiving the crops were finally ready for picking.  Dorothy felt almost ripe too, ready to hold the fruits of her labors in her arms. Just 6 more weeks until the baby was due to arrive. 

Just 6 more weeks, but there was so much to do on the small farm with the cottage in the grove by the river.  Final preparations for the baby’s arrival had to be made, but first and foremost, the crops had to be harvested.  And as the entire community shared the necessity of the late harvest, everyone took to their fields.  Everyone including Ed and Dorothy.

The crisp gray sky spread above them, cloudy but not the kind of clouds that threaten rain or snow.  The coolness of the day wasn’t sharp enough to penetrate sturdy wool clothing on working bodies.  The cornstalks stood at orderly attention awaiting their undressing.  

As they started, Ed took 6 rows, giving the very pregnant Dorothy just 2 to harvest.  Dorothy’s competitive nature dared her swollen belly to slow her.  She would keep up with Ed, even beat him to the other end of their assigned rows, she silently vowed to herself.  They moved through the field pitching the ears of corn into the wagon pulled by Bess, the old plow horse.  

On the first pass, Dorothy kept pace with Ed, not beating him to the end of the rows, but tossing her last ear into the wagon just as he stripped the final ears from his rows.  But with each pass through the field, Dorothy’s belly felt heavier and more in the way, her steps slowed, and her pitches became less accurate.  Ed glanced over at her as he bent to pick up yet another of her bad tosses.  Dorothy’s brows furrowed as she turned away from him in frustration. It was frustration at herself and her inability to make her body do what she needed it to. She suggested a break for water and the morning’s snack she had brought for them.  As they sat on the wagon’s tongue and ate, she again vowed to herself that she would keep up.

But the next pass through the field was the worst one yet.  Ed was picking his six rows, plus almost an entire one of hers.  Dorothy’s frustration mounted as she watched Ed creep farther ahead and pick more and more of “her” rows.  That was it.  She’d had it.  She plucked a particularly fat ear off of the stalk beside her, wound up, and hurled the thing not at the wagon, but at Ed’s back.  She put such focus and force into throwing the ear of corn that she missed her next step, lost her balance, and tottered backwards before falling, flat on her back, in between the rows of corn.  

The ear clipped Ed’s heel and he turned to see what had happened.  He found his wife, marooned on her back, bulging belly pointing to the sky, like a turtle turned upside down, unable to get up. Her hard facade cracked, but instead of tears, her laughter rang out through the field.  He grinned as he took a step toward her.  Then he began to laugh too, and once he’d started, the two of them couldn’t stop. He reached for her hand to pull her up, but instead, she pulled him down into the row beside her, and they laughed. 

They laughed away the years of waiting to spend forever with each other, the nerves of sneaking away to be married, the anticipation of being together in their own home, the weight of being penniless, the excitement of a new baby’s coming, and the anxiousness of the late harvest. They laughed for the past they had shared and for the future they looked forward to.  

Ed and Dorothy lay under the cool blanket of the crisp gray sky that penetrated the rows of cornstalks, and they said together, in a way that no words can, that they forgave the hard things of the past and looked forward to the future that they would build together on this little piece of land with the cottage in the grove by the river.

Dear Thomas

Written in November of 2019. Raw and real. And 3.5 years later as I hit "publish," it is just as true.  Dear one, Mamas don't forget.  

Dear Thomas,

I wish you were here.  But I don't.  I'm so glad you are where you are, missing the pain and hard that this world holds.  But, man.  What I wouldn't give to hold your warm, breathing, alive self.  Whisper to you how much you are loved.  Put your darling face on the wall with your siblings as you all smile back at me.

But, dear one, it was not ordained to be.  Instead, I have the gift of you always.  You, my twin I got to know so little.  I'm not sure how the heart can hold so much all at once.  I am so grateful for you.  I am so grateful I got to know you in so far as I could.  I am so broken that you're not here.  I am in agony that you're not beside your twin. 

But let's go back and remember our journey together, my dear one.  It all started in early March, 2019...

I desperately wanted to be pregnant.  I'd had "baby fever" for a while, and we had finally agreed to go ahead and see if we could conceive.  I was desperate to know if we had.  I researched which pregnancy tests to take, how early I could take one, and how likely it was to be accurate.  I'd planned to take a test on Friday.  But then, I changed my mind.  I took one Tuesday morning, first thing, instead - a super sensitive one. 

Two lines.  Pregnant.  Elation!

Well, I thought, that didn't take long to show up.  I wonder if it would've mattered if I'd waited till afternoon (they say your most likely to get a positive first thing in the morning).  I took a less sensitive test Tuesday afternoon.

A blue plus sign.  Pregnant.  It wouldn't have mattered! 

I took a picture of the two pregnancy tests beside each other - one pink, one blue - and thought how great it was to know so soon.  I wondered then if there was significance to the two tests, to the pink and the blue.  It would be fun, I thought, if it was twins.  But I wouldn't really let myself go there - twins are a dream I'd long ago retired.

By 4 weeks I was napping every afternoon.  I worked to get things ready for first trimester as soon as I knew I was pregnant - meals in the freezer, projects wrapped up, house in order.

The exhaustion I began to feel was unlike anything I'd felt before.  I laid in bed with 3 weeks' worth of laundry filling baskets all over our room, and I ignored them.  I could hardly lift my drink to my lips, let alone care for my family.  I remember making supper one evening, bringing a pillow and blanket into the kitchen so I could lay down between putting the water on, putting the noodles in, and draining the cooked pasta.

Saturdays and Sundays consisted of me getting up to get breakfast for everyone, then getting back in bed.  Chase would manage the kids while I rested all afternoon.  I was so exhausted I simply didn't care how beautiful the day was.  I remember one Saturday in particular, Chase was playing with the kids outside on a perfect spring afternoon.  They giggled, mowed the lawn, shouted encouragement, and simply were having the best time.  I remember wanting to want to be outside with them, but I just couldn't muster up the strength to go to the window to look out at what they were doing.

Morning sickness wasn't bad - I never threw up - but I was queasy most of the time.  Salty things tasted good.  I could convince myself to eat eggs with ketchup, toast with butter, grilled cheese, and the like.  Sweets were not appealing in any way.

The first week of April, I was 9 weeks along, when we went in for our first appointment.  I'd intended to wait till 12 weeks, but we were concerned something was wrong because of my exhaustion. 

There was a simple answer:  twins.  You and your sister. 

Perfect little hearts beating away, babies both over the 95% for size and growing beautifully.  Everything checked out well.

The next three weeks I spent trying to wrap my head around twins, grieving the loss of the freedom a singleton allows that twins don't, trying to figure out what life would look like and accept that this time things would be different.  Massively different.

At 12 weeks we had our 2nd ultrasound.  Perfect little hearts beating away, babies still growing beautifully.  Everything checked out as expected.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  We'd passed the "vanishing twin" stage.  I was in the lowest risk category for twins - di/di twins in a mom who'd had babies before, over age 30 - this was going to go well.

I took it easy, not doing more than I had to, and caring for myself as best I could.  I can't say energy returned immediately after the first trimester wrapped up, but I was anticipating that I would feel a little better soon.

At 15 weeks we went in for another ultrasound.  We joked as the doctor put the wand on my stomach.  I wasn't paying close attention to the ultrasound image, because the two babies were there, clearly, still tucked safely away in my stomach. 

"Stephani.  This one doesn't have a heartbeat."

Dear one, my world crashed.

"Damn."

I jumped to logistics.  How does this affect the other twin?  How does this affect my care?  What are our next steps?  What do I need to do?  Could it be a mistake? 

My doctor answered my questions and handed me a few tissues.  "It's ok to be sad and cry," she said.  "I know," I responded.  "That will come."

Unsure what to think or do, we walked into the lobby and headed for the car.  We decided we were simply going to tell the kids that there was a problem with one of the babies and that we'd see a specialist about it soon.  We told our parents the truth - no heartbeat - and we prayed for God's healing hand to do the impossible miracle.

A week later, Chase and I went to Omaha to the specialists office where it was confirmed - no heartbeat.  Baby, I don't know why your heart stopped beating.  I pray it was nothing I did, and I don't struggle with guilt over it.  I read every twin book that got good reviews.  I followed the recommendations.  I did my best to care for you.  I'm so sorry I couldn't do more.

Your sister got an excellent report from the specialists - "She's an overachiever," they told me.  "I know," I replied.  That's the kind of babies we make - the best kind.

They told me you would likely reabsorb into the placenta.  They told me there may not be much of you, if any, at birth.  They told me they weren't sure what we would find when you were born.

Thus commenced the next 23 weeks of pregnancy.  23 weeks I got to carry your body in mine, though you weren't alive.  23 weeks I continually processed your loss.

I worried that your sister would know me more by my sobs than my laugh.  I worried that something would happen to her too.  I worried that you or she wouldn't feel all the love I have in my heart for each of you.  I read about twinless twins.  You're both twinless twins in different places.  God, won't it be great when we're all together and you can just be twins?

People said things to try and make it better - "at least you're still pregnant" was the most common sentiment, as if I wasn't grateful for your sister and the pregnancy that continued.  People meant well, and I had and have to have grace for their efforts to show love.  That's what people were trying to do. 

I find that seeing other twins doesn't make me hurt, exactly.  I don't just want any twins.  I want YOU.  I want MY twins. 

The second trimester I felt better.  I had energy.  And largely I didn't have to face hard things - I just had to do pregnancy and enjoy summer.  And I got to pretend like nothing happened. 

But then 3rd trimester hit.  My hips and back ached.  But I wanted them to ache more because I was carrying you, still growing.  Instead, they ached and my heart ached because I wanted you too. 

I had to face the fact that I would deliver a singleton.  But not really, because I would deliver you, whatever there was left on this earth of you, anyway.  Questions came up, like my obstetric history.  Had I had a miscarriage?  Well... not yet?  Not really?  Not one that resulted in the compromise of a pregnancy.  And I hadn't miscarried yet.  I still carried you.

36 weeks hit and I lost it.  We would've been planning your induction or c-section at that point.  I would've been monitored regularly to ensure you were safe.  Instead, I'd nested early and had no projects to work on and grief bearing down on me.  How could I do this without really meeting you in the end?

I faced it.  I faced grief.  The waves pulled me under yet again, and I came up on the other side.  Hope rose with the sun the next morning and my battered soul breathed again.  I accepted that I'd be pregnant for a while yet.  It would be a while before I'd meet your sister and you.

38 weeks came last Thursday.  We did an ultrasound and found I had excessive amniotic fluid - not by much, but "technically, you have high amniotic fluid."  Which meant cord prolapse risk in delivery.  My doctor wanted me to do non-stress tests twice weekly.

I went in the next day, Friday, for a NST.  It took a long time, and I didn't get back to Central City till lunch time to get the kids from Wendy.  Everything looked great.  But emotionally I was back to facing the fact that I would've held you that day, November 1st, no matter what.  You would've been delivered by then, via natural childbirth, induction, or c-section.  I would've met you that day.

I sobbed.  I so very desperately wanted to meet you that day.  Really meet you.

That night, after the Harvest Concert, I was laying in bed, heard a "pop" and my water broke. 

In the midst of it all, I looked at Chase and said I thought I wanted an epidural.  I didn't think I could do it without one.

You, my dear one, were such a huge part of it all, are such a huge part of me.  We got to the hospital, and I got an epidural.  Before pain even really hit me, I got an epidural.  I needed head space to think.  I needed head space to pray.  I needed head space to work through seeing if you were there, what of you was there, and do that all in the context of welcoming your sister with all the joy and elation that her birth built in my soul. 

It's the strangest thing.  It's not that my heart is split - like 1/2 was sad and 1/2 was happy.  It's like the entirety of my heart could feel the entirety of emotions - relief, joy, elation at your sister's arrival; sorrow, yearning, grief at your body's arrival without you.

Ugh.  Thomas.  Damn.  Losing you hurts.  Always.

Hurts doesn't begin to encompass it.  It's this can't breathe, depth of my soul, aching pit.  It's overwhelming.

But I look just beyond my computer screen, and there, your sister lays sleeping, breathing, alive, and my heart soars in gratitude, love, and joy.  How can my heart be both places at once?

So your sister was born, and then you came with the placenta.  Dr. Crockett cleaned me up, got me settled with your sister and brought you over to me.

She told me that here was the placenta - Juliana's part.  Then over here was your part.  There was still a bit of you there to see - she asked if I wanted her to pull the membrane back.  I said yes and she did, and there you were - little head, body, arm, leg, eye. 

That settled it.  My nurse, Sylvia, personally took you down to the lab with instructions about us picking you up on Monday.  You were, as far as it was possible for me to know, cared for and honored by the doctors and nurses who handled you.  And, I hope, that the same can be said for those in the lab.

Monday, Chase tried to pick you up, but they weren't done with the placenta, they said.  Then, I got a call from the hospital.  They couldn't release you to us, your parents.  They had to release you to a funeral home director.

I was a mess - I'd asked all these questions ahead of time and knew that the Nebraska state statute said that they COULD release you to me because you were gone prior to 20 weeks gestation.  But the fact remained that you were born at 38 weeks gestation too.  After going in circles in my head for a couple of hours, I finally called my cousin's husband, a funeral home director in NE. 

He is excellent at his job.  He said I was right about the statue, but institutions can have regulations tighter than the statute.  He offered to call the lab and see if he could get them to make an exception in this case.

He called back and they had refused.  I wish I knew who decided it was a good idea to keep parents from picking up their kids and laying them to rest.  It was absurd bureaucratic red tape.

He recommended calling our local funeral home and told us they wouldn't charge for picking you up.  I felt kind of silly, like 1/2 the town has to help me get my child back, but there was no way I wasn't going to fight for you.

Baby, I would have fought forever for you.  You are so worth the effort.  I wish there was something I could've done so we could've known each other more.  I would've done so much more than this.

So your dad dug your grave in the back yard.  It is under the Miss Kim Lilac bushes.  Your dad also bought the box we buried you in.  While I've spent months grieving, he took on the hard physical tasks of facing those most tangible things.

We went the next day to the funeral home to pick you up.  I assumed you'd still be in your placenta and we'd have the whole thing to bury.  They laid you out carefully on a table in the back of the funeral home and let us come look at you.

The lab had taken you out of your placenta, so we just had YOU.  Your little head, your precious body, your dear arms and legs, and God saved 5 perfect little toes pointed out on one of your feet for me to count.  I can't wait to really hold you.  Like hold your warm self, hear your heart beat, look into your darling eyes and fall even more in love.

God's handiwork from the first day just blows my mind.  You were there, all of you. 

I don't understand why.  I will never understand why.  At least not this side of eternity. 

The hospital had you in a clear plastic bag, and had that bag wrapped in a hospital blanket.  We wrapped you back up, put you in your box, and brought you home. 

It was then that I realized what I wanted to do for you - I wanted you to have a sleeping bag of sorts.  Something made out of your fabric - the fox fabric, and the white minky, and the gray fuzzy. A miniature blanket like the bigger ones I've made for each of your siblings.  So that afternoon I made you the tiniest sleeping bag.

When Lily got home from school, I went to the basement where you were waiting, tucked you in your sleeping bag, covered you with the blanket Pat Loper knit for you, wrapped it all in your hospital blanket, and closed the lid of your box.

We bundled up all the kids and went out on the cloudy, cold, windy Wednesday afternoon to your grave.  We stood with our backs to the wind as Chase put your box down in the grave.

The neighbor's cat peered out the vertical blinds, our only observer.

I asked if anyone had anything they wanted to say about you, Thomas. 

Connor, age 5, (who had been particularly ornery lately) piped up, "I know what we should do." 

Internally I just dreaded a smart alecky comment coming from him at this moment. 

"We should pray." 

I repented for assuming the worst.  He was exactly right - we should pray.

Chase took the lead and prayed over you.  We thanked God for the gift of you, and looked forward to the day when we'll get to really know you in Glory.

We watched as Chase filled in the hole and talked about how much fun you must be having with Auggie.  We talked about Uncle Chet and Grandpa Jerry and how they were probably taking you fishing, and how you get to be with Jesus.  It sounds so lovely it's hard not to be jealous.

We came inside and Lily was processing the deep things.  I held her and we cried and talked about you a bit more.  Then she took her stuffed animal and went to her room to write and cry.

Connor came near, and I asked him how he knew exactly what we should do out by your grave. 

"Ramona Quimby," he answered.

In the last month all he has listened to is the Ramona Quimby Collection on Audible. 

"But there's not a funeral in Ramona, is there?" I asked.

"Uh-huh.  Picky Picky's," Connor responded. 

Picky Picky the cat.  Ramona.  I laughed and in my heart praised God that He used that stupid book we've all heart a billion times now to make sure we did just the right thing as we laid your body to rest.

Dearest Thomas, I don't know how I'll do life without you exactly.  I mean, I do.  I'll breathe.  I'll eat.  I'll sleep.  I'll be joyful and happy, I'll be sad and weary.  I'll live.  And in that living, I'll remember you.  Mamas don't forget. 

I'm so grateful to have known of you, to have seen your body, to have held you in my hand, to have touched your skin.  I'm so grateful you're here, in my heart, and on our property. 

My dear child, all I can say is that I love you.

Mom



Saturday, February 15, 2020

I knew this day would come

I knew this day would come. 

Last year, quite like this year, it was around Valentine's Day that we got through a week or two of influenza and sickness in our house.  Then we were hoping that, at some point, the Lord would answer in the affirmative our request for a new family member. 

We were overjoyed to learn around this time last year that He had! 

Even as I struggled through the exhaustion and nausea, I knew that in about a year, there would be a day, a glorious day, that would be warmer than expected.  It would be a break from the frigid temperatures and sickness and cabin fever, and we would break out beyond our four walls and relish the sunshine. 

I remember searching for a bargain - the diamond in the rough, the choice carriage, the perfect pram - that would carry my new babies to the park.  Because there wasn't to be one addition, but the Lord had ordained two additions to our family!  Twins!  Again, we were overjoyed!

I ordered the double stroller - my second double stroller, but we use them so much, and with twins even more so - a gift from a loved one as excited and overjoyed as us. 

As I hit "Buy Now," I knew this day would come.

The double stroller arrived, and we all looked at the pictures on the outside of the gigantic box.  It was exactly what I'd hoped.  And it was heavy.  Too heavy for me in my exhausted, expecting state to lug it to the basement until that glorious day when it would be needed.  Chase hauled it down the stairs and stowed it away.

It was shortly afterward that we found out that we wouldn't, in fact, need the double stroller for our twins.  At least not for that gloriously warm winter day I'd been anticipating. 

A strong, steady heartbeat next to the the gaping silence of dreams shattered.  We had lost our Thomas.

Memorial Day weekend last year our basement flooded.  This, immediately after we'd found out about little Thomas.  He wasn't even named yet.  And I splashed through the giant puddle in the basement to shove and lift the stroller, still packed safely in it's box of dreams, to dry safety.

And I knew this day would come.

I have walked by it, moved it from one spot to another, considered returning it, considered selling it, considered giving it away.  But when it really comes down to it...  I want it. 

I want this stroller.  I researched and looked and considered and spent pregnancy-induced insomnia hours weighing the benefits of this stroller over others.  I wanted this color - my favorite, and more rare so as not to get it confused with others at the park who already have the same one.  It pushes easily - I know because I've tried out a friend's.  It folds compactly.  It has decent storage, and all of the other features and functions I knew I would need... for twins.

November 2nd brought the birthday of our twins - Juilana first, then Thomas.  We brought her home first, then him.  Tucked her into her bassinet first; then tucked him into his resting place at home, with lilacs to blanket him each spring.

And I knew this day would come.

We made it through the fall, the holidays, the winter, until February 1st without a sniffle or a cough of any concern.  Then the fevers started.  It was 14 days of fevers, chills, aches, sore throats, coughs, runny noses, and general sickness spreading from one to another until 5 out 7 family members had succumbed.  Finally, on day 15, the last victim awoke free of the fever.

The sun was out.  The wind was still.  The day practically begged that we break free of our prison and leave our sick beds behind.  So preparations began.  Socks, shoes, jackets (for that's all that was needed), and a stroller.

I lugged it up from the basement and set the box in the kitchen. 

The day had come.

The kids helped me open the box, dump out the contents, assemble the wheels, brake, and accessories.  They joyfully climbed in, buckled and unbuckled the straps, and then asked, "Is this for Julie and Nolan?" 

"Yes," I answered, "If Nolan wants to ride in it, he can, but I bet he'll want to ride his trike." 

After a pause, I went on, "When we got it, I thought we would need it for Julie and Thomas, but since we lost Thomas he won't get to ride in it, I guess." 

The kids continued their inspection of each feature and part, nodding in agreement with me.  But their minds had moved on while mine lingered. 

If Thomas were here along with the others, would I have the energy to take them all to the park, even with their dad's help (he came along too today)?  If Thomas were here, would we have made it till February 1st without sickness?  If Thomas were here, how would I have managed the last 2 weeks where someone(s) (including me for 2 days) was sick and sleep was so rare?  What would that have been like with twins to nurse?  Could I have nursed twins this long?  ...

But the "what if___" tunnel is not one to travel down very far.  So I stopped myself and wheeled the stroller out the door. 

Children atop bikes waited patiently at the end of the drive as Chase and I loaded up the new stroller with all manner of superfluous necessities.  The diaper bag sat in the seat next to Julie.  What I wouldn't give to have had a baby, my baby, Julie's twin, sitting there next to her. 

But I knew this day would come.

As my heart both ached for our loss and celebrated the life we get to enjoy, I turned my face to the sun, and we set off for the park. 

Today is not what I hoped it would be.  Today is not what I wanted it to be.  Today is not what I dreamed it would be.  But today has come and gone.  And while I still don't understand, today was good.



 

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Introducing Juliana Berniece

Welcome to the world dear Juilana Berniece!  You are 2 weeks old today, and I can't begin to express how very glad we all are that you are here, safe and sound!!!

Francl family of 7!

Her Name

First, the name.  Juliana has been named for years now - we've just been waiting to meet her.  We pronounce her name "Julie-on-ah."  It means "youthful" and has been waiting in the wings since Liliana (Lily) was born.  We call her Juliana, Julie, or Jules.

Her middle name, Berniece, means "bringer of victory" and is after Berniece Grewcock, a woman dear to our family.  Berniece is a strong woman who has lived a life full of faithful support of her spouse, generosity to those less fortunate, fighting for the good, and promoting truth.  I can't think of a woman I'd rather my daughter emulate.

The Twins

The story of Juliana has to begin with the twins.  We found out we were expecting in March and found out in April that we were expecting twins!  Fear, elation, exhaustion, and excitement all mixed as we changed our expectations and anticipated the future.

In May, at 15 weeks gestation, we found out that we lost one of our twins.  We never did confirm a gender, but my mommy gut said "boy" so we named him Thomas (which means "twin") and grieved.

Waiting for Juliana

The pregnancy continued without any further complications or hiccoughs (praise the Lord!).  I was initially convinced she was coming early, so I nested early - everything was done by 36 weeks.  So then I had to come to grips with the fact that she wasn't here yet.  I worked to mentally accept that I'd be pregnant till 40 weeks.

At 37 weeks, 5 days, Wednesday, we found out I had slightly higher than normal levels of amniotic fluid.  The primary risk factor has to do with cord prolapse during delivery (a very rare but extremely dangerous thing), and extra fluid doesn't mean anything is wrong necessarily, but we started non-stress tests, just to be on the safe side.

At 38 weeks, on Friday morning, I went in for my first non-stress test, which she passed with flying colors.  My doctor was out of town, so this gave me a chance to meet Dr. Crockett, the doctor who would be on call for the weekend.  I was sure I wasn't going into labor any time soon - I would likely be pregnant for another week or so - but it was good to have met her.

That evening was an all-school concert at Lily's school.  We loaded up the kids after supper and went for the 2-hour concert.  Spencer (age 4) was getting so sleepy at one point that I handed out little bags of M&M's, thinking that would keep him awake.  He really tried, but with an M&M 1/2 way to his mouth, he fell asleep.  It was SO funny!

Spencer sleeping between M&M's.


After the concert, we chatted a bit with friends and then headed for home around 9.  We put the boys to bed, and I crawled into our bed hoping to ease my constantly-aching back.  Lily crawled in next to me to read, and Chase had just crawled in next to her to read.

Soon, I felt baby kick and thought I heard something.  I felt baby kick again and heard, "POP!"  Then a warm gush of water flowed down my leg.  It was 9:47 pm.

She's Coming Now

"Chase, my water just broke."

"What?!?!!!!"

"My water just broke."

"What do I do????!!!!????"

He dashed to the bathroom and brought back towels and a shower curtain (it was sitting on top of the towels, and was kind of a genius idea).  Then, with Lily running, bouncing off the walls, turning on lights, and opening doors ahead of him, Chase took our bags and the infant seat out to the car.  Big sister was beside herself with excitement!

I called my mom to come stay with the kids, and Chase went in to let the boys know we were leaving.  Connor was the only one still awake, so he came to my room to tell me goodbye.  I don't know that I've ever seen a grin so big on his face!

In all the excitement, I sat on the edge of my bed perched on bath towels knowing exactly what I was facing.  I HATE it when my water breaks.  Labor gets instantly horrible.  My hips and back already hurt terribly, and I hadn't had a single contraction yet.

"I think I want an epidural this time," I said to Chase.

"Really?!?" I could hear the hope in his voice.

I moved to 2 fresh towels, wrapped the shower curtain around them, slipped on flip flops and headed for the car.

On the 30 minute drive to the hospital, I kept poking my stomach to be sure baby was moving.  This was when cord prolapse could cause problems.  I had maybe 3 or 4 contractions on the drive, but the only way I knew they were happening was by feeling with my hands as my stomach got hard like a basketball.

The front-most parking spot was waiting for us when we arrived at the hospital.  Chase looked at me, "Best spot in the lot."  (He has an uncanny ability to always get good parking without even driving around looking.)

I hoisted up my shower-curtain-towel-makeshift-diaper over my soaked pajama pants and waddled my way into the hospital.  The labor and delivery floor is only floor 2, but by the time the elevator got there, I was already standing in a puddle.  As we made our way down the hallway to the nurses' station, I left a small river behind.

"I think we can confirm that you're ruptured," the nurse said.  It was about 10:30pm.  She pointed me to the room we delivered Spencer in, and we started the admission process.

I was hooked up to monitors, signed paperwork, got an IV put in, and asked for an epidural.  The nurses knew I'd never done one before, and asked a few times to confirm that was what I really wanted.  Yes.  Call the anesthesiologist.

The Epidural

He got there sometime around 11:30.  Turned out he knew some friends from my childhood, a doctor friend, and had a lake house outside of town.  We all chatted as he worked.

Chase stood in front of me, and I leaned my head into his chest as the epidural was placed.  The anesthesiologist said that it's common for dads to faint during the process, so we joked about that, and Chase made a point to look away from all that was going on.  But somehow, it didn't matter - just as the epidural was placed, I felt Chase's arms go heavy.  "Uh... I don't... I think I need to sit..." Chase said.

The nurse - who Chase assumed was there to help me if I needed anything - was actually there with a chair to help Chase in case he fainted.  He didn't actually faint, but he came soooo close!

After the epidural was in, I got settled back in bed, and my blood pressure dropped.  It took about an hour to stabilize everything, and by 1am, we settled in to wait.

The problem was, my labor basically stalled - contractions were coming only every 7-10 minutes.  By 3am we decided to try position changes to get things moving.  Chase and Anna slept while I rested and waited.

Chase on the left, Anna on the right.  If I hadn't had an
epidural, you can be sure they wouldn't have been allowed
to sleep!


Basically from 1am-6am nothing happened.  At least nothing externally.

The Internal Work

I spent the time facing fears, praying, looking my terrors in the eye and choosing to surrender it all to a God I don't understand, but who has proven time and again He is worthy of all my trust and praise.

I feared for Juliana's safety.  Cord prolapse wasn't out of the question even now.  Which might be part of the reason I was set on the epidural this time when it hadn't ever even been an option I'd considered before - I needed my medical team to be able to do anything they needed to in order to get her safely out.

I feared for Juliana's health.  We hadn't seen her face since 17 weeks because she always had her hands in front of her face.  I worried that she had a cleft palate we hadn't caught earlier, or some other something she was hiding from us.

I feared for Thomas, that he wouldn't be there.  Since we lost him at 15 weeks, there was a chance he may have "vanished" and been totally reabsorbed into his placenta.  That would mean there was nothing left of him to see, to bury, to honor.

I feared for Thomas, that he would be there.  Since we lost him at 15 weeks, there was a chance he would be totally there, just hanging out with his placenta.  That would mean I'd have to/get to see him, whatever there was of him, we'd have to figure out burial, we'd have to face whatever those uncertainties held.

I feared for me.  Could I parent a twinless twin?  Would I make it all about the twin we lost?  Would she know she belongs with us?  Would she struggle with why Thomas and not her?  How would I tell her story without making it all about Thomas?  Would I feel joy when she was born?  Would I weep?  How would I answer the questions she's bound to have throughout her life?

Fear.  That's what those hours were about - facing fear and letting it know I was not afraid.  I was ready.  I was ready to accept what would come, to surrender my need for control in a situation over which I had no control anyway, to move out of pregnancy into a new season with a new baby and all the unknowns it held.  One by one, I faced each fear and surrendered to the will of the Lord.

Juliana is Born

Around the time the nurses changed shifts (7am), I agreed to start pitocin to get my labor really going.  When my new nurse checked me at 7:30, I was still just 6cm.  The new nurse made sure I was settled, and then she bustled about the room getting things ready.  The delivery table was set up, the baby things were all out and ready.

Sylvia, my nurse, was experienced - she teaches the childbirth class that the hospital offers, and I'd met her at our refresher we took when we had Connor 5 years earlier.  As my contractions increased in frequency and intensity, she told me to let her know if I felt any downward pressure.  I felt basically nothing, so I said I'd do my best to warn her.

Around 8:30, the epidural stopped working on my front left side.  I rolled over and hit the button to "give it more juice" and was comfortably feeling nothing again within 10 minutes.  A little before 9, my nurse saw a nurse call light on in another room.  Since I was doing fine, she was going to go check on that patient, but decided to check me first.

She lifted the sheet, quickly put it down, and said calmly, "Don't move.  Don't wiggle.  Just lay still.  I'm going to go get the doctor!"  She left and came right back, "We're lucky!  Dr. Crockett was sitting at the nurses' station.  She'll be right in.

Chase was in the bathroom and Anna was dozing, but the activity that happened in the room brought them both to my bedside quickly.  Dr. Crockett came in gowning up as fast as she could.  A second nurse (for the baby) joined the team, and within a few minutes everyone was set.

I scooted to the end of the bed, and Dr. Crockett told me that on the next contraction I could give a push if I wanted to.  When the contraction started, I "breathed down" like they teach you to do, and Chase said, "Steph, you know the head's out, right?"

"Really?!?"

I gave another little push, and we had a baby, a beautiful, breathing, perfect baby girl at 9:14am.  Juliana Berniece made her way into the world gently, quietly, and almost without the professionals.  It was such a peaceful experience, and it seems to me that was in no small part due to the hours I was able to spend focusing on getting emotionally, mentally, and spiritually ready for her arrival.  That and her own gentle spirit.

Even my nurse, Sylvia, thanked me after the fact for letting her be part of such a peaceful, serene delivery.  I wasn't really sure how to respond to that, but was grateful that she honored the whole experience.

We put her on my chest right away, and she
reached her precious hand up and wrapped
it around my neck.  <3

Getting to know Daddy. (Shout out to baby's
nurse, Beth, in the background.  She's assisted
in 2 of my births, and an emergency birth of
a friend.)

Juliana Berniece Francl - 7lb, 9.5oz, 20 inches of sheer perfection.



Thomas is Born

After Juliana was born, the placental came, and we took time to look at it closely once we were settled in.  Dr. Crockett pointed out the area that was Juliana's placenta, then the area that was Thomas' - his placenta had grown next to and fuzed with her placenta.  Though there was no amniotic fluid anymore, Thomas did still have an amniotic sac covering him.  Dr. Crockett broke that membrane and we were able to see that Thomas was still there, part of his placenta.  Head, body, arms, legs, they were all there.

So the unknown was now known.  We would bring him home and bury him.

Sylvia took the placenta to the lab, personally, to ensure it was handled with the greatest care and respect.  A few days later, we were able to bring Thomas home and bury him.

All the Love

Mom brought the kids to see us as soon as they were dressed and done with breakfast.  Nolan, age 2, was the first one to walk into the room as Chase was holding Julie.  He walked right to Chase with arms outstretched, "I hold baby sister?" he asked.

Nolan (2.5 years)

Spencer (4 years)

Connor (5.5 years)

Lily (8 years)

The kids got to watch Julie's first bath, and learned about the
warmer hospitals use to keep babies warm.  It's just the best
crew I could ever hope to claim as my own.

Home


We came home on Sunday afternoon, and it's been the easiest adjustment to a new baby that I've had so far, in terms of physical demands and sibling stuff.  She's content, sleeps at night, and generally is an "easy" baby.  But then, I think all of that is simply God's grace, because there have been other things we've had to face.

Through this whole experience, there has been such a mixture of joy and sorrow, happiness and hurt, celebration and grief.  For me, those seemingly opposing things exist together, inseparable, and unending.  The intensity of the last 9 months and these first weeks will pass, and the strength of the feelings will wane over time.  But experience tells me they'll never go away entirely, and when I look back on this season, it will always be one of the most beautiful, ugly, struggles of my life.



Sunday, October 20, 2019

Lies, the subconscious, love, and hope

You're alone, they whisper.

It's oh, so quiet, and the very fact that I can hear their whisper seems to confirm that what they speak is truth.

You're alone, they whisper, though there are people all around me, though I'm talking and smiling, and working with all I have to keep it together enough that no one notices.

They get more bold, You're a failure.

Tell me something I don't already know.

You should be doing more for your husband, for your kids, for your friends, for your work, for your community.

Yeah, yeah, I know.  I know!

Tears well up as they seep from my aching heart.

You can't even keep it together in public for pete's sake.  You're a failure.  You fail everyone around you.  It's probably why you lost Thomas.  Failing a husband and 5 kids is enough - you couldn't handle a 6th anyway.  You would've just failed him too.

They're lies.  Lies straight from the pit of Hell.  I've come to recognize them for what they are, but somehow that doesn't always mean that they cease their whispering.

The Subconscious

It's less than a month until our baby girl is due, and I am so very thankful.  I am so grateful for her, for the hope that we've had through this really hard season of life.  Her wiggly self is the very embodiment of joy and hope.  And I can't wait to cradle her in my arms, to snuggle her sweet self, and whisper truths in her ear like, "We've always wanted you," and, "You are just who you are supposed to be," and, "You're enough, just like you are," and, "I'll always love you no matter what may come." 

But as the day approaches (whenever that will be), I find myself in the midst, again, of an intense emotional struggle.  Consciously, I've know for months that my due date is Nov. 15.  And I've been telling people that, out loud, for months.  Yet somehow I realized this week as I hit 36 weeks, that subconsciously I was still planning for a due date between now and Nov. 1, because at some subconscious level I have believed all this time that I'm supposed to have twins.

You see, twins are full-term between 36 and 38 weeks.  Literally, God made it so twins' lungs develop quicker, and their little bodies are ready for the outside world anywhere from 2-4 weeks ahead of what it takes for singletons to be full-term.  And after 38 weeks, twins' placentas start to break down and can cease providing the support twins need.  Thus, when I found out I was having twins, I was told they would be delivered, one way or another, by Nov. 1, which is 38 weeks for me.  Two weeks less of pregnancy?  Hallelujah!

When we lost Thomas at 15 weeks, they told me that the pregnancy would now be considered a singleton pregnancy, and that everything adjusts back that way.  No extra appointments or ultrasounds were needed (unless other complications popped up, which blessedly they haven't), and my due date returned to Nov. 15, which is 40 weeks.  As if losing a twin wasn't punishment enough, I now have an additional 2 weeks of pregnancy tacked back on.  It was 20 weeks ago that the specialist told us that, so I've had 20 weeks to plan on a Nov. 15 due date.

Yet somehow, my subconscious or whatever never believed it.  And as I look around now, I see it in things like the nursery being 100% ready last week and 95% ready 2 weeks before that; hospital bags all packed and ready to go 3 weeks ago; all of my house projects (that I can complete) done, save for a last deep cleaning of bathrooms (because who really wants to do that anyway?); considerations I made weeks ago for NICU time if I delivered that early; meals tucked away in the freezer, and a lack of planning anything for November because I'd have just delivered. 

As I look back, I realize that somehow, deep down, I really believed I'd be in labor this week.  And if we still had our Thomas, I very likely would be.  Or at least I'd be seeing my doctor every few days to assess when we'd get to see the twins' sweet little faces.

I don't think there are words for how harsh the reality is that I don't actually get to live that beautiful moment.  It scrapes my soul raw when I let myself think about it.

Don't get me wrong.  I was scared stiff from the second I learned it was twins - how would they get out?  How would I handle a delivery different from the ones I've experienced before where, largely, I was in control and told people what I wanted when, and what I was going to do when. 

But damn.  What I wouldn't give to be told I don't have any control in how they come, but I'm having them both...

Love


As it is, I get to look forward to meeting our daughter, I hope, in a very similar way to how I've met all our other children.  The hell that is labor, the brink of death that is actually delivering, and the instant euphoria of cradling my child in my arms instead of my belly.  That is a road to dread longingly.

I am looking forward to it.  I even beg for it to come sometimes, though I know how hard it is.  That instant she's in my arms, those initial moments of meeting and studying each other, the first fresh hours of new and perfect and in love...  These will also be the moments I don't have that same thing with Thomas.  What will that be like? 

Praise the Lord for the wild concoction of hormones He sends coursing through the body of a woman after labor and delivery.  It's a euphoria unlike any other I've ever experienced, a high that can't be beat for me.  Will it be enough to help me joyfully face my single twin without the one we lost? 

Within a month, I guess I'll know.

Can I do labor and delivery again?  It was horrible the first time.  To quote myself the moment Lily was born, "That was the worst experience of my life!"  Then going into it the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th times, I knew what was coming, and "awful" doesn't begin to encompass how hard it is.  Will I be able to face it all again, this time with added layers of struggle and emotional angst? 

The obvious answer is yes.  It's what we do, we moms.  No child comes easily into this world, no matter how they come.  It is sacrifice.  It is submission.  It is love that gets children here.  Love and God's grace. 

So I guess I'll do it again, and wouldn't we all do it all over again if it somehow meant protecting or saving our children from some horrible hurt or death?  In a book I'm reading with my kids, a mom says, as her son is lead away to horrible punishment, "I wish it was me who was going!"  And one of my boys stopped me to ask if I would ever do that.  He was shocked when I answered without skipping a beat, "Of course." 

It's not that my son doesn't know that I love him, but somehow that story gave him new insight into exactly how much I love him and each of his siblings.  Honestly, I didn't know how much I would love my kids till I had them.  Crazy how the heart learns to love infinitely more in that moment of new parenthood.

And that's, in some ways, the struggle.  I love Thomas just that much too.  I knew him so little, but in as much as I had the privilege of knowing him, I have loved him as completely and fully as each of my other children.  When I weep for his loss, I weep because of the value of that which was lost - that of immeasurable worth. 

Hope


The days come and go, as they have since time immemorial, and I'm grateful in this hard season that they do pass.  Most are mostly good days, but every now and then I run up against one that's just almost too much to bear.  The weight of the moments and hours crush in on me, and I can barely press on.  Sometimes I don't.  My pillow dampened, my soul poured out, I simply beg the day to end.

But usually after dark days like this, the sun rises and hope is renewed with the morning's light. 

One day soon, the sun will rise on our 2nd daughter, all fresh and new.  And in that day there will be great joy and hope for her, and also the blush of sorrow for her brother who we look forward to knowing someday beyond the great divide.

Friday, June 21, 2019

I'm doing fine.

Chase comes down the stairs as I hurl the can into the trash as hard as I can.  All my pent up frustration, anger, hurt, and pain release on the innocent can.

That stupid Walmart employee who filled my order for pick up got the wrong kind of canned oranges.  I can't use these - they have ingredients that give me migranes.  I think, as if the poor soul knew and did it on purpose.

Chase passes through the kitchen and advises the kids not to come in there for a few minutes.  Meanwhile I wonder if I broke open the can when I threw it.  I hope I did.

It's the longest day of the year.  And man, does it feel like an eternity today.

But I'm not ready to talk.  I just need to hurt for a while.  Maybe forever, I'm not sure.  I just hurt.

...

People ask me how I'm feeling, how I'm doing?  And I smile and answer that I'm doing fine.

I see the question still in their eyes because they don't really believe me, so I blather on about how some moments are hard but mostly we just have so much to be grateful for.  Don't question if I answer you this way.  Truly.  I am doing fine.  We are doing fine.

99% of the time, I focus on the positives - we have so much to be grateful for, so much to be thankful for, so much to look forward to.  We live in that state of gratitude - at least I do.  I look around me and don't know how to do anything else.  A devoted spouse, 4 healthy children with another on the way, a home I prayed for years for that God gave me, and every need you can image that He's met for me.  How could I be anything but grateful?

But I knew from the second we found out we'd lost Thomas that I'd get mad.  It's one of the primary ways I process hurt.  I just do.  I've learned to soften and direct and appropriately time my anger better over the years, but hurt comes out of me as anger first.

Many of the hurtful things I know I will face are predictable, and what's bringing all this on was predictable.  I'm not surprised I'm struggling today/tonight.  I knew when I hit this point - when it was time to face these things - I would lose it.

So I do.  I lose it.  On a can of oranges.  When I thought I was alone in my kitchen.  But I got caught.

I don't mind Chase knowing.  He asks what's wrong, and I feel bad telling him - these things are no surprise to him.  They are the same things we've been over before and they are the same things we'll go over again.  Things pile up for me in these situations - it's not just Thomas, though that's a huge part of it.  It's Thomas, it's the twins, it's relationships lost, changing, evolving in ways they never would have if death and sin weren't part of this world.

I hate it.  I hate sin.  I hate my own sin.  Was it a sin to explode on that can of oranges?  I'm not sure, but it wasn't virtue.  Of that I am certain.

...

How am I doing?  I am doing fine.  Please don't question when I answer that way.  I truly am.

I am living normal life.  I am feeling well - better than I have in months.  I can be the wife, mom, friend, person that I used to be/want to be, and I am grateful for that.  I can commit to doing things again.  I can show up and have normal conversations rather than sitting in a corner working to keep my eyelids open.  I'm getting my house back under control one room and a time - one blessed room at a time.  (Bathrooms are next - pray for me.  Ha!!!)

I'm not mad at God.  I'm not questioning my faith.  My identity is not shaken because my identity was never founded in twins, or another son, or a perfect pregnancy, or any of those things.  And most of the time I don't really even hurt.  Most of the time I am just fine.

But today, tonight, I hurt.

...

I crash onto my bed in the midst of a pile of unfolded laundry as soon as the kids are down.

My stomach feels weird.  I should probably eat.  Maybe a blizzard from DQ would be good tonight?  Maybe that would ease the hurt?

No.  No it wouldn't.  Plus it's too late to go get one.

Maybe I should get out my book and read.  That will help - get my mind off of things.  It'll all look better tomorrow.

No.  I won't be able to focus on a book.  That won't help, not tonight.

Maybe I should turn on Netflix.  But I've watched everything I've wanted to watch on there.  It's not like there's anything that will keep my interest, distract my mind.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

Maybe I should call a friend - use a life line - like on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?  Friends have offered, and they offered really meaning it.  I could wake one; I could call one I know would be awake; I could call one who knows all the gory details of all of my hurts right now so I don't have to explain anything; or I could call one who knows nothing so I could rehash everything and maybe that would help?

No.  Not tonight.

I've been in this place before.  It's just another visit from this miserable mistress called grief.  It's the kind of night where it won't matter what I eat, what I do, or who I talk to - I will just hurt.

I hurt over the memory of the moment my world turned upside-down.  I hurt over plans for the future that are now never to be.  I hurt over the way my own processing affects those I love most.  I hurt over the little, daily things that hurt.  I hurt over the fact that I have been severed from something that ought not to have been taken, but it was.  I hurt over life lost.

...

I'm not naive.  These things I feel are in no way unique to me or to my situation.  And I know too that in terms of intensity now and over the years, this doesn't scratch the surface of what so many face.  A spouse buried.  A father no longer there.  A daughter taken at the height of youth.  And so many others.

I know I grieve a life, but mostly I grieve the hopes and dreams and experiences that were to come.  And that's in part what grief is - processing the loss of the future.  But I didn't have much past.  Just 6 weeks.  That's all the time we had the hope and promise of Thomas.

Now some of you, if we were talking in person, would look me carefully in the eye at this point and say, "Yes, but that doesn't negate your grief over your son."

And I respond that you are 100% right.  But I also know that the grief carried by those who have lost one with whom they have lived life is so very different.  So much more intense.  And I just want to acknowledge that.

I think of a friend who recently lost her husband of 68 years. Sixty. Eight. Years. And another who lost her husband of 1/3 that long.  And parents in our state who are planning funerals for their teenage daughters killed in an accident that was all over the news this week.  Ain't no blizzard from DQ, show on Netflix, or friend in the world who can make them feel better. 

...

I don't have a sweet wrap up this time.  I still just hurt.  But it's ok to hurt.  Sometimes (though not always) the best response is to face that mistress of grief.  Look her in the eye and just be with her.  Then sometimes, in my experience, she lets you live a bit of life, not outside of her shadow, but outside of her fierce grip.

Blessedly as days, weeks, months, and years pass, her hold lessens, her interest fades, and grief is a visitor you can control to a point.  But she never completely leaves, and there is beauty even in that, because it validates the value of the loss.

I am doing fine.  But tonight, I hurt.

Friday, May 31, 2019

Thomas Francl

This is the post I prayed I'd never write.  The one I begged would never happen.  

Let me introduce Thomas Francl:


You'll never meet him here on this earth, and nor will I ever get to snuggle his sweet self this side of Heaven.  We lost Thomas - his heart is no longer beating.

Thomas is our son, and I can't tell you how much we cherish the pictures we have of him.  I am so thankful to live today when not only do we know for sure that I was carrying twins, but also we have an image to hold on to.

Facing the Reality

Yesterday it was confirmed that we lost Thomas.  Did you know that "Thomas" means "twin?"  I've always loved the name, but my rule-following self refused to use it on a child who wasn't a twin.  This is our Thomas, one of our twins.

The crushing blow of losing him was mixed with the elation of finding out that our daughter, Thomas' twin, is thriving.  Her little heartbeat is strong.  Her measurements are all precisely on target.  Her blood flow, placenta, umbilical cord, organs, movements, everything is totally normal.  

We have lost Thomas, but we still have his sister.  The specialist tells me that this pregnancy will carry on like a standard singleton pregnancy for our little girl.  Thomas will move aside and in some ways meld into the lining that surrounds and protects his sister.  Isn't that a beautiful thing - that even in his death he becomes part of the protection for his sister.  His body will change to look simply like extra tissue that I'll deliver along with their placentas after she is born.  

Her due date is November 15.  And can I just tell you, we cannot wait for the weeks to pass and for her birthday to arrive!  We are overjoyed and celebrate her life and her health, as we also are overcome with grief and mourn the loss of Thomas' life.

But Why?

Medically, we have no answers.  It's not "unusual" for a twin to not survive.  In fact, as many as 30 percent of pregnancies that start out as twins result in a singleton delivery.  So we simply don't know - there was no medical indication for concern and no medical reason found for his death.

I was talking to a friend today about some of the other why's: "Why let us know about him for a mere 6 weeks?  Why give him and then take him so quickly?  Isn't that cruel?  Would it have been better to never have had Thomas or to at least not to have known?"  The truth is God gives good gifts.  Thomas is a good gift.  Although we only knew about his little life for 6 weeks before he was taken, that in itself is a gift.  In so far as we could, we got to KNOW him.  Fifty years ago, it's likely that we never would have even known he existed as I would've simply delivered a singleton.  

To address the question of "why take him so quickly?  Isn't that cruel?" I simply don't know.  There are so many things I don't understand in this life.  However, I know Someone who knows so very much more than I ever will. He has a perspective so different from mine, and I understand that what He does and permits is for my good.  In my mind, God permitting things that are hard for me parallels a parent taking their child to get a necessary but painful medical procedure done - we parents have all had to do this for our own kid's health and well being.  The way I see it, God does too.  I need my toddler to trust me that a shot is for his long-term benefit.  Likewise, I assume God needs me to trust Him that hard things are for a greater good that I can't yet see or understand. Therefore, I choose to trust a God I don't understand.

Don't hear me saying I won't ask "why?"  I've faced enough of life to know that that question lingers.  I wanted twins for years, prayed to have them, retired that dream, and then was given it only to have it ripped away again.  I'm crushed.  I was so very much looking forward to (and afraid of) all the challenges and blessings.  But.  

Even if...

Do you know the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego?  It's in Daniel 3.  It's this great story where King Nebuchadnezzar builds a huge idol and then tells everyone in the kingdom they have to bow down to it.  It sounds silly, but he took role call or had henchmen or something to tell him if people didn't follow his orders.  We know this because somebody ratted out Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego who didn't bow down to the stupid hunk of metal and gold.  

The three are dragged before the king who tells them to bow down to the idol or be thrown into the blazing furnace, because, "what god will be able to rescue you from my hand?"  (Ok, King Nebby... you have no idea what's coming next.  Something tells me you always get your way - spoiled, spoiled!)  And the three respond, "King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter.  If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and He will deliver us from Your Majesty's hand."  

Doesn't that response just blow you away?!?  Like, what kind of faith do these three guys have?  What kind of crazy miracles have they seen?  The furnace is blazing so hot that it literally kills the guards feeding the fire.  This is no joke, and they're like, "Go ahead and throw us in, our God will save us from the fire."  It feels arrogant at this point to me, like, you three boys get to decide what God does and doesn't do?  He's just gonna rescue you from a fire cuz you stood up to a king?  Sounds to me like these three guys think they can boss God around.

But here's their next line to King Nebby, and it's the clincher for me: "But even if He does not, we want you to know, Your  Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."  

That.  That is reality right there.  They had it.  God can do ANYTHING.  He is awesome and not bound by the laws of nature in the same way that we are.  He made the rules.  He can break them.  He can save them from the fire.

But even if He does not these three guys decide ahead of time, they will serve Him alone.  

You see, it didn't matter what the king did or didn't do.  It didn't matter if God responded to their actions the way they hoped He would or not.  They would be faithful to God, I suspect, because HE HAD BEEN FAITHFUL TO THEM.

Perhaps some of you reading this far are wondering why I'm spending a ton of time on some ancient story from some crazy religious book when I'm trying to write a post about losing Thomas.  Fair enough.  But it's because Thomas'  life, my twins, will always make me think of this story.  

My "even if..." Moment

We knew a week ago that there were problems with one of our twins.  We knew also that the God who beat death itself could heal the issues that existed.  He is Life.  He is the Great Physician.  He created us.  We have served Him faithfully.  Why would He not grant our request?  A request in line with who He is and what He does, a request that, if granted, would glorify Himself.  

From my perspective it seemed plain - God can, God does.  But from experience, and Scripture, and the lives of many who have gone before me I know that that doesn't always mean God will.

In the week we had between when we knew there were problems and when it was confirmed that we lost Thomas, I lived (to a very different degree) what Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego faced.  My God can.  And I had to make the choice of what I would do - could I live out the "even if" that they never faced, because in their case (spoiler!) God DID save them from the firey furnace?  

I can live out the "even if" they never faced, like so many who have prayed good prayers before me that weren't answered in the way they'd hoped.  Corrie Ten Boom comes to mind.  (If you've never read The Hiding Place, get it today.  It will change your life.  Talk about inspiring faith in modern times.)

So if you've read this far, here's where I'm at:  I'm crushed.  I'm in shock.  From processing grief in the past, I know I'll get angry.  I'll ask "why?"  I'll hurl myself in anguish against the reality we face - precious life lost.  But in all that, I will remain faithful to Him who has been faithful to me and again choose to trust a God I don't understand.  And right in the midst of my grief, I will be celebrating the life of a little girl we plan to meet in November.  

The Lord has taken one.  The Lord has given one.  Blessed be His name.

Dear Thomas

To my dear son who I get to continue to carry with his sister, but will never get to hold this side of Heaven, 

Your life has made such an impact - at least on me and your family.  You are so dearly loved.  You were always wanted.  You will be greatly missed.  Yet I'm so grateful you won't face the harshness of this world.  

May the story of your life chase away doubt (no "doubting Thomas" here!) and inspire faithfulness in the "even if" moments faced by those whose lives you touch.  Your family loves you so.  We look forward to seeing you one day.

Love, Mom