Will you walk alongside me?

My soul cleaves to the dust; 
Revive me according to Your word.

My soul weeps because of grief; 
Strengthen me according to Your word.

Remove the false way from me, 
And graciously grant me Your law.

I have chosen the faithful way; 
I have placed Your ordinances before me.

I grasp and cling to whatever you tell me; God, don’t let me down!
I’ll run the course you lay out for me if you’ll just show me how.

                                                                           -Psalm 119:25, 28-32 (mix of NASB and The Message)

Last night I was pressed into the corner of the couch, a pile of crumpled tissues accumulating on my lap. I cried as I poured my heart out to my friend (through Facebook chat, of all places) and tried to put words to the frustration I feel inside. I told her about my impatience with people. The disappointment in myself when I can sense that people expect more from me but I don't feel capable of meeting their standards. The anger that follows when I wonder why people can't show me more grace. The frustration I feel towards God, myself and others.

Why can't this be better? Why can't I be better? Why can't you be better? 

What a sweet thing it is to show someone the ugly parts of yourself and have them love you in return.

I treasure this response from my friend:

"There is grace for this situation... grace for the days when you are angry, when you're tired, when you lack motivation to do anything. When you're sad because your boy isnt here. And it's more than OK to feel those things. I hope the people in your day to day life can show you that grace and allow you to grieve when you need to express it."

Yes. Friends, that is what I need. I need grace. I am a sinner, if it's not one thing it's another.

And I also need to express my grief.

When people asked me how I was doing right after John died, they didn't expect me to say that I was fine. Because, duh, I wasn't fine. I had just lost a child. 

This Sunday will mark three months since the day I heard my baby's heartbeat stop and delivered him (via c-section). Only three months. The pain is still so fresh. I think that because I seem put-together and "fine" to most people that they assume I am fine, but right now I feel so far from fine. I know it takes time to grieve, but how much time? How much crying? How many bitter, pleading prayers?

It's not that my current life is terrible, it's that an unthinkable thing happened to me and I'm still reeling from it. There are good days. There is laughter. There are pages filled in my "joy journal" (a thoughtful gift I received after losing John). God is with me.

But, there is also pain. A desire to talk about my baby, and to hear someone else say his name. To voice my sadness. To have an arm around me or a tear shed with me.

Friends, will you walk alongside me as I grieve? I know it's awkward. I've been in your shoes. I know you don't want to cause me more pain by bringing John up in a conversation (it won't, I promise). I know you don't want to say the wrong thing (I'd rather you say something than nothing). I have grace for you. I don't expect you to know how to perfectly handle my mess. I don't even know how to handle it! But oh, would I love for you to love me through it.

The two people that have most recently heard me voice my sadness both said the same thing: "People that know your situation are probably thinking about John, even if they don't tell you they are. I think about John all the time."

God knew those words would bless my heart. Dear friends, if you think about my baby, please tell me. If you have questions about my pregnancy or John's diagnosis or the c-section or anything, please ask them.

Two weeks after John died one of our pastors called to encourage me. He spoke softly to me as I cried into the phone, straining to hear his words through my tears and desperately wanting them to wash over me and fill me with peace. Then he said something that made me stop crying and grab a pen to write it down.

He said, "We (the church) accept you in your weakness, in your vulnerability and pain."

Oh, how greatly I need that acceptance.

latest recipes

Cooking has been great therapy for me the last few weeks. My grief has been hitting harder now than it was before. I think the numbness from the shock is wearing off and reality is sinking in.

There's something about the rhythmic rocking of a knife against a cutting board, the sizzle of vegetables in a hot pan and the rush of pride that comes from creating something restaurant-worthy. I have certainly gone through phases of frozen pizzas and takeout, but right now I'm addicted to cooking.

Here are a few of the recipes I've tried lately. Let me know if you try any of them and how it went!
(click on the name of the dish to view the recipe)

Thai Coconut Curry Soup

This soup knocked my socks off, and it was SO EASY to make!
I did not use lime leaves, cilantro roots or bean sprouts, and I’ve made it once
with powdered ginger and once with a small spoonful of galangal (in place of frozen grated ginger).
I also added sliced mushrooms.
The noodles are good, but it’s REALLY good over jasmine rice!

Cajun chicken pasta

(scroll to the end to view recipe)

I made this dish with a friend, and I think our version looked
prettier than this picture! Regardless, it tasted amazing.
We omitted the wine and parsley and used
an orange pepper in place of the green. We also used rotisserie chicken,
which I would absolutely recommend doing. This made at least 8 servings,
but it's so good that you'll be sad when the leftovers run out.
On the second night of eating it I added a sautéd mushroom and a
handful of fresh spinach, which I let wilt as I stirred the hot pasta.

Coconut chicken with sweet chili dipping sauce

I've made this once before, but it's probably been two years!
I followed her recipe to a T and had no problems.
I love when my dinners come out looking just like the picture!
If you like the coconut shrimp at Outback then you'll love this dish.

Dragon noodles

I'm obsessed with these spicy noodles.
I added a spoonful of peanut butter to the sauce after getting the idea from
the comments section, but they'd still be delicious without the PB.
I ate the leftovers cold the next day and declared that I should
make these noodles each week for my school lunches.

Jalapeño popper dip

This is our new favorite dip. I added bacon
(I crumbled four strips) and used crushed Ritz crackers
for the topping instead of Panko bread crumbs.
I served the dip with Ritz at a party, but on the way home
Andy suggested we pick up a loaf of french bread
so we could eat more dip at home.
This dip was our dinner, and it was delicious.
(We didn't toast the bread, but I'm sure that would be yummy, too.)

being strong

Being strong doesn't mean holding it together, I think. Being strong means picking yourself up after letting yourself not hold it together.

After the saleswoman notices your bump is gone.

People always assume the babies must be somewhere else, but not in your case.
A bump and a baby, gone.

"We haven't seen you in a while! Boy or girl?" Her face is so friendly, so happy, and you can taste the dread in your mouth like a bitter pill. "A boy," you say, and she says congratulations, and you hope she won't ask anything else. She does.

"How is it going?"

You pause, your fingernails digging into your palms as you try to breathe slowly through your nose.
Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry. But the truth is you're already crying, because you've been holding your breath and waiting for someone to mention your obvious lack of bump. Because you HAD a boy, but you don't HAVE a boy. Because IT is not going the way you thought it would. Because you can't regale her with stories of baby smiles, diaper blow-outs or sleepless nights. You desperately want to have stories to tell. Happy stories. Not this story.

Your lips tremble as you briefly tell the truth (because you cannot NOT tell the truth). Her face falls, and you think to yourself, that look on her face—that's the way you feel inside. Then she's crying, and neither of you know how to move on from the conversation because the truth—the lack of stories, the emptiness of it all— is so sad.

But you pick yourself up. Pull yourself together. You focus on your heartbeat  to combat the stillness you feel in your abdomen, and you go back to fingering price tags. "Retail therapy," you joke in a soft voice. The saleswoman sniffs back her tears and gives a polite chuckle before bee-lining for another part of the store, where she will speak in a hushed whisper to another saleswoman. You can guess what she is saying, because you're thinking it.

"Oh gosh, the most awkward thing just happened."

Your whole existence feels like a series of moving on from sad, uncomfortable situations. Picking yourself up, over and over, after allowing yourself to fall apart.

I don't want to bear this.

Some of this post was written in May, shortly after our baby received a fatal fetal diagnosis. I chose not to publish anything about the diagnosis on Facebook or my blog until I gave birth because I didn't have many medical details to provide readers (I still don't). Mainly, though, I was desperately hoping that the whole thing was a mistake and that I'd receive a perfectly healthy baby in the end. 

I was 19 weeks and 5 days pregnant when I was first told our baby was measuring small. The technician said I was measuring 16 weeks and 6 days and told me I must have been wrong about my due date. My OB didn't think the technician was correct, but he didn't seem concerned and told me to get another ultrasound two weeks later. 

Here is part one of my story as a mother who has only memories and a scar to show for it.

-----

On Wednesday, April 24th (22 weeks and 3 days), I had another ultrasound. Everything looked fine to us. Our baby was waving his or her sweet little hand at us (we didn't discover the gender until John was delivered), and the technician didn't linger over anything for a long period of time. Then, at the very end of the procedure, a bomb was dropped. We were told my amniotic fluid was very low and that our baby was measuring a little over 17 weeks—meaning that our baby was not only small but also had hardly grown at all in two and a half weeks. The technician went from smiley and relaxed to very agitated. She told me she would contact my OB immediately and that they would probably want to see me later that day. In the meantime, we had to go home and wait for the call from the OB.

I held in my tears until we got through the lobby and then cried out in anguish, filling the huge glass entryway of the women's center with the sounds of grief. Andy guided me to the car and we sat there together, blinking at the unrelenting sun and trying to make sense of the news we had just received. After what seemed like hours but was only minutes, I opened my mouth.

"We need hummus."

So we drove to Costco. I gratefully inhaled free samples and focused on what we needed: black beans, tomato sauce, chicken stock, hummus, pita chips and a rice cooker. What we didn't need: bad news.

My friend Erin arrived at our house not longer after we arrived home from the store. Erin had delivered a beautiful stillborn son just months earlier, and I had texted her right after appointment. She sat with me while I picked at my lunch, and then she prayed with me and cried with me.

"God doesn't give us more than we can bear," she said. "I don't want to bear this," I said back.

(quick note: I do not agree with the idea that God does not give us more than we can bear. Erin is a dear friend and I knew her intention was to try to comfort me.)

The OB finally called to confirm that my low fluid was a big problem and they set me up to see a perinatal specialist two days later (Friday, April 26th). Andy and I sat in our living room and stared at our phones, dreading the calls we had to make to our parents. I'll never forget watching my husband's face crumple when his mom picked up her phone.

I received an email that night from my brother. His words of advice and encouragement continue to bring me comfort today.

"I don't feel you guys need to pray or strive a lot, but instead watch some funny shows or listen to Bill Cosby. You guys have a lot of people supporting you in prayer."

This is what I took away from those words:

It's okay to let other people communicate to the Lord on your behalf. Rest. It's okay to laugh. In fact, go out of your way to laugh."

That night we watched episode after episode of "Parks and Recreation," and after hours of crying, we laughed.

Thursday was a blur. We both worked from home and took lots of breaks to hug each other and try to make each other giggle. Andy kept telling me to not let my mind wander to "what ifs" and reminded me that we would soon know more from the specialist.

Friday afternoon we met with a perinatal specialist for the first time. We listened to worship music on the way over, the words of "Come to Me" by Bethel and "Oceans" by Hillsong United piercing a part of me that I hadn't known existed until that week. I now see how God used many of these songs to prepare my heart to both bear and battle the hurt and fear and desperation that would come.

The green ultrasound gel on my abdomen seeped into my pants while the doctor checked on the baby, but for once I didn't care. I was too busy trying to discern what he was saying from the lyrics that kept running through my head. Your baby is way too small and doesn't have room to grow.  Come to Me, I'm all you need. You don't have enough amniotic fluid. I am your steadfast, so don't be afraid. Your baby isn't getting enough blood. I am with you. The limbs and organs are not growing properly. The baby has clubfoot. There is a potential hole in the baby's heart. STOP! I thought. Stop telling me all of the things that are wrong with my baby! Your baby will likely not survive in the womb and has a very unlikely chance of surviving outside the womb without life support. Let me walk upon the waters, wherever you would call me. Your baby could die tomorrow, or in a few weeks, or it could even be born. But then it would die. You've never failed, and you won't start now. This could all be caused by a chromosomal disorder, or it could be genetic. We don't know what to tell you...

We listened and nodded and wiped our eyes and shuffled to the genetic counselor's office, where we avoided looking at each other. The counselor talked with us about chromosomal disorders and blood tests and what our options were in moving forward. I felt like I was detached from my body and watching the whole scene as if it was a movie and the woman playing me was reading off of a script. "What are we supposed to do with ourselves?" we asked. "What are we supposed to say to people?"

We still don't have the answers.

getting through

The other night Andy came into our room to find me singing along to this video in the dark.


Before that, I had sung along to these:






And laughed through this:


The next day I popped "Center Stage" into the DVD player and moved my shoulders and hips along to the music, remembering the times I stood in front of the TV in my parent's bedroom as a teenager, mimicking as many moves in this scene as I was physically able:



Let me tell you a theory I have: watching "Band of Brothers" will make you want to watch at least one other movie or show (if not five), because you'll recognize an actor and then think of something else they've been in. It is truly impossible for someone like me, who has a rolodex of actors in her mind, to watch "Band of Brothers" without shouting "ah! that's so and so from such and such" every five minutes. (I couldn't believe Andy put up with this, but he did.) The first time I saw "Band of Brothers" was in 2009, and I could hardly pay attention to anyone else because I was freaked out that I recognized Lieutenant Speirs as Rufus from Gossip Girl. Come on! That is upsetting (for several reasons... including the simple fact that I know who is on Gossip Girl). This time around I was able to focus on recognizing everyone else, including the actor who plays Private Webster (and Jim in "Center Stage"), James McAvoy and a verrrrry skinny Tom Hardy.

In between watching clips from musicals and blowing Andy's mind with actor references, I've been reading "Wild" for book club and eating fruit snacks and talking to the dog. I water flower arrangements and move them around to different tables and rooms. I read cards with heartbreakingly sweet messages and occasionally rip open a package (one of which held an entire pound cake). I look at pictures of John. I accuse of Andy of making me laugh too hard. I get through each day, hour by hour... sometimes laughing, sometimes singing, sometimes arguing, sometimes crying.

Sometimes writing silly, jumbled up blog posts.