Three Years Later

Three years ago tonight, I didn't have a clue what was about to hit our family.  I knew I was in labor, and I was so excited to see the end of my pregnancy and meet our sweet baby girl. 

And then the clamor.  And the quiet, fervent panic.  And the denial, hand in hand with sheer horror.  Quinn was beautiful.  Her life, short. 

It's hard to go back to those beginning moments when we were forever changed.  Even though I miss her every day, I have distanced myself from the detailed tragedy of losing her, a coping mechanism.  You can't live without forward movement, without laughter, without healing.

Jason and I grabbed the opportunity to run to her grave this afternoon, a 6-1/2-mile round trip.  In south Alabama, September is still full-blown summer.  The humidity was blessedly down, but the heat was in the mid-to-low-90s.  Additionally, I woke up from my Sunday afternoon nap with a giant lump of chocolate peanut butter pie sitting securely in my stomach, where I had put it earlier, bite by delicious bite.  And additionally, it had been a long time since I had run that far.  All that to say the run was hard, and we took a necessary while to cool down at the graveyard before we started for home.

During the run, in between my mind repeat-tracking a goofy Mr. Mom song from the MOPS of Atmore playlist, I tried to process what her death has meant in my life.  Running is a tool for bringing clarity to my thinking.  It may have been the heat, but it hit me that Quinn presented me with a crisis of faith.  I was brought up going to church, my parents taught me about God at a young age. I went to a Christian school.  I knew all the right answers about the God of the Bible, and I truly believed them.  I was the Good Girl who did and said the right things for the right reasons.  But while I never doubted my faith, I sometimes wondered if what I believed in was true and real, even though I knew it was.  Follow?  Doubt is sketchy territory.  It's hard to quantify, hard to articulate. Scary business for a Good Girl.

Soon after her death, I was having a cry-it-out moment in the shower, pitying myself, trying to process my feelings, and as I stepped out, I so clearly heard God speak to me, saying, "Do you think this is all about YOU?!  This is about ME and my story for Quinn."  The thought was a lion's roar out of nowhere.  The holiness of God took my breath away, left me reeling, and I could only respond in repentance and worship. 

He had my full attention.  And His sweetness and kindness blew me away.  I felt his care through my friends.  I connected with songs that displayed glimpses of his character.  I soaked it in as I read.  A James McDonald book on the subject of God using pain as discipline was a surprise blessing to me.  More passages in the Bible made sense to me.  The words I had been saying I believed all my life, I still believed, but now I knew they were true. 

And that is where I am today.  I stand, not on my faith, but on God who is holding my heart.  The God of the Bible is who He says He is, a Holy presence that directly calls us out of darkness, and then steadfastly changes us to reflect His glory.  Would I know (that I know that I know) this if I was able to tuck Quinn into a sweet pink bed tonight and kiss her cheek goodnight?  I can't answer that question, but I know that God allowed pain to touch our lives because it was the only way He could accomplish a specific purpose for something far more important than my happiness.  He didn't have to, but He has proven Himself completely trustworthy.

Quinn's second birthday

September 9 would have been our sweet baby Quinn's second birthday.  Her special day fell on a Sunday this year, and we had plans with my in-laws for lunch and with a group of friends for supper.  So we took a family day on Saturday.  And instead of going off somewhere and spending money that wasn't there, we chose to stay home and enjoy each other.  Jason and the kids went fishing at the pond.  I had been planning on making pizza for supper, the kids' favorite, but we realized halfway through the day that they wanted hamburgers.  Because I was in no mood to go grocery shopping, I defrosted some miniature meatloaves and we grilled.

Once again, I had this general dread all throughout the day, and a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach.  Last year, I concentrated all my heavy feelings and blamed them on the butterfly cake, but now I know that's what grief does to you.  It can knock the wind right out of you.  It can make you dizzy.  It can leave you standing in the kitchen, paralyzed by decisions about handwashing the special dishes or piling them into the dishwasher because who the heck cares anymore. 

Sunday afternoon, we stopped by her grave site to lay down some fresh flowers.

How can this be so beautiful?  Her life was only six hours.  Six hours!  Yes, two years later, I can still be horrified by what happened.  I'm learning how to talk about her without crying, how to introduce my complete family to those who need to know without needlessly shocking them.  But I can very stubbornly resist allowing my heart to go back to those raw moments when our family was headed in a particular direction, and then we were not.  I don't like to look at pictures too often.  Her sweet things are tucked away in a box, and I don't want to open it.  Even though God in his mercy is healing my heart, and I have peace about the big picture, the anger and pain are very real when I'm missing my daughter.

My second daughter.  Helen's sister.  My girl. 

The other day, I found myself praying out loud that God would provide Helen another sister.  I have no idea why that prayer came out, because we are sooooo done having kids.  I was mourning for Helen's loss all over again.  I sponsored a Ugandan girl through Compassion International, but she's not a sister. 

It's just that when I see my kids, I see a hole where Quinn is supposed to be.  Which is why I cannot get over these pictures.  I do not understand how this happened.  I'm not sure I want to understand, so if you have some technical answer to how the sun's angle played with my camera lens, I don't want to hear it.  I just want to treasure the mystery and miracle of this rainbow.

More Memories of Quinn

What followed Quinn's death was a blur. Family members were waiting for us back in our hospital room. The nurses brought our precious girl to us, all cleaned up and ready to be held, loved and admired. She wore a little white outfit printed with soft pink angels that had been Helen's. And then our kids came. We heard their excited voices in the hall.

How do you explain death to children?

We could do nothing but tell them the truth--that she was dead. There was something very wrong with Quinn's lungs, and she couldn't breathe on her own. Her body died, and her spirit went to live with Jesus in Heaven. Their hearts were broken. We gave them their gifts from Quinn; a Leapster case for Owen that his nosiness already knew he was getting, a cute doll for Helen that she named Nicholas, and a homemade hobby horse for Jack.

Auto-pilot kicked on and we smiled for family pictures. We passed Quinn around, savoring each moment, delaying the inevitable end.

Here we are, finally holding our baby!

Some sweet moments of Daddy and his little girl.


Gene helped out with positioning. I may have been having one of many wardrobe malfunctions.Our kids couldn't wait to hold her.
Our family for a moment in time.

We treasure our pictures. It's what we have. One of the kindest things our hospital did for us was to call a photographer, whom we happened to know! I can't imagine that it was easy for Abbie to take pictures, but we were so grateful she used her talents to give us such a priceless gift.

After all of my reminiscing, I would be absolutely lying to say I'm still overcome with grief. Of course some moments are still very hard, and not a day goes by that I don't think of my little girl. But slowly, surely, I've yielded my hurt to God, trusting Him with my heart. In spite of my stubbornness, He has done amazing things in my life.

I'm letting go of bitterness.
I'm learning to empathize with others in their pain--it doesn't scare me so bad anymore.
I'm reevaluating where I find satisfaction and what really matters.
I'm realizing that my children do not belong to me, but are merely entrusted to my care for a time.
I'm gripping hard to Truth--that Jesus, the Son of God, the Creator, has overcome Death and Hell, and His power is at work in me!

Stay tuned for pictures of Quinn's one-year birthday!

It's Time

Three weeks ago, we found out we're having a boy! He looks healthy so far, but I'm having a hard time simply believing and hoping that everything will turn out according to the way I want. I want this baby to make it to my due date alive, survive the labor and delivery process, and be totally healthy and normal, where my worst problems might be colic or regurgitation issues or a bit of jaundice, but I know that I'm not guaranteed anything. I have a more in-depth ultrasound scheduled for next week with a perinatologist. My regular OB assures me that although this pregnancy is technically considered high-risk, he is treating me as a low-risk patient with the exception of referring to Dr. Maher, a consult which I requested.

When our 17-week ultrasound showed male anatomy, my heart sank. I had hoped so much for a little girl to step into the empty nursery that Quinn wasn't able to use, to wear her special clothes and to use the girly things I had made and bought for her. In a bizarre sort of way, I thought having another girl would keep me from having to sort the baby room, keep me from going through memories that I didn't want to face, and allow me to deny how great a loss we have.

Our gigantic church yard sale is coming up next month, and with that in mind, something clicked inside me. Without a lot of forethought, I walked into Quinn's room, opened up drawers and started removing all the baby girl things. Pretty onesies, pink sleepers, cute pacifiers, hair bows, tights--all on the floor. I opened her wardrobe doors, and the pink hangers went flying. I soon called Helen to help me, and we admired all the little clothes that she had worn as a baby. Somehow I was able to handle all those precious things without sitting in a puddle of tears. I had angry moments and sad moments, but overall it felt good.

And then I saw this:Quinn's sweet, sweet dress that my mother-in-law made for her. Ruth had picked out the fabric, and I chose the cut, smocking pattern and colors of embroidery floss. She used antique buttons from my stash to close the back of the dress. It was and is precious, and it's not going anywhere.
At the MOPS Convention in Nashville, I had the privilege of hearing Mary Beth Chapman speak about the loss of her five-year-old daughter. Those were tender moments, but believe me, I saved my ugly cry for meeting her at the book signing. Oh yes. She said that her grief had been like a dark forest that she didn't want to leave, for fear of leaving Maria behind. God showed her that all around the forest was a beautiful meadow of flowers, and that Maria wasn't in the forest, but in the light, joy-filled meadow. Leaving her intense darkness behind was actually a step toward her daughter. She also said that you never get OVER it, but you get THROUGH it.

Here's the thing: Heaven is real, and Quinn is there with Jesus. She is not living in my memories. She actually is alive in Heaven, right now. As someone told the Chapmans, my future with her is definitely going to be longer than my past with her! It's those truths and the grace of God that help me move forward in hope. Knowledge of an eternity in Heaven helps my situation fall into perspective.

So I do wait in hope for this new baby boy, with the confidence that God's grace and compassion are perfectly sufficient for me in any situation. (And we're still stuck on the name!)

Rain

Wow. This is embarrassing! This poor blog has certainly not been a priority lately. I'm still thinking of posts, finding I have a lot to say, but nothing to say. I want to write things perfectly, but can't figure out the right words. Some of my thoughts are worthwhile, but most of them are forgettable.

I did write something lately, requested by Jason's uncle Lloyd, to be read at our Kauffman reunion at Bethel Camp in Kentucky. Other than having to publicly read something I wrote, I had a great time catching up with uncles, aunts and cousins, meeting their kids and eating fabulous food from the camp kitchen. Here it is:

Wednesday I was outside, huge Tupperware bowl at my feet, picking blueberries as fast as I could. Suddenly storm clouds covered the sun, thunder sounded in the distance and a cold wind whipped through the trees. The blueberries danced out of reach. I grabbed onto leaves, fiercely determined to steady the waving branches, angry at the timing of the weather and angry at the thought of losing blueberries to yet another rainless storm.

It had been so dry for so long. When our regional summer weather pattern of localized pop-up afternoon thunderstorms had begun, it was our fields, our property, that got missed. Hope would arrive in the shape of cumulonimbus clouds, but it was others around who reported their relieved joy, measured quantifiably in tenths of inches. After a time, I felt my heart hardening each time the sky darkened. Certainly we had been praying for rain. Certainly it seemed our request fell on uncaring ears. "God, have you forgotten us?!" I had to ask, knowing the truth, but feeling something different. I wanted to leave when the storms blew up. I wanted to drive somewhere, anywhere, so I wouldn't have to be home when the clouds left our property rainless.

We want to protect ourselves against physical disaster, and to some extent we can. We wear seatbelts. We eat our vegetables. We own insurance policies, for crying out loud. But if only there were some kind of emotional insurance, to protect our hearts from being damaged or shattered. We live to please God. We make choices to honor Him. We expect His blessings, but we don't expect His blessings to come in a package of pain. Ironically, James says, "Consider it pure joy...whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

The evening of the blueberry picking did end in rain. I was thankful, but in a begrudging sort of way. I felt like the spoiled child who had pitched a fit, manipulated parents, gotten what she wanted and then not enjoyed the undeserved result.

I felt guilty because I had been refusing the trial of drought. Instead of embracing God through my fear and receiving joy in His truths, I was choosing bitterness and hardheartedness.

The truth is, that even if the farm dries up and all is lost, God will still be in control. He will still be available. His presence is far more important than our present circumstances, though He cares about the details of our lives. The far greater tragedy would be success on the farm and loss of access to Him.

_____

We traveled to northern Indiana, my home area, after our reunion. While we were there, it rained buckets back home, so much so that Jason and all his farmer friends joked that we should have left a long time ago.

When I wrote this, there was more than weather on my mind. We are expecting another baby, due January 6th! While we are incredibly excited about the pregnancy, we are also scared out of our minds that it will once again end with no baby in our arms. I wish there were some way to protect our hearts from being smashed to bits. But as one of Jason's cousins articulated, "It's the risk you take by choosing to love."

One thing of which I am particularly fearful is that people might think we have moved on from our loss, and this is our replacement for Quinn, and that everything is neat and tidy in our emotional lives by now. Just the thought of that makes me so angry, and it's one reason I've delayed announcing my pregnancy. So please pray for us as we choose to love this baby, no matter what the outcome may be. We are choosing to trust God, our perfect Father, who has perfect knowledge and perfect love for us.

Shadows

I took this picture last December, a few days after my nephew Bryce was born, at a time when I felt thick pain all around me, as if it were a physical substance. It was everywhere I turned--I bumped into it in my kitchen as I was struggling to remember how to cook. I heard it in the surface chatter of friends.

I was also clinging to God as never before. No, let me say that I remember realizing that I couldn't even hold on--I had to trust him not to let me go. In those still, painful moments of quiet before God, He began to speak His truth to my heart. I felt his discipline, but I also felt his unfathomable love.

And so when I looked out from my kitchen window and saw that the suffocatingly grey sky had been transformed by the light piercing through the clouds and spilling itself over the dull earth, I was moved to tears. There is beauty in shadow.

Four-Year-Old's Thoughts

Tonight after supper, I sent Helen to the bathtub. I let her soak while I was cleaning the kitchen. Several minutes passed until I checked on her, letting her know I was ready to wash her.

She said, "Mom, I just want to die."

I wasn't sure I heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat herself.

"Mom, I want to see Quinn again."

Sweetheart.

I explained that Jesus had a different plan for Quinn than He has for her, that He has something special for her to do here on earth while she is alive, something special for her to learn. "And besides," I told her, "Daddy and I would miss you so much, and we would be so sad if you died."

Her solution? "Then our whole family should die together."

Thinking about...

...dead babies and crooked landlords.

One gracious hand of God holds us tightly. The other is hidden, for the time being.

"Yes, my soul, find rest in God;
my hope comes from him.
Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
he is my mighty rock, my refuge.
Trust in him at all times, you people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge."

Psalm 62:5-8

Saturday

Our day began with junk food cereal and Tom and Jerry cartoons, both Saturday morning traditions around here. For the record, Marshmallow Pebbles cereal is a little too junky for my taste. I felt queasy for a long time after my bowl full.
When Jack woke up, his first words were about needing his "scoon." I peeled back the covers in his crib and found my slotted serving spoon, which apparently was his choice sleep aid last night.

I had a hard time leaving last night's memories behind. The moment the hospital came into view, dizzying emotions slammed into me. The parking lot where Jason and I had walked to get my contractions going strong was torn up, making way for new construction. A small blessing.

We visited the labor and delivery wing and dropped off a beautiful white poinsettia for the desk. They hadn't forgotten us.

The grief counselor that had worked with us was finishing her shift. I handed her a blanket I sewed after Quinn was born, along with Quinn's birth announcement, to be given to the next mama that needs it.
And we held Bryce. And it was hard, but it was good.
We felt God's peace in those moments. We still trust that his peace is always near, even when we choose to ignore it and give in to despair.

December 9

What an emotionally tumultuous day. 3 months ago, we held our precious baby for 1 hour. We're left with a few pictures and memories. We don't have baby spit-up on our shirts. We don't have sleepless, newborn nights. The few rattles scattered on the floor are cat toys.

But we have a God that is good. Our future lies securely in his hands. Nothing comes as a surprise to him. Before Quinn was born, he knew her. He wrote the story of her life, and he wrote himself as the main character. Our arms are aching to hold her, but we know she is safe in heaven.

We swallow hard as we realize God has other stories for other people; it is no use to rant and rail. Our peace lies in accepting the path he chose for us, learning from his Word, and running into his presence.

And so we welcome with joy our sweet nephew, Bryce Andrew, born today, December 9, at the same hospital as Quinn. We plan to meet this new little person tomorrow afternoon. Congratulations, Brent and Janice!

November 9

This is kind of a cruddy day for me, since it marks two months since Quinn came and went. I've been writing down all the events and emotions that were crammed into that time, but it takes a good bit of emotional energy to make myself do that, even though I know it is important. I was back in Quinn's room this morning, journaling about how we had to tell our other children the sad news.

For six hours one Thursday morning, we had four children. Now how am I supposed to answer the get-to-know-you question "How many kids do you have?" The first time, it took me by complete surprise. "Three," I stammered to the clerk at the pharmacy, and then ran for the door. I don't remember if I put on a bright smile for her or not, but I know the tears were streaming as soon as I hit the parking lot.

My mom called this morning and asked how I was doing. She had some other sad news for us. A cousin lost her baby this morning, mid-way through pregnancy. It seems everywhere we turn right now, people we know are facing unexpected outcomes with their babies. I don't have a lot of words to say about it. God, help us.

I cannot collect all my thoughts and emotions, but one thing I know: God is holy.

Whew. I can't stay too long in an emotionally heavy moment, so I'm posting some pictures that make me laugh. Here's Owen, being his goofy self. There is no love of a pose in this boy's heart, although he is acutely interested in seeing himself in my camera window.
Here's Jack, looking like he's ready for shuffleboard. Meet you after coffee?
And Helen, with the pink princess castle cake she wanted for her birthday.

The thirteenth of October marked one month since Quinn's funeral. That month lived like a year. So much of our thinking has been rearranged, and we're still unsure of ourselves, stumbling on wobbly emotional legs. I'm distrustful of myself in public. I'm relearning how to buy groceries, how to cook, how to avoid diaper ads. Some days are good, and I can tune out the immediate heartbreak. Some days are horrible and I want to give in to the grief and let it swallow me whole. Some days I feel OK, but then I meet a friend in the produce section, and instead of choosing the perfect bunch of bananas, I'm wiping my eyes again.

I find myself having a good morning, but then suddenly getting outrageously angry at small things, like the inept repair of potholes in the road. In the same vein, I might have a tearful day, feeling like I'm going to vomit the whole time, but end the day with laughter around the supper table.

People ask what they can do for us. I don't know. Bring Quinn back.

But please keep praying. Please keep using Quinn's name. Keep asking how we're doing, but be OK with an in-the-moment answer. Some times we want to talk about it, but sometimes we need to forget about the grief for a time.

On Our Way to the Funeral Home

How do you choose a burial outfit for your baby? A terrible question. One I asked my friend, who 3 1/2 weeks before Quinn was born, gave birth to a sweet little baby boy with Trisomy 18. He lived for almost 2 hours.

Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. Or is that just made-up saying we quote to reassure ourselves against disaster?

I think we all would much rather recite the Lord's Prayer metaphorically than actually walk through the valley of the shadow of death ourselves.

Nothing in Quinn's closet was appropriate. Most of it was hand-me-downs from Helen that I couldn't bear to lose. I didn't have time to sew anything. While I was crying to Jason about it, he gently suggested I make the dress, stating that if I was going to sew for her, now was my chance. We begged God for help.

I found the perfect piece of material in my stash, in a box from cousin Heather. I had been saving it for something special. I closed myself in Quinn's nursery and carefully cut the pieces from the pattern.

Then Life happened--exhaustion set in, kids bickered, visitors came, meals were served and conversation took over. My mom offered to sew the dress if I trusted her enough. I gladly let her.

We tweaked the dress, turning up cuffs and adding rosebuds to the collar. I found a ribbon from my baptismal dress that made a perfect sash.

We knew the tiny dress would swallow Quinn whole, but we also knew it wouldn't be seen. It was the act of making that was therapeutic.

The dress was finished just before our appointment at the funeral home. I got a few quick pictures.

Plastic Thank-Yous

"Thank you for your kind expression of sympathy" sounds sterile and pathetic. How do you thank people for loving you so well through their actions--buying paper supplies for meals and cheese balls for the kids, cleaning the house, washing embarrassingly dirty windows, mowing the overgrown yard, laundering the contents of smelly hampers, bringing platters of chicken wings, buckets of fresh fruit and foil pans of lasagna, flying from out of country, feeding the fish, running after toilet paper and cereal, taking and arranging pictures of our little girl, cleaning up after crazy family meals, going to the funeral home with us and listening to us spell the names of our deceased grandparents, sewing a burial dress, softening the visual impact of a tiny baby casket, sending a huge arrangement of the most tiny, delicate pink roses to the graveside, singing "Safe in the Arms of Jesus" just the way I heard it in my head all that long, terrible first day, and making a funeral so....beautiful?

People love much and well. Thank you for all you have done.

Quinn Ruthie, September 9, 2010

Quinn was born at 3:02 am after an easy delivery. She could not breathe on her own. Because of expert medical intervention, she was able to live for almost six hours. We held her alive for almost an hour. It was a precious time, and we were full of awe. She was beautiful, and she smelled so good.Her heart rate became slower and slower. She was peaceful for the entirety. We don't know exactly when she slipped away, but we suspect it was while I was holding her.

We loved you with all our hearts, Quinn!

Grieving

Today we left our dead baby at the hospital and drove home with a silent back seat.