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!)

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.

Dreams of Cupcakes

After my earlier post about Helen wanting to see Quinn again, my sweet cousin e-mailed me.

"I just read your latest post about your sweet and precious Helen's thoughts and wanted to write you. It got me thinking... I just wonder if it would be appropriate to pray with Helen and ask Jesus for a special dream meant just for her. A dream where maybe she can give Quinn a great big hug and kiss... I don't know. I have just found in our family at least, that there have been times when -as a mom- I don't know how to respond, and sometimes Jesus can take care of things in really creative ways. Does that make sense? You might not be comfortable with that, but it may be something to consider?"

I never would have thought of asking God for something like that. As Jason and I tucked Helen into bed that night, we talked to her about it, then prayed that God would give her a special dream about Quinn.

In the morning, I asked her if she had a dream about her sister.

"Yes," she said, as if I were doubting. "There was a cake and cupcakes and butterflies and sprinkles!"

"Was Quinn still a baby or was she a little girl?"

"She was still a baby."

"What color was her hair?"

"Brown." Then, "She didn't have any hair!"

We tried not to suggest anything with our questions, but since it wasn't our experience, we didn't really know what to ask or think. She is not characterized by lying, and furthermore, her details stayed the same all day.

She was very happy about her dream, and we reasoned that cupcakes and sparkles are the happiest things that Helen can think of. Maybe God used Helen's own personal symbols of happiness to communicate to her the excitement of Heaven, and that Quinn is having a great time there.

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."

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.

The Week Before Quinn

In reminiscing, we realize the week before Quinn came was a blessed time. We had decided to let her come on her own and not induce labor, as we had with our other babies. We trusted God to work out the timing. I have to admit I was extremely frustrated as my due date came and went, and each day after held its own struggle of acceptance.

I used the time to finish getting a few things ready for Quinn. I whipped up a blanket for her to match her diaper bag. I painted her monogram on her wall art.One day while sitting in front of my sewing machine, I was irritated with whole world, as only a 9-month-pregnant woman can understand. It seemed as if right then God whispered to me that this day was a gift for me to enjoy. I suddenly realized that Helen and Jack were playing happily together in the baby room, it was a beautiful day outside, I had a schedule cleared of any outside responsibilities and there was peace in my home. I had all this time to be creative, to live in the moment, and here I sat, grumpy and irritable. It changed my thinking, and I quickly made a little mattress and quilt to fit my old doll crib that we had put in Quinn's room, enjoying every moment.

The last Sunday before she was born, we went to church. Before we left, the whole family naturally gravitated toward Quinn's room. Owen took a belly shot of me.
Jason took another one.We goofed off until it was time to leave.
Jack loves the "two babies" that were mine when I was little. My Mom reminded me that they came from my cousin Andy. So thanks, Andy, and forgive me if I never sent you a thank-you note back when I was 2 or 3 or 1.
We tried Jack's new shoes on him, my Economy Shop find of the month. American made, leather upper, I forget what brand, hardly worn, for a little bit of nothing. There's obviously still room for growth.
Owen loves to show off the fan and light switches. It's his little piece of control.

And Helen, mostly sunshine that day.

There is no doubt that Quinn's room is our favorite room in the whole house. Jason worked so hard at finishing the walls and ceiling in time. Our family gathers there for prayer at night. It feels like a sanctuary.

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!