Control. Pt. 2.

When Rob and I decided to start having children we somehow knew we needed to handle our expectations with care.  Although we did not have a reason to believe so at the time, I think we both felt like it could possibly take longer to get pregnant than we would like.  We trusted our instincts and we were patient.  For almost one year I tried not to obsess over calendars and kits.  I purposely distracted myself with my job and eventually, with applying to grad school.

I was accepted to grad school in March 2009 and from then on my excitement and preparation for furthering my education seemed to take pregnancy even more off of the forefront of my mind.  After I was accepted I felt like it was clear that that was the direction my life was going to take for a while.  We shifted our focus as a couple and planned on waiting a bit longer for our children to start arriving.  But by the beginning of that July I experienced persistent stomach pains that led me to believe I was getting an ulcer.  Imagine my surprise when I learned I was pregnant and I was still expected to be starting grad school the following month.

I should have taken notice of that process and how it played out.  The timing did not work exactly like I thought it would and even though I was okay with it at the moment, I did not have exact control over events that would change the course of my life.  Although I suspected it would take a little time to start having children I never could have guessed just how little control I would have in getting them and keeping them here.

After Henry's death I felt powerless.  Although I still had faith in God I struggled with the notion of how much control I actually had in my life.  I had the ability to make my own choices but my behavior and personal righteousness no longer felt like a guarantee against life's hardships.  Prior to Henry, I believed that things would work out the way I wanted if I kept being a good person.  When Henry was born I felt like Rob and I had paid our dues but even though we were loving and devoted parents we never took our baby home and that was a reality that shook me deeply and could have sent me spiraling.

I started to think about my motivation for being good at all.  If I was just being good to avoid tragedy and it still found me, then what was the point?  Why be kind, why be patient, and why be faithful when during the times that it really mattered life did not seem to work in my favor?  Henry's death alone seemed to be too much to bear but that was not the end of seemingly unbearable things for us.  We lived through infertility, a devastating miscarriage, a very premature baby, and then nine long weeks of his hospitalization.  So why even try to do what is right if it could not give me my children when and how I wanted them?

I then came to understand the obvious: even though good behavior definitely has its benefits, no one is guaranteed an easy life.  No one.  No matter how saintly they may be.

I now see practicing goodness in a very different way.  I try to be good not because it is insurance against disappointment or grief, but because I enjoy it.  I like to smile, I love to laugh, and thankfully I am not prone to violent crimes.  And I guess above all else, I am obedient in going to church, being kind, and trying to be a thoughtful representative of my faith so that I can show my gratitude to my Father in Heaven and His Son.  When I think of goodness in terms of showing my love to and for Them, it really is not a question of whether and why to be good at all.  We may not have control over every single thing in our lives, but we know that Someone else does and He knows best.

We are joyfully expecting another son in February of next year.  This next Koelliker boy is healthy and is being cared for by excellent doctors.  As with his brothers before him, we do not know exactly what will happen.  He may come early and he could even come under frenzied circumstances.  Or, he could surprise everyone even more with a completely expected and normal delivery.  We simply do not know.  But we do know that we love him.  Oh, how we love him and each of his siblings that have come before him!  And even though it took me five years and four pregnancies to get here, I feel like that really is okay for now.

Help.

Before I had my own children I rarely heard about complicated births.  Although I heard about an occasional horror story about a baby who came close to dying, there was usually a miraculous recovery.  And if by some sad chance the baby did not make it, I did not know him or her or the family personally.  There was always a safe distance between my heart and the realities of new life.  I heard tales of mothers having difficult labors that lasted for 24 hours or more but I knew nothing about premature babies, let alone babies that were born under 5 lbs.  And I never heard much about infertility until we started thinking about having children ourselves.  But as I think of it, there was always that one couple, surely you knew people just like them, who never were able to have their own children.  They were always the nicest couple in my extended family or ward.  He was the scoutmaster, or something similar, and she was the favorite young women's adviser.  Everyone wondered why they did not have kids yet but they never talked about it - at least not openly.

Fast forward to my life now and I find myself thinking about that certain couple a lot.  Although I do not know their exact thoughts, I think that surely that I can guess their hearts at one point or another.  I ache with them as I see them look at other families in their neighborhood and ward.  I feel their longing and their emptiness at not being able to share in what brings other people so much happiness and contentment.  To say that they are jealous of what they see, and what they so desperately want, is not completely true.  Yes, they long for what others have and at times they wish other people were in their shoes so that they could feel solidarity in their heartache.  But mostly they just want to be part of the club.  They want to be up all night, wear spit up on their clothes, and wrap their little ones in cozy blankets.  They cry when they hear that a new baby is on its way partly because they wish for such happy news themselves, but mostly because they want their children to grow up with yours.  They want to be in your playgroup.  They want to join your carpool and they do not want to miss out on making memories with people that they care about.  They do not want to be left behind.

Two years ago, I felt like we were becoming "that other couple."  The couple that someone knew who was related to someone else or was a friend of a friend of someone who had gone through something tragic.

And I did not welcome this title gladly.

In fact, sometimes I think about my thoughts or my words through that difficult time in my life and I am surprised at how I fought events that were completely out my control with such vehemence.  But I had become part of an equation that was never supposed to be in my life.  Up until that point, I knew of people who struggled and they did it so heroically and so effortlessly.  They smiled in public, they said all of the right things, and they still participated in life.  They showed up and they played the game.  But when it was my turn and after I had buried my firstborn, I found that I did not always want to play.

Now, four years after becoming a mother, I am all too aware of what really happens when babies are born.  What really happens is that more often than not there seems to be that one moment when something could or does go wrong.  That instance when heart rates plummet or blood pressures sky rocket.  When a doctor is just out of reach or a head is too big.  There are so many incongruities in the process that, up until I had Henry, I thought to be perfect.  Now that I know what I know, I know that each baby has its own story.  And it might be different from anything that you have ever heard before.

Being the mother of an angel baby and of a former preemie brings its fair share of burdens.  If you have followed this blog a lot or even just a little you are familiar with our journey.  But our experiences with our children and having been "that couple" for two years also brings awareness.  In the years that have past since Henry's death we have learned of so many other angels.  So many other beautiful children that are gone and who will always be remembered by their loving families.  We have received midnight phone calls about mothers in difficult labors or babies that were too early and have needed a little extra help.  And we have been asked for advice from loved ones who are looking for the best possible way to be helpful to someone they care about who is in crisis.

With these thoughts in mind, I have created a new page on this blog, "Coping with Loss: Some Unsolicited Advice."  Here you will find some ideas on how to help someone, including yourself if that is your circumstance, to feel loved during a hard time.  Chances are that you will know someone (or know someone who knows someone) who has suffered a neonatal or infant loss, a miscarriage, had a premature baby, or is coping with infertility.  Any or all of these events are highly traumatic and any support that you could offer to a couple or individual who is going through one or any other number of these situations would likely be greatly appreciated.  Please keep in mind that the sufferings of bereft parents will be individual because their trial, much like their child, is unique.  And their grief or coping processes will be as well.  But hopefully our little page will help generate a few ideas on how to care for someone, or for yourself, if they or you are grieving.

I invite you to look at our ideas and I welcome your feedback.  If you have anything that you would like to add to our list, please leave a comment or contact me by email to let me know.  We would like to make this an open forum and a safe place for grieving parents and people who care for them.  With your help, we can assist people who need a little extra support through difficult times.  Life is hard and it can also be unfair, but a little bit of love goes a long way.

"And whose receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face.  I will be on your right and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up." Doctrine & Covenants 84:88

December.

December means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.  

To some, it is all about this guy; the presents that he brings and the reindeer that he cavorts with:  

Santa made an unexpected house call this year.  His elves must have told him

about this good little boy who is hibernating for the winter to stay away from germs.

For others, it is the only time of year when it is socially acceptable to wear applique Santas on their clothing:

But for us, it means this:

This:

Henry's cemetery hosts a Christmas Luminary each year where they fill the grounds

with thousands of candles in paper bags.  The lights around its sacred lawns 

are some of the most magical ones that we see each year.  

(The orange light in the picture above is a candle in the snow resting just above Henry's grave. )

And finally, after three long years of waiting, being able to do this:

And this:

But what December really means to us is a greater opportunity to celebrate Him:

Church of Our Lady 

Copenhagen, Denmark May 2010

Because of this:

"He rose from the grave to "become the firstfruits of them that slept" (1 Corinthians 15:20).  As Risen Lord, He visited among those He had loved in life.  He also ministered among His "other sheep" (John 10:16) in Ancient America.  In the modern world, He and His Father appeared to the boy Joseph Smith, ushering in the long-promised "dispensation of the fulness of times" (Ephesians 1:10).

...We testify that He will someday return to earth.  "And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together" (Isaiah 40:5).  He will rule as King of Kings and reign as Lord of Lords, and every knee shall bend and every tongue shall speak in worship before Him.

...Jesus is the Living Christ, the immortal Son of God.  He is the great King Emmanuel, who stands today on the right hand of His Father.  He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world.  His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come.

God be thanked for the matchless gift of His divine Son."

"The Living Christ: The Testimony of the Apostles, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints"

Merry Christmas from our home to yours.  May your day be filled with peace and your heart be filled love.

Rob, Erin, & Eddie Koelliker

Thanks.

Dear Henry,

On Saturday we walked into your little brother's room in the NICU and we were greeted with a marvelous surprise.  We were expecting another typical day with our usual routine.  Dad would work on the computer, I would read, and we would both watch and listen to Eddie's monitors.  Imagine our surprise then when we looked into his isolette and saw something different than normal.  Eddie was in there and he was lying in the same place and sleeping comfortably but there was a major change about him: he was swaddled tightly in a blanket and he was wearing clothes.  

I know that to other families the fact that Eddie was wearing clothes would not be unusual.  Indeed, I realize that what really is unusual is that up until now Eddie has not been wearing clothes.  Babies, children, and adults alike all wear clothes to keep warm and they wear them fairly soon after they are born.  Yes, most people wear clothes and that is what happens after most babies are born.  But you, Eddie, your Dad, and I know differently.

We know that sometimes babies are born in their own unique ways and they do not come like the others.  We found out that just because a baby is born and comes into a loving family that sometimes they cannot wear clothes, have their diapers changed, and eat from a bottle when other babies can.  Together we learned that what happens for most, or even some, children does not always happen to others.  And we learned that there are always exceptions.  And so far, you and your little brother have been blessed exceptions to almost every single one of my expectations of pregnancy, delivery, and life with a newborn.  Before you and Eddie were born, your Dad and I thought that almost every pregnancy was normal and lasted a full 40 weeks.  We believed that moms went into labor, had their baby, and that they eventually took him or her home.  And then you were born and life and our perception of it changed dramatically.  And almost two and a half years later, your little brother was born and our lives and perceptions have changed yet again.

But Henry, thanks to you we cherish each and every day of my pregnancies.  Although we have our fair share of worries, we are grateful for the times we know that your little siblings are safe in my tummy.  We rejoice over each and every ultrasound and every tiny movement because we know that those happy images and sensations do not stay around forever.  Thanks to you, we know that when babies are born that they are absolutely beautiful and that even though they cannot say so, that they already have their own individual personalities.  We also know that babies and their parents recognize, rely upon, and love each other with a power that can never be fully explained because it is simply felt and we are learning that the sweetness of this relationship never goes away, even if we may be apart.  We know that even if we do not live in the same house and physically see each other every day that we are very much involved in each other's lives and that we are growing together.  We have been taught this truth our entire lives, but we are learning it on our own and we are learning how to make it work for us.

And we are learning that even if we do not always look like one, that we are a family made up of parents and their children and that we all love each other very much.

I thought of you, sweet boy, when I saw Eddie in his clothes.  I thought of how seeing him so warm, snuggled, and safe was the first time that your Dad and I were able to see one of our living children in such a blissful and content state.  I thought about how nice that must have been for Eddie to be swaddled because he clearly looked so happy.  And I thought about how much I missed you.

But in that precious and momentous moment, I decided not to be sad for you or for us but rather I decided to think about this little note and what I would verbally say to you if I could see you.  I know that you have never been very far away from your Dad and me since we said goodbye to you.  I know this not only because I have felt you but because I know that you are like your Dad and that you protect the ones that you love and care about.  And so I know that you are especially close to us now that your best buddy is here because you have been watching over him and keeping him company.

And so Henry, I want to say thank you.  Thank you for guarding your baby brother and helping him progress.  Thank you for taking care of our entire family and looking after our friends.  Thank you for being our oldest son and thank you for being a part of our family.  I know that you know how badly we wish you were here with us so that we could experience the joy of Eddie's arrival together.  I know that you are fully aware of how much we miss you and how frequently you come into our minds and conversations, particularly as we spend each day in the sacred place that you were born and passed away.  I know that I do not have to tell you these things because you have been an integral part of this entire process but I wanted to tell you anyway because I am your mother.  And that is what mothers do.

Although I wish that it did not come about in the way that it did, the love and memories that we have for you enhance your brother's life and I am grateful for that every single day.  I like to think of the appreciation that we have for Eddie and everyone that will come after him as your gift to your brothers and sisters.  You have ensured that your siblings will be loved all the more not only by us and our family but by many others.   I am thankful that I am able to rejoice over Eddie's messy diapers, little clothes, and fine brown hair because thanks to you, and your being part of our family, I will never take them for granted.  Thank you.

Please continue to safeguard our little family and always remember that you are loved.

xo,
Mom

Fighter.

For the past two years, I have hungered for the opportunity of being pregnant again.  There were days when I wanted to be pregnant so badly that I convinced myself that I was and that we finally would get a second chance at leading the life that we craved.  Sometimes my symptoms were so vivid that I would have no choice to convince myself that this was it, that our suffering at last was over and that we could try to move forward.  But these days were just that, only 24 hours, and I was always confronted with a harsh reality on the next pregnancy test.  Test after test confirmed what I already knew but was so desperately fighting against.  As much as I yearned to be pregnant again, I had a gnawing feeling after Henry passed that getting another child in our family would take much longer than I wanted.  But I fought on, hoping that my feeling was just a fear and not the truth.

I knew that it was not healthy for me to take so many pregnancy tests.  Not only was it expensive to keep buying them but it grew increasingly more emotionally damaging to see so many negative results.  Each one seemed to almost mock me and test my resolve pushing me to the limit of what I felt like I could bear.  The single pink line that I saw again and again was a brutal visual reminder that I could not get what I wanted at that moment.  That what I felt like we deserved was still out of my control and beyond my comprehension.  I understood that what I was doing was bordering on obsession and that I would probably feel better if I simply stopped.  But I could not stop.  Stopping meant losing my resolve, it meant giving into reason and ignoring a dream that seemed to be forever beyond my reach.  Stopping meant accepting defeat and accepting one more unexplained complication in my life.

And slowly, the more lonely pink lines that I saw the lonelier and angrier I became.  In my desperation I started to almost beg the single line to be joined by another.  Hadn't we been through enough?  How many people deal with infertility after losing their firstborn child?  Shouldn't our loss alone have guaranteed a relatively easy life?  I bitterly asked myself these questions for months. And then a year.  And then almost two.  And as time dragged on my anger over these questions only intensified and increased.  There was no easy answer to any of my demands and if there was I was not likely to listen.  Any lessons that could have been learned from the heartache of trying to conceive after a loss were lost on me and I simply wanted the pain to end.

We are pregnant now and are about to reach an important milestone this week.  On Wednesday, I will be 20 weeks along (4 1/2 months) and will be at the half-way mark of this experience.  Reaching this point would almost seem like everything that I could have hoped for after my all-consuming quest to become pregnant again.  Yet I find that this time my feelings are more complicated.  And even though the sting of losing Henry has lessened over time, the terrors of such an experience will likely never fully leave, particularly when I am thinking and worrying about another child.

From the onset, I admittedly approached this pregnancy with competing emotions.  The elation I felt one day morphed into extreme anxiety the next and although I could not contain my joy over the reality of being pregnant again I found myself constantly battling my innermost fears.  Could the unthinkable happen again?  Did I have the courage to put myself in another situation where I might get hurt?  Could I really do this?  But fear was not the only complex emotion I initially experienced during my first trimester.  Yes, I was pregnant again and no longer "infertile" but I was still vulnerable to the emotions that come from such an experience.  The tears, countless tests, and the innumerable hypothetical conversations with Rob about our circumstances were not going to be erased anytime soon.  Because although the heartache we felt and feel for Henry is very much separate from our battle with trying to have another child it is also indelibly connected to the pain of not being able to have what we wanted when we wanted it.  And I know that that is something that I will never forget because it is not something that is merely lived through, it is a constant battle.

I like to believe that Rob and I are "fighters."  That with the help of the other that we are able to withstand punches and unexpected blows and get up instead of getting knocked out.  I like to think of our family and friends as people in our corner who motivate and inspire us to keep moving even when we grow weary and want to throw in the towel.  I also believe that Henry is a fighter and that he fought for every second of his life here on earth and that he mainly fought for the opportunity to spend time with us.  And when I think about it, it feels like our little family has been battling some one or some thing for two years; that we have seen a couple of rounds in the ring and have learned things along the way.

It is then no surprise to me that at just 8 weeks along in this pregnancy that Rob officially dubbed our little one "Kaempfer" (pronounced kemp-fer), which is German for "fighter."  Although he is only the size of a coconut, he already "floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee" and is constantly on the move and honing his boxing skills.  It is my prayer that he stays that way.  And more importantly, that he keeps fighting.