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.

Wishing.

Dear Henry,

As you know, tomorrow is your birthday.  You would be turning four.  And I wish that I could give you a hug.

For the past three years we have celebrated your special day without being able to hold you.  Up until your little brother came along our arms were as empty as our hearts and it was absolute agony.  We mourned you and we also mourned the sorrows of not feeling like the parents we knew that we had become since you were born.  At times, the loneliness threatened to destroy me or at the very least, drive me mad.  But in a bizarre way, on nights like tonight after I have hugged Eddie and tucked him in, it almost made it easier before because we did not know exactly what we were missing.  Eddie is here now and he has taken up so much of our lives that he has spoiled me.  I cuddle him, I kiss him, I wrestle with him, and I am able to scoop him up on a whim.  And as I held your brother today I could not help but wonder what you feel like, because I know now what I am missing - and I am missing so much.

I am missing the beating of your heart against mine.  I am missing the sensation of your fingers on my neck.  I am missing your hand in my hand, and I am missing your arms wrapped around my waist.  I am missing your face and the shape of your smile.  I am missing the color of your eyes and the sound of your feet as they patter around our house.  I am missing the sound of your voice and the pitch of your laughter.  I am missing folding your clothes and arranging them into piles.  I am missing the sight of you with your brother.  I am missing the sight of you with your grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  But above all else, I am missing watching you with your father.

I am not sure how things work where you are.  

And I do not know what you look like or how tall you are and sometimes it drives me crazy.  I wish I could see you.  I wish I could hold you and tell you in person how much I love you.  Because Henry, as simple as it may sound, I wish I could be with you everyday and even though it has been four years, I continue to make that wish every single day.  

I do not know what you are doing exactly where you are now, but I have a feeling that whatever it is, that it is something good.  Some of our family members have told us stories about you and how they have felt you close by when they have been around the world and it has brought us great peace.  And as much as I wish I could have you here all of the time, I know that you are involved in magnificent things.  Even though I wish that I even had the option to be selfish and keep you with us, I know that you are doing good.  And it makes us, as your mom and dad, so very proud.

So son, even though I wish that I could hold you tomorrow and every day, I am starting to become okay with where you are now.  You never belonged wholly to your dad and me anyway.  You were just ours for a moment; and I want you to know that as brief as that moment may have been, that it was enough.

Wishing you the happiest birthday, my sweet, sweet boy.

All my love,

Mom

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

Now.

I had almost forgotten how much fun summer could be.  Maybe it was the way I processed my grief.  Maybe it was because for two years I trained myself to avoid parks and playgrounds during the day.  And maybe it was because my heart ached each time I heard about summer play groups and play dates.  I walked away from sandboxes and always averted my eyes from umbrella strollers.  Maybe it was a combination of all of these things.  But it probably had to do with more than that.

Last year I knew that summer was happening but we were very much removed from it.  Eddie was born on the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend and we spent all of the major summer holidays in the hospital with him until we came home on the 24th of July.  And although we were immeasurably happy to have Eddie in our family at that time, the first weeks that we spent together were not exactly what we had envisioned summer to be like with our new baby.

From the onset, I did not know what this summer would feel like but after being shut inside all winter I knew that whatever was lying ahead of us had to be better than what we had been through.  We could not wait to be around people again.  To be able to spend time with our family and friends.  And we were very eager to not to have to worry about germs.

And so far, Eddie's days as a toddler in summer have been simple ones and they have been filled with firsts.

He enjoyed his first play group, his first swim in a pool, and his first time at a splash pad.  He loved his first root beer float and sunk his teeth into his first bite of corn on the cob.  He attended his first of many barbecues, his first of many family reunions, and he loved being on his first hay ride with his cousins.  He slept in a cabin for the first time and he also spent the night in a hotel.  He held a sparkler for the first time and wished our country a happy birthday.  He rode (very slowly and safely) on an ATV for the first time.  And then he celebrated being out of the hospital for one full year.  He went to his first rodeo (he actually went to two in the same week) as well as the zoo and the aviary.  And he played in the dirt, swung on a swing, and had a picnic in the park.  All for the first time.

Now that Eddie has gotten so many firsts out of the way we have found ourselves in the happy position of being able to repeat things.  Some things we have done many times and some we have only done once but either way, Eddie has been busy.

And now that he is gradually figuring out that life can be much more rewarding on two legs rather than four, I suspect that life with Eddie will get much busier.  And fairly soon.

Wow.

Last Saturday I stumbled upon a bin of Eddie's clothes and as I opened the lid I gasped at what was lying on the top.  Above all of his newborn and 0-3 month clothes were tiny pajamas, delicate little hats, and the smallest most perfect onesies I have ever seen.  Clothes so miniature that one would unwittingly mistake them for doll clothes if not for the "p" on the label.  I gaped over the size of these tiny treasures.  Of how they fit within my forearm and how my hand almost stretched over the entire torso of each outfit.  Of how the clothes almost disappeared as I held them against my chest.

I saw clothes, but most of all, I saw a journey.  Visual reminders of a boy so eager to be part of the world and join his family that he literally could not be contained.  A brave, joyful soul who spent the first nine weeks of his life in the hospital and in the loving care of attentive and incredible nurses.  A boy who was affectionately dubbed as "the mascot of the NICU" for his sweet nature and his ability to continually exceed expectations.  But most of all, evidence of a fighter and of a boy who fought ounce by little ounce, to go home.

A preemie onesie and one of Eddie's 6 month onesies 

I now look at these preemie clothes each day with a solid, energetic, and healthy baby on my hip.  He misses nothing and notices everything.  He sees that I am holding something and so he lunges and lurches for the fabric too - ever curious and always willing to participate.  He is now over 17 lbs and has more than tripled in size since the day he came home from the hospital.

A standard-sized board book and a progression of onesies

And of all of the words and phrases that I could think of, write about, or say when I piece his incredible journey together, one frequently comes to mind:  wow.

The first week after he was born

Last week 

We will be celebrating Eddie's very first birthday next Friday and as we lead up to that jubilant event I cannot help but think of the day he was born.  I think of how that day started at home with a vivid dream and ended in the hospital.  A day of utter terror over his early birth but also a day that reawakened a love so complete that when the doctor announced that our son was coming and there was no way to stop him that I could not help but be excited.  That even though I knew Eddie was coming 12 weeks early and that he would face enormous odds, that I found myself grinning.  That even though we had again found ourselves in an unthinkable situation, that I simply could not wait to see him.  To meet this beautiful being who was obviously just as excited to see us. 

Holding each other for the first time

Oh, Eddie, how we love you!  Oh, how we adore you and your mega-watt smile and easy laughter.  We love your enormous and beautiful blue eyes and your perfect bottom teeth.  We are so thankful for your happy nature and curious spirit.  You bring such joy into our home each and every day.  We are so humbled to have you in our family and are so profoundly grateful for your good health.  This year has been crazy.  And nothing like we could have ever imagined.  It started out so scary and much of it was spent inside and away from people, but it has turned out to be one of the best of our lives.  Thank you for letting us accompany you on this journey and for trusting us to take care of you.  We do not know what the future holds but we know that with you in it, that it will be better...and that it will undoubtedly be exciting.

Love always,

Your Mama and Papa

Big.

Eddie knew that big changes were in the air.  

Although he couldn't read a calendar and know that spring had finally come, he figured that it must be getting warmer because his parents weren't bundling him up in so many blankets and jackets like they used to.  He could also see that more sunshine was coming through the windows in his house.  Last week, he was able to sit outside on the front porch with his mom for the first time in a very long time.  His mom took his socks off so he could feel the breeze in between his toes.  

He grabbed his feet and squealed with delight.  He smiled a lot. 

The next day, he went for a long walk with his dad and his trusty dog Riggins.  It was a little colder that day but he didn't mind.  He flapped his arms and legs in the wind like a baby bird and he enjoyed saying hello to his neighbors.

He could see that things were starting to get green around his neighborhood.  He noticed tiny flowers starting to make their way out of the dirt and it made him happy to see their pretty colors.  He thought that since the flowers were starting to grow and his grass was getting greener by the day, that maybe he should work extra hard to be ready to play this summer.

He hadn't been swimming in a swimming pool yet, but he knew that he would be going a lot very soon.  So he got busy working on his impressive physique.

He also figured that while he would be at a swimming pool that he would likely be eating tasty foods at summer barbecues.  He hadn't had a lot of table foods quite yet but he thought he should eat more to prepare.  So he worked on developing his pincher fingers and feeding himself.

He also started eating more solid foods like squash, sweet potatoes, yogurt, and cottage cheese, and he liked everything he ate...except for peas.

And as he started to eat more solid foods his gums started to hurt a bit.  And then a little bit more.  And a little bit more.  And then one day, his very first tooth started to grow.  It hurt a lot and it kept him up a couple of nights, but he was excited to have it.  He liked to put his fingers in his mouth so that he could feel it.

And he noticed that once he had his tooth that he could make more grown-up noises like "ga ga" and "ba ba."  He loved hearing himself make these new sounds and he practiced them a lot.

And he thought it was probably a good time to master sitting up.  He had been working on it for a few months but hadn't seen a need for it until the weather got nicer.  He thought he should probably try a bit harder.  He is still working on it, but he knows he will be sitting up all on his own very soon.

But in order for Eddie to feel completely ready for the times he could meet his friends and play with his cousins, he thought he should be able to move.  He had noticed that most people can move around without being held.  He was especially interested in watching Riggins walk and dance.  He really liked being with Riggins.

And so, today, he decided to crawl.

And now, once people stop coughing and having runny noses, Eddie has made enough big decisions that he will be able to be outside and finally meet the people who love him so very much.

And he couldn't be more excited about it.

Three.

Last year we celebrated Henry's birthday with a secret.  Just barely into my second trimester and finally getting over the worst of my morning sickness, we had yet to announce my pregnancy to anyone but our parents.  We decided to keep our happy news quiet for several reasons, but one of the biggest was that we felt it would be best to wait until after Henry's anniversaries.  Although we were certain that no one else was more excited about adding to our family than Henry, we wanted to reserve his day for one more year.

We knew what the next year would bring.  We knew that although Henry's birthday was and always would be a special day, that February 9th, 2012 was different, because hopefully, it was our last time commemorating his birth with empty arms.  It was important for me to have one last birthday to grieve Henry without distraction.  I wanted to allow myself to dwell a little longer on things that I normally could not think about everyday.  Images, memories, and sounds that were far too sad to revisit very often.  And, admittedly, I needed one more time to really feel the poignancy of his loss.  To be swallowed up in the emotions of truly missing him - my firstborn, my baby, "the one that got away."

I needed to feel the rawness again.

To lose myself in the intensity of loss just one more time before a little bit more of it went away.

Because I knew that once another little person entered into my life, that things would change and although they would absolutely be for the better, that I would likely not feel the same way again.

At the time, my grief was my strongest and most obvious connection to Henry.  Last year marked two years since his death and although my grief had certainly softened since his passing, it was still my conduit to him.  My tears, my heartaches, and my little rituals kept him fresh in my mind.  And they kept him as a constant in my life.

Several months after Henry passed away I realized that I could no longer hide in my house and that at some point or another I would have to re-enter the real world.  Up until that point Rob, my family, and my friends, cradled me from the shock of loss.  They sheltered me, fed me, and loved me and with their support I was able to gradually come out of my shock and start to grieve.  But I knew that that would change once I began to work again and to fully interact with the outside world.  It would have to.  The world had to keep spinning and I had to find a way to move with it.  But my little universe had been completely rocked and it had been rocked drastically.  In my lowest moments, I felt powerless and helpless, and in the dark, I felt doomed to be the victim of my circumstances.  To be forever missing something and always missing someone.

And then sometime between landing a new job and the simple passage of time it became clear to me that in order for me to get through Henry's loss that I needed to hold nothing back.  That one of the only ways that I would truly be able to survive such a devastating loss would be to immerse myself in the experience and let it follow its course.  To dive in, and not expect to tread water until I was ready.  I knew that even though at the time, our house was empty and our hearts were ravaged, that someday someone else would come along.  And when he or she came, I wanted no regrets in missing Henry so that I could turn myself over to them without regret.

So tomorrow we will celebrate the birth and life of Henry Robert Koelliker.  We will launch balloons to the heavens, we will undoubtedly shed some tears, and we will revisit some special and sacred places.

And I will clutch, hug, and kiss my sweetest and most meaningful connections to my oldest son.

And as I look into Rob's handsome face or Eddie's beautiful blue eyes I will be gently reminded of the boy who is waiting for me.  Who is surely so much like his father and his brother but is very much his own person.  And he is the one that I will never stop missing.

In.

Winter has come with a fury this month.  Not only is the weather absolutely rotten where we live (Utah, the most toxic air on Earth!) but the risk of catching a cold, the flu, or RSV, is exceptionally high.  I can scarcely read the news without a new report about "the worst flu in years" or another whooping cough epidemic in some neighboring county.  With each new report of widespread illness, I feel like I want to put my fingers in front of my face and run away, and fast.

Eddie was born just early enough that his lungs were not able to fully develop in the womb.  A lot of the time that he spent in the NICU was necessary for his lungs to grow and get strong enough.  The fact that he came home on oxygen and needed a little additional help for the first month makes him all the more susceptible to becoming seriously ill from something that is seemingly small.  The "bad cold" that might make me miserable but leaves in a week could turn into something much more sinister in Eddie and could very easily land him back in the hospital.  And so, needless to say, our little family has been on "winter lockdown" this season.

But in a lot of ways, it feels like we have been on lockdown since Eddie was born.  Because in all reality we have.

From the beginning, Eddie's doctors and nurses made it clear that although he was doing well, there was a chance that he could get a virus or infection and need more intensive treatment.  And having already had one NICU baby, Rob and I did not need to hear more than that to be extremely cautious about who visited Eddie in the hospital (which was essentially a handful of people) and limit our contact with the outside world.  Our behavior once we came home was basically an extension of our practices in the NICU: no visitors who were/are sick, no visitors who have been around someone who has been sick, no small children, and lots and lots of hand washing.

And now that winter has arrived and we are currently in the thick of the season that we have been dreading since Eddie's birth (i.e. flu season), we find ourselves indoors quite a bit.

Inside...  

...shut-in.

(Insane?!)

It seems that each member of our family, Riggins included, experiences a regular bout of cabin fever.  The driving snow, freezing rain, and yucky air seem to exacerbate our patience and make us yearn all the more for the days when we can go out.  Because walking around the block or the mall never sounds quite as luxurious as it does at 3 p.m. on a gray Tuesday.  And there are a lot sights that Eddie has yet to see and even more people that he has yet to meet.

But it is obvious why we are in as often as we are.  And we are clearly on his team and by his side.

We will just be all the happier when we can go out together.

 

Papa.

Eddie decided that he wanted to be my first guest writer on this blog.  Today is Rob's birthday so he put something together for his father.

"Dear Papa,

Today is your birthday, and even though I haven't had my own yet, I know that this is a special day for you.  I hope that you feel important and know that a lot of people think you're great.  Mama told me that she usually writes about you and how much she loves you but I told her that I wanted to do it for you this year.  Because even though a lot of other people think you're great, I'm your biggest fan.

I've only been here for five and a half months, but I've been paying close attention to you.  I like to watch you walk and move around.  You have a specific sound to your walk and I like to hear you coming up the stairs to my room in the middle of the night.  Whenever I hear your footsteps, I feel better because I know you're coming to give me a big hug or help me fall back to sleep.  You make me feel safe.

And I really love it when you come home from work at the end of the day.  I'm usually tired in the evenings but when I see you, I get a big burst of energy.  You're always so excited to see me and you make these big, genuine smiles that I just can't help but feel happy.  You make me squeal and giggle like no one else can and I love it when we talk to each other.

We're pals, Dad.  

We like the same stuff: BYU football, walks around our neighborhood, Mom, rides in the car, and being busy.  And I like being around you because you always try so hard to keep me happy.  I don't even know how many times I've walked around the house with you or looked in the mirror in your arms but it doesn't matter - because I never get sick of it.  I like it when we spend time together and I'm glad that we do it a lot.

But what I really like is hearing people tell me how much I look like you.  Some people say I look like Mama because I have a cheesy smile that makes my eyes twinkle and disappear, but overall, we all know that I mostly look like you.  We have the same type of hair, the same shape to our mouths, and the same big, blue eyes.  I will probably have your nose and I hope that I have your same build (because Mom is too small) so that I can lift heavy stuff and be big and strong.  And I feel pretty lucky to look like you.  Because, someday,  I want to be just like you.

Happy Birthday, Papa!  I love you!

Love, 

Eddie"

Peace.

As I fed Eddie tonight I took a moment to look at him.  I studied his face, the wisps of hair on his head, and his partially closed eyes.  I noticed his arms, which were both open wide and then I looked carefully at his pudgy hands.  I saw that since he was lying on his back, his legs were draped across mine and his body had gone completely slack.  And at that moment it became apparent to me that he was perfectly relaxed.  That he was likely in that blissful state between sleep and wakefulness, and that he was at peace.  I looked at his face, noting his slack lips, his long lashes and full cheeks and then I nestled into him. 

After a few more snuggles I carefully tucked him in and gently closed the door to his nursery and as I went through my nightly routine of washing, sanitizing, and tidying, I was struck by a feeling of completeness.

I was thinking about how much I love to return to my childhood home.  A house that is no longer necessarily mine but still a place that feels comfortably familiar and safe.  And as I thought about why I still love going to my parents's house I thought about my nights there and what made them so peaceful.  I thought about my dad tucking me in or my mom tickling my back and it occurred to me that after two and a half years of waiting, that Rob and I finally had the opportunity to provide someone with similar memories.  That we now have the chance to create a peaceful environment for Eddie and provide him with a place that he will love coming home to.

I was taken aback by the significance of this realization.  By not merely how long we have waited to have this seemingly simple opportunity, but by the bliss of parenthood in general.  By how even the most ordinary of actions such as diapering, dressing, and washing a baby suddenly become extraordinary when they are done for your baby.  By the beauty of knowing that Eddie is peacefully dreaming in his crib; a crib that is under our roof, just up our stairs, and within our reach.  And by the happiness that comes in seeing someone that was once so impossibly small grow and thrive.

Tonight I looked Eddie and although I briefly thought of our life before him, I really just saw him.  And only him.

One.

Eddie turned one month old yesterday.

In four short weeks, our fighter has gained half a pound (and two ounces) and is literally growing before our very eyes.  He has graduated rooms and even has outgrown his tiny diapers.  His preemie pacifier is one of his closest friends and he sucks on it often.  His lungs are maturing and what once sounded like a kitten mew has developed into a strong infant cry.  His cheeks have become fuller, his eyes more expressive and even more gorgeous, and his smile is more frequent.

And even though he has grown and developed, his feet are still impossibly cute and tiny.  Indeed, almost everything about him is still tiny.   It is hard to believe that one day he will be big.

Not a day goes by when I do not worry (actually, not an hour goes by when I do not worry).  Apparently the worries that I had during my pregnancy were truly just the beginning.  But the more that I think of it the more I realize that every parent essentially feels the same way.  Situations may change and all children are different but the fact remains that parents love their children too much to not worry.  The trick that I still have to master is to not let my worries consume me so much that I forget to focus on what is in front of me.  Until that day comes, I know that I will be thinking, worrying, praying, and rejoicing over every move our little fighter makes for the rest of his life because on the 24th of May a new chamber formed in my heart, and it is completely and utterly his.  

Eddie.

One week ago this morning I woke up with a start after a particularly vivid dream.  I went to bed the night before with a slight ache on the lower right side of my abdomen that was just uncomfortable enough to make me stop and pay attention.  The ache carried over into my subconscious and that night I dreamt that I went into labor.  The contractions, the delivery room, the IV, were all so real that it took me some time to believe that it did not actually happen.

My little ache accompanied me as I went through the motions of my day.  As far as days go, it was rather non-typical since we had a doctor's appointment in the morning and I had an event for work that night.  Our appointment was standard and everything checked out beautifully.  Kaempfer's heart beat was perfect, all of my stats were spot on, and my doctor told me to call back later in the day if my little ache persisted. Rob and I then went to get lunch and I returned to my desk to prepare for the evening ahead.  Yet as the day progressed my ache did too and by the late afternoon it was becoming more forceful and coming in set increments.  Worried, I laid on my side and drank a lot of water thinking the ache would dissipate.  It did not.  

Knowing it would at least ease my mind to call my doctor, I called the nurse and she transferred me to OB Emergency Services.  The nurse that I spoke with advised me to go home, take a warm bath and drink copious amounts of water.  If my ache continued, she wanted me to come in.  I settled my affairs at work and on the drive home my ache transitioned from a mere ache to a pain.  I waddled up the stairs to my house and drew a bath immediately, hoping it would help.  It did not.  In fact, it was while I was in the bath trying to relax that one of my pains caused my stomach to tighten and sent a jolt of pain straight through my body. I cried aloud and a single word came into my mind, screaming at me to pay attention. "Hospital."

Rob raced home, running every red light and stop sign that came into his path and we checked into OB Emergency Services at 4:00 p.m.  At about 4:10 p.m. they notified me that I was fully dilated and that my baby was coming today.

I cannot easily relay the rest of this story since what followed in the next hour involved a lot of people rushing around.  A quick ultra sound was administered and it was discovered that not only was Kaempfer breech but he was also frank.  There were then multiple pokes and emergency shots, hurried phone calls to parents, and an emergency C-section - all for the sake of a tiny babe in a hurry to make his dramatic debut.  And finally, there was a hearty scream from a baby born 12 weeks earlier than expected.  

So it would appear that much like his brother before him, Kaempfer decided to be born on his own time and his own unique way and his arrival suddenly made a  non-typical day a birth day.

Edward Henry Koelliker

May 24, 2012

5:12 p.m.

2 lbs., 8 oz.

Edward Henry came into this world in a frenzy and has been fighting ever since.  Rob was truly inspired on the day he confidently gave our little Eddie his German nickname since he has already had to slug it out in the ring and so far, he is keeping his head tucked and getting in some money shots.

Eddie will live in the NICU for several weeks and it turns out that my plans to "expect the unexpected" with our little one have truly come to fruition.  We are in the midst of making our regular trips between the hospital and our home and we are very much riding the emotional roller coaster that all parents must ride with a child in the NICU.  But today was a good day and we will continue to appreciate good days.

Welcome to the world, sweet Eddie.  You are the cutest prize-fighter around.

Humbled.

I am probably a proud person.  I enjoy those rare situations when I know the "right" answers.  I like to be able to follow multiple conversations about culture and current events and "be in the know."  And unfortunately, in certain scenarios, I have a difficult time with authority.  All of these things alone do not necessarily make me proud.  I think that I am not alone in enjoying being in control and being a part of things.  If your home was anything like mine growing up, your mother likely motivated you to clean or take an after school job by teaching you to take pride in your work.  The years that my mom spent coercing me to enjoy responsibility and do my best did not fall on deaf ears and I do find satisfaction in a job well done.  But I do know that I have a fatal flaw that some of you probably share: I think that by merely knowing an emotion or situation exists that I will be exempt from experiencing it.

A post that I shared on this blog in December 2010 is a prime example of my thinking.  It was our first Christmas without Henry and even before the season came I knew it would be wrenchingly hard.  Just one year before we were cutting down our tree and taking pictures with my swollen belly.  In 2009 Henry (who was still our Sprout at the time) received his first presents under the tree and was already being spoiled by his grandparents.  Each festive, delicious meal I ate that holiday season was carefully savored, because in my mind, it was the last time in a long time that I would be able to fully indulge myself without my attention being diverted to an infant, toddler, child, etc. We dreamed big and imagined future Christmases filled with our own family.    

And even though Christmas had already come and gone in February 2010, I oddly thought about it quite often during that first month.  I thought about the heartache that would surely come.  The bittersweet emotions that we would have to endure being seemingly empty-handed in such a joyous and loving season.  But my thinking did not stop at Christmas.  I thought of my birthday, Rob's birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Independence Day, and Halloween.  Each holiday and event seemed unbearable since it would pointedly remind us of who and what we were missing.  I dwelled on these special events a lot and since I spent so much time thinking about them I thought that I had outsmarted myself.  Just thinking about living through those impending days was difficult but I expected that since I had already gone through the motions that surely they would not be as bad as I thought.  That I would be sufficiently prepared for the pain and that they might be tolerable or even enjoyable.  But as I admitted in my post in 2010, Christmas still hurt and the emotions came even though I was anticipating them.

And two years later, I am surprisingly learning the same lesson.  While I was thinking about Christmas during that first year I was also thinking about being pregnant again.  I yearned for the sensation of feeling a living, growing person safe inside my belly and of carrying new life.  But I also knew that it would be hard.  My doctor counseled me after Henry's passing and told me that moving forward, all of my subsequent pregnancies would be emotional, frightening, and amazing.  My family and friends said similar things and we all agreed that even though it would be tough at times, it would be a time for great celebration.  So why am I then surprised by the myriad of emotions that I am feeling during my current pregnancy with our little Kaempfer?

I knew this would be unnerving at times.  I knew that I would be a mess over tiny scares and minimal aches and pains.  I had ample time to think through everything already and to expect what was undoubtedly coming my way.  But again, the emotions that I thought I had already thought through are here anyway.  And again, I am surprised.  I do get alarmed over each ache and pain.  I am more vigilant about my body and its processes than I have ever been and I monitor them all with characteristic diligence.  I regularly talk myself out of rational and irrational fears that stem from anything between dry skin to searing round ligament pain around my belly.  Yes, my name is probably becoming well-known in my doctor's office and I visit it frequently for reassurance and comfort.  I hold my breath during every ultrasound and doppler reading, exhaling only when we see or hear our son.  And I am superstitious.  I avoid certain activities or situations for no apparent reason and embrace others all for the sake of feeling better.  

But unlike Christmas 2010, which did have some high points but was ultimately difficult, my pregnancy with Kaempfer has proven to be everything that I dreamed it would be in an overwhelmingly positive way.  Yes, I do still fear most everything.  And yes, I have been bracing myself for something that might unexpectedly arise.  But just like my family and I suspected, this pregnancy has truly been cause for celebration and I am embracing the elation I feel from expecting our son.  I feel appropriately humbled to be in this situation again.  I grin each time a new person learns of our happy news and shares in our joy.  I giggle when I see Kaempfer tap dance on ultrasound and I feel such joy in hearing Rob talk about him that I cannot help but beam.  The love that I feel for the active boy who is my constant companion brings me to my knees and it enhances the feelings that I have for just about everyone, but especially for Rob.  I know that this is only the beginning of a very long road, but we have had an encouraging start and I am grateful for it.

***

So I suppose that in a roundabout way, my pride actually helps me in this situation since I am able to enjoy it more - right???

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.

Last.

Last month, we went into a building and walked out as the owners of our first house.  We nervously walked into the title company that day fully aware of the importance of the decision we were making.  But above all else, we walked with excitement.  Like most of the other "big" things in our marriage, purchasing our first house was a process.  We did our homework and conducted an exhaustive, exciting search that took us into houses of every shape, size and condition.  While I daydreamed about throw pillows and glossy floors, Rob habitually checked websites and databases so that we could weed out the homes that were either too big, too small or too expensive.  And finally, just before we were about to take a break from searching, we found a place that met our most important criteria.  We found a place that has just enough charm and space to be our first house. 

Technically it has only been over a month and a half since we got the keys but in many respects, it seems like we have had it much longer.  We have not moved in yet but have been busy putting as much "sweat equity" that we possibly can into this house to help it reach a small portion of its potential.  The first order of business was to replace and re-key the door.  Rob then removed the storm door (this is an outdated picture, the white door is now gone) and we unceremoniously tore out the carpet (goodbye beige shag - hello, hardwood!).  We updated some of the electrical wiring, have had the hardwood floors finished and are working on painting the interior.  Much has been done, but there is still much to do. 


Now we are at the point where it is safe to start carefully packing up our belongings to prepare for our new adventure.  So last week we revisited the contents of a blue steamer trunk.  From the outside, the trunk is unremarkable save for its nostalgic robin-blue color.  But an inside look of this trunk reveals hundreds of cards, several carefully-packed hand-knitted sweaters, souvenirs from around the world and an assortment of tiny blankets.  The monetary value of these items may not be great, but this unassuming blue trunk is where we keep Henry's keepsakes and everything in it is invaluable to us.  Although we have been putting things into this trunk for the past year and a half, we have not spent a lot of time dwelling on it.  Until now.  Since we are moving on to a new space and a new place for memories we thought it would be fitting to evaluate the precious items within it.  

My senses seemed to be heightened as I sorted cards, hats, onesies and stuffed animals into piles.  It was not easy to be confronted with these special things.  Yet in a way, I enjoyed the sensation of fingering Henry's outfits and smelling his blankets; items which will be forever associated with him, his brief life and his ongoing memory.  I took great care in organizing and arranging the piles within the trunk to ensure that nothing would get disrupted or broken in the move ahead.  My hands seemed to be in agreement me, as if they knew that the things that I was sorting and looking over were fragile and special since my movements were slower and more deliberate.  And now that I think about it, in a way, it feels like I handled these trinkets and clothes the way that I would care for Henry if he were here.  That I would be cuddling and caressing his skin rather than his shoes which have yet to be worn. 

I was and am grateful that Henry even has a trunk-load full of things that we consider to be his.  I gratefully think back to baby showers which gave me opportunities to fall in love with the tender presents I was given.  I treasure the memories I have of receiving such gifts and immediately attaching them to our son.  I vividly remember wondering when Henry would be old enough to wear the bow ties, sweater vests and booties that we were so graciously given.  And I am now beginning to understand the wisdom in a mother's desire to ritualistically nest for her little ones.  I think of the days that I spent feverishly cleaning, washing and arranging to make things perfect for little Henry's debut.  Those times are so important to me, more so now than ever before, because I know that I prepared for him as best as I could with the information that I had at the time.  And that if he ever would have come home with us, he would have had a beautiful room to call his own.


Last night we officially packed up the rest of Henry's nursery.  Up until yesterday, we had left his crib, changing table and little dresser intact because it was too painful to think of packing up a room so precious immediately after his death.  I suppose that if one positive thing came out of boxing up all of his things it was our recognition that we had reached another milestone in our grief and understanding of this process.  That although we still felt a dull ache in our hearts as we looked around at the things that have never been used, that we were able to pack box after box of new diapers, baby lotions and  pacifiers without feeling completely decimated and destroyed.  I wanted to sob aloud.  I wanted to lose myself within that room and spend hours touching, smelling and crying over everything within it.  If Rob had not been around to provide me with strength and peace I just might have let myself stay in that room forever.  But we have been weathering this storm for seventeen months now, and this unfortunately, was just another aspect of it.  

So tomorrow I will paint, pack and not be afraid to let my hands get dirty in building new, happy memories.  I will weed our new yard and water our new grass and I will try my best to keep looking forward because thankfully, I can always look back. 

More.

Before I get into the body of my post, I want to thank you for supporting my little entrance back into blogging.  I always appreciate knowing that people read my words but it means even more to me to know that you enjoy reading about Henry.  Thank you for encouraging me to write about our lives and how they have been changed since Henry came into them.

I keep returning to a thought that I believe will not leave me until I work it out in my writing: I wish that we had more.  I wish that I had more moments or even seconds of being pregnant with Henry again.  I wish that I could go to more baby showers and parties where people joyfully celebrated Henry's impending birth and the happiness it brought into our family.  I long for more chances to talk to my sisters, sisters-in-law, cousins and friends about children, babies and pregnancy without feeling an inevitable pang of sadness.  I wish for more moments when my motherhood felt real and tangible.  

But above all else, I ache for more chances to see Henry's beautiful face in person and I wish for more moments spent holding him.  I wish I had more opportunities to feel the weight of his body again in my arms. I wish I had more photographs of him - from every angle imaginable.  And I simply wish I had more time with him.

My desire for more is compounded by time.  Although time has been our friend in many respects (I will write more about this later), it has also been an enemy too.  I have formed a complicated understanding of time because although, thankfully, it has softened the immediate sting of grief, it has also lessened the intensity of my memories of Henry's birth, life and death. For one reason or another, I am unable to access hours or moments of Henry's life.  One of my hypotheses for this phenomenon is that my brain is protecting me since at times, it almost feels like it denies me access to memories that are painful.  If this is the case then most of the time, I appreciate its methods, since I would not be able to get out of bed in the morning if every morning felt like March 2010.  

It is difficult when I try to remember a particular sight or smell surrounding Henry and I cannot because it is not as vivid.  You are likely thinking that it is probably for the best.  That it is better that my emotions are not as strong as they were on the day that Henry passed.  You may also be thinking that it is healthier for me to not try to continually access memories of situations and circumstances that were painful and difficult.  And if you are thinking these, or similar thoughts, then you are correct.  I completely agree that it is not wise to live in the past and open old wounds that have healed.

Yet I cannot help but cling to my memories of Henry, since sometimes I feel like they are all I have.

I know that I will continually seek a balance in my mind and in my heart where I can continue to move forward each day but still be able to recall the details of Henry's life when I choose.  I will keep wishing that I had the ability to ponder upon certain memories without becoming overcome with grief, anger or despair.  And I will likely test the boundaries to determine where I can and cannot get more out of this experience.  Because when it comes to Henry, in one way or another, I will always want more.

Spectacular.

It is January, which means that we were finally able to say goodbye to 2010 and can welcome a new year.  Seeing 2011 on the calendar means several things, the first, that we made it through the holidays.  The second, that we have twelve new months ahead of us and the final reason being that we have almost survived our first year missing Henry.  I can scarcely believe that in less than one month we will somehow have to find a way to celebrate Henry's birth, and inevitably, commemorate his death.  We have started thinking about what new traditions we can incorporate into our family to help us find peace on what are sure to be difficult days.  

Unfortunately we are not alone in creating these rituals and we have heard about many beautiful and sacred traditions that surround the birth- and "angel-" days for other angels like Henry.  We recently met such a couple.  Rob has known this angel's father since high school but we did not know about their story until they reached out to us at a party.  The similarities in our experiences are astonishing: like Henry, their angel was born on the 9th of the month and passed away on the 13th.  Their angel also had unknown complications and spent her days in the hospital.  And tragically, these parents know the pain of leaving the hospital with empty arms and coming home to an equally empty house.  Needless to say, we have connected with these people.  In some small way, part of the loneliness that we had been feeling has diminished simply by knowing that a couple that we share many similarities with are also in the firestorm of grief, and have lived to tell the tale.  

But perhaps the thing that has impressed me the most about this angel's parents is their characterization of her life.  Although they have every reason to describe it as anything less than perfect, they choose instead to define it as spectacular.  Spectacular as in something that is impressive or sensational.  I suppose that I have latched onto this word because in my mind, it is unexpected.  When I think about my own posts from the past eleven months I cannot recall using such a positive word in my writing.  Reading this word stirred my soul and it has only been after a couple of days of thinking about "spectacular" and its meaning in relation to their angel and mine that I realize why I have been so impressed: it is not the experience of losing their angel that they are describing.  They are describing her and her time on this earth and I admire their ability to separate her life from the experience of losing her because by doing so they are recognizing someone that truly is sensational and impressive.    

And naturally, that led me to think about Henry and the time we were able to spend with him.  A life, which just like his angel-friend's, also was and is spectacular.

  

Despite the fact that certain doubts and regrets have crept into my mind since Henry's passing I never doubt that he knew and still knows that he is loved.  I might be scorning reason and oversimplifying anatomy by believing this, but I know that he could feel our love from the moment I knew I was pregnant with him.  A love which formed a sort of cocoon that cradled and nourished him for the trying days ahead.  To be sure, the months that we spent with Henry in my womb and the days in the hospital were the happiest of our lives thus far and that achievement of happiness and fulfillment in and of itself is spectacular. 

      

Yet that love does not simply end with Rob and me.  Henry was and is loved by devoted grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.  He has a network of fans that rallied around him while he courageously fought for survival in the hospital; a multitude of people who prayed, fasted, hoped and wished for his good health.  People who took to every method of communication to let us know that their hearts were not only with us, but more importantly, with him.  After he passed this network has only continued to expand and multiply.  Love for Henry seemed to span cities and states, continents and countries and we received messages of condolence and love from all over the globe.  It is spectacular that a person so special to his parents could be special for other people, including strangers.

And it is spectacular that Henry will continue to be part of lives, though it is in a way we never intended nor wished for.  This experience has been a nightmare, but loving Henry truly is spectacular.