Lucky 13

Koralyn, Tomorrow you would/will turn 13 years old, a whole glorious, awkward, awful, wonderful, funny, hard, teenaged girl! I sit here today alone, looking out at the beautiful blue sky as your big and little brothers, and your one little sister, are all at school right now. Your daddy is at work, the same place he worked 13 years ago when you were born, although gosh, so very much has changed there, in the world, in our family, and in us Koralyn. So much has changed and yet some things never ever will. I am grateful for both of these realities, things are always changing and some things never will. My love for you will never change in many ways. It will never go away. I will never stop wondering who you would be today? What would you look like, sound like, your eye color, hair color and texture. Who would you act most like and be closest to? What things would be your favorite now? Food, animals, clothing, colors, hobbies? As your mother I will always, always wonder these things. I know the reality was that you had major life altering heart defects and that your life and ours would have been so hard because of that. I worried so much about that when you were alive for you, for your brothers, selfishly for Amos and I. Sometimes Koralyn, it makes me wonder if thats why you had to go, if thats why God chose to take you at just shy of 4 months old; because I am too selfish a mother to have handled your complexities and needs. Sometimes the guilt eats at me in the wee hours when I wake, or in the hot steamy showers when my mind wanders. I think of all the times since your death I have made it about me. Your little life, your death, all this grief. Your daddy's grief. How many times have I used you for my own ego or benefit? Honestly I can't answer that my sweet Koralyn, because I don't know.

I know that grief is so confusing and all encompassing for a time. Losing a child is truly being thrust into the deep dark end of the ocean and being told to swim at all costs. At first there is no one, its just you, no life boats, no vests, no paddles. No one is coming to save you and nothing is on the horizon, in fact there isn't even a horizon anymore its just vast darkness as far as you can see. You fight and flail and try to make sense and find meaning. Then you realize if you keep this up, its going to kill you too. You will drown out here in the deep, dark, end of the ocean doing this. Eventually you calm, you breathe, you learn to float when the water is calm and swim with the waves when they come. You realize, actually there are others out here, with vests, with paddles, rafts, boats, some even luxury oceanliners and coastguard rescue teams. (I'd like to think these last two are the blessed people who get to start foundations in their children's names or watch as thier child's organs go to save the lives of others) Some of us make our way to islands and get stuck deciding never to return to the worlds we once were a part of, its just too painful and hard. This can look like leaving our spouses or our living children, our homes and families, our jobs. Giving in to a life of new addictions to fill the empty spaces our children left in us when they died. People we love come to our deserted island and try to convince us to swim and fight our way back to the mainland, but we just can't or don't see a point and so we stay. I know our children we've lost wouldn't want us to stay on our deserted islands of grief and despair. Two lost lives are a double tragedy truly.

Some of us take longer to get on the rafts or in the boats or put on the vests that are offered in love. Some of us refuse to see the horizon even when it comes back into view. Sometimes we as grieving parents get in and out of the vessels that have come to rescue us over and over again. We take off our life vests lovingly given to us, we throw down our paddles in anger, or anguish or because we think we no longer need them. I know I have sure spent a lot of time the last 13 years jumping in and out of vessels in search of things Koralyn. Its all a part of the life long process of grief really. The grief experts say there are 5 stages. Those who haven't grieved a child, or any loved one or loss really, probably believe the stages are linear. We bereaved know these stages are one big giant ocean not a clear straight line. I have gone through all 5 stages multiple times over in the last 13 years, of course my grief was complicated by multiple losses within a short period of time.

Eventually us grievers, we find our way back to the shore so to speak, oh but we are a changed person. After all, we've just traversed a whole ocean. A whole ocean only God and other child loss survivors have swam and explored. We are sun worn, weary, saltwater logged. Battered by wind and waves, wise to new and scary storms and places others don't dare go. We have spent darkest nights all alone just us, the waves, and Jesus. We have seen and heard creatures no one else but us speak of on this deep dark ocean of grief. We are so happy to be back on the shore but also disoriented and confused as to how no one seems to understand why we are so different. Some of our friends and family we thought would be happiest to welcome us in, quickly leave the shoreline when we tell them, I am back yes! But I am changed and I must sit on the shore for awhile next to the water, for I may need to revisit the ocean a time or two maybe more. They say no! No No, you must come now to town and leave all this behind never to swim in this ocean again! Its over don't you see! Let it go, move on, come now and just pretend as if this ocean no longer exists. Its been a year, two years, Five, more even. Shouldn't your ocean be a dry bed by now? Come come, lets move inland never to return to this coastal town. Some of us need to stay on the beach next to the shoreline longer than others. Some of us can move inland yes, and only visit our coast every once in awhile. Some need to move inland in fact, while others need to stay right on the coast with a view of thier ocean, they need to walk their shoreline often and swim in the waves of thier ocean. Only the griever can decide that with the help of their faith, loved ones, often counselors and of course time.

I find myself swimming in the ocean of grief less and less it seems but on days like today Koralyn, the day before your birthday, and sometimes on random days, I find myself splashing around in the waves of grief again. I know thats okay. You, God, grief and well life the last 13 years have taught me so much about being patient with mine and others emotions. I still have a long way to go of course, but the beauty I see now, is that both sorrow and joy can exist at the same time. Its okay and allowed, expected really, that we will have bad days. Sometimes its acceptable to lean into that pain, frustration, anger, hurt, and just let it be for awhile. The key is to not stay there. As one of my wise and sweet counselors told me, Kenda go ahead, throw yourself a pity party! Buy a cake and eat it too, lament, feel sorry for yourself. Then get up, clean up, and move on. Maybe its age, maybe its time and lessons, maybe its a touch of insanity or clarity, but I care so much less now then I did 13 years ago about how people see me or what people think about me as I make my way along this journey.

I am grateful my ocean of grief has changed so much over 13 years Koralyn, but that Jesus has not. The same Jesus I cried out to next to your cardiac ICU bed as you were dying, is the same Jesus who still sits with me today. I believe Koralyn that same Jesus heard my cries and prayers and pleadings and has seen every tear since. I believe Koralyn, that he greeted you when you took your last labored breath here as we wept and your soul was ushered into his presence. He has seen my efforts for you in your life and since your death. My efforts both in love for you and in selfishness, grief, bargaining with him and grasping for meaning and purpose in the pain of losing you. I believe that God is so good and kind to continue to be patient with me and give me good gifts on this earth. I have been so blessed with so much over the past 13 years. Life, friendship, Love, safety, more precious children, more life lessons, hardship, growth, struggle, fun, adventures. The truth is my blessings are too numerous to name. You are one of them Koralyn. You will continue to teach me as long as I live, just like the rest of your siblings do. Motherhood is hard, beautiful, awful, wonderful, sanctifying work Koralyn Marie. Thank you for being my first precious daughter. You were/are so beautiful. You worked so hard to live and you did so good for us. We will always be proud of you! We have tried to make you proud and have hopefully done good and kind things for eternity in your and Jesus' name and honor. Your siblings, they miss you and want to meet you too, especially your little sister Karis. She talks and asks about you often even though she never met you. I can't wait to truly meet you again one day my sweet sweet Koralyn. To see Jesus face to face, to hear his voice and then, oh and then Koralyn, to hear yours speak words for the first time ever. To hear you say, "hey mom, its me!"