How Death Can Change Your Life and Your Perspective On It

            The death of someone close to you always changes your life. Death always causes you to have to adjust to a "new normal." And then after you experience the thrill of victory again, and you're running on adrenaline and euphoria, you kinda feel as though you have life by the horns and nothing's ever going to go wrong for you again. 

           Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way. And eventually you start to settle down, remove your rose colored spectacles and see life in reality again. And sad, ugly things continue to happen to you and others you love. And your heart hurts again. 

           But this time you have a better idea of who's in control, and you learn you can't always answer life's tough questions. And you get to know the One who can.

           Three days before Parker’s fifth birthday—almost six weeks after Cory was born—my precious Shetland sheepdog Beau died at home of kidney and liver failure. He had managed to hang on for me, and then begun a rapid decline immediately following Cory’s birth. Ironically, the week before his death, he and Parker had been playing “baseball” in the entryway of our home, reminding me of his energy and thirst for play when he was a puppy. Chris and I grieved deeply over the loss.

           

            A year later, I was able to cry with and comfort my friend—the neonatal nurse who supported me through my confinement, and whose baby girl I had initially been unable to hold—when she suffered a devastating miscarriage of her own and lost a baby boy. She poured out her heart when she admitted that even though she had counseled many parents during their own personal losses, she never really knew what they had been experiencing; never knew the depth of their anguish and grief. She never really knew what it was like—until it happened to her. She said she called me because she knew I would know. I did. In one devastating moment, we were bonded in another type of sisterhood, and suffering together through a typically silent sorrow.

           

            Not long after Cory’s delivery, Dr. Landry performed two more cerclages on patients, one carrying twins. In both circumstances, the amniotic sacs ruptured within a week of surgery. Shaking his head one day during one of my post-delivery office visits to him, he said, “I don’t know how you made it. It must have been determination.”

           

            I knew how I’d made it: solely by the merciful hand of God. And I told him so. He first looked at me as though I’d just dropped in from Mars, and then he nodded knowingly. He didn’t have a comeback. The stats screamed Miracle, and there was no arguing to the contrary.

           

            And Dr. Landry could still not understand how I could have ended up with an incompetent cervix after a normal pregnancy with Parker. There had been no obvious deformities in the cervix, or evidence of damage or scarring. “Then maybe Parker’s the greater miracle,” I offered.

           

            Now that I was staying at home full time and not returning to work, I began to immerse myself in Bible study. Becoming transformed by what I learned, and what I’d endured, I wanted to feed continuously on God and His word. I was unable to be satiated; always desiring more. I began learning how to view Chris as my total, consummate Savior whom I trust and rest upon. His mighty work continues to this day, and every day that I get to know Him better, I love Him more and more.

           

            I’ve mentioned before that I’d like to think I would have eventually embarked on the awesome and fulfilling journey of walking with God on my own volition, but in my heart I know that idea is absurd, and I would not have embarked upon it. With assuredness—because of my life history—I knew I did not deserve His blessings. None of us deserve them. None of us are “good” enough. Yet I had asked for an almost unreasonable bounty and received it. But before receiving it, Jesus led me into the darkness to see Him shine, and to experience the immensity and power of His grace. Chris and I were both bruised and blessed in that darkness. In it, we began our journey of real salvation, of coming fully to Jesus Christ. And we both bear wounds that remind us of His unending grace.

           

            I did not replace Victoria. She was not replaceable. She is part of our family; a member we simply did not get the chance to know. Yet, she is still a child on our family tree. She was a child from whom I experienced the precious movement of human life, and a child who God used to teach me about the preciousness of human life. Something I had forgotten. Although she is physically gone from our lives, she remains a well-defined memory and spiritual part of our existence.

           

            I’ve been asked many times over the years if I believe God caused Victoria’s death, if I think that was His plan all along. Many people don’t like my answer. I tell them I think God took a look at me, the way I was living my life, and knew something had to be done to get my attention. Whether He “caused” all of those things to happen in just that way, I won’t conjecture. What I do know is that nothing happens outside of His will. So if that is truth, then if God did not want those things to happen to me, He could have stopped the events in their tracks and saved Victoria, in spite of the careless, devastating medical care I received that compromised her life and mine. He could have made sure I had a breezy, carefree and barefoot pregnancy with Cory. But He didn’t. Even if He didn’t cause them to happen, He did not stop them from happening, either. I’m good with that. God is God, and I’m not. His ways are not my ways, and I need to let Him stay on the throne and be God, and trust Him, even when my heart is breaking, and my brain is screaming, Why!? Is that easy? No. Sometimes I need to remind myself of it every second of every day. But when I do—and I believe it—life is so much easier and fulfilling. And purposeful.

           

            So, with escalating and undiminished passion for life and our Lord, our family strives everyday to renew the spirit of hope, wonder, joy and love, with the guiding hand of the Savior. We are continuing to awaken to the life Jesus wants us to possess, with all of its simplicity, fullness and joy. It is a daily journey, an adventure we cannot possibly make alone (successfully, anyway), and a trip that will fall woefully short of its possibilities if we try to run it solo. I came perilously close to having my journey abruptly curtailed before I even had a chance to step on the lighted path and experience life in its fullness. Against all human reason and odds, I had traversed the darkest and deepest valleys, and then soared to the mountaintop, all on the wings of His grace.

           

            The grace that gave me the strength to step out on a transparent bridge of faith, and try again.

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I Needed the Quiet

                                   

                                                 I needed the quiet so He drew me aside,

                                                Into the shadows where we could confide.

                                                Away from the bustle where all the day long

                                                I hurried and worried when active and strong.

                                                I needed the quiet though at first I rebelled,

                                                But gently, so gently, my cross He upheld,

                                                And whispered so sweetly of spiritual things.

                                                Though weakened in body, my spirit took wings

                                                To heights never dreamed of when active and gay.

                                                He loved me so greatly He drew me away.

                                                I needed the quiet. No prison my bed,

                                                But a beautiful valley of blessings instead—

                                                A place to grow richer in Jesus to hide

                                                I needed the quiet so He drew me aside.

                                                                                     

                                                                                    ~Alice Hansche Mortenson

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NEXT WEEK: Things I learned from losing a baby…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Day-to-Day Life at Home With a Premature Baby: Dying to Self and Thriving

            Life in the NICU with your premature baby is one thing; bringing him home and living with him day-to-day, without medical help or relief, is quite another. If you’ve ever wanted to learn how to die-to-self, having a preemie will take you down that path!

           

            Soon after our arrival home from the hospital, our laid-back NICU baby turned Mr. Hyde on us. He tried our patience, nerves and resolve for nearly seventeen months.

           

            As many high-stressed preemie babies are, he was hypersensitive to light, sound, activity and tactile stimulation. Quiet entrances into the bedroom brought fearful screams; covering his sleeping body with a light blanket brought kicking anger and cries of terror. Unable to maintain eye-to-eye contact with any of us, I feared my new baby had some kind of affection disorder, like autism, and I waited nervously for the time when he would search my face with his eyes or treat me with a smile. How I longed for the slightest up-curling of his lips!

           

            He had his nights and days completely reversed, unable to go to sleep without the lights illuminated in his bedroom. He’d taken up residence in a cradle next to our bed, so that meant the lights were on when we were trying to sleep. If we sneaked around his bed to extinguish them, he awoke with a start and holler, refusing to return to sleep unless they were again turned on. If strangers ventured toward him or tried to snag him for a hold, he’d cry, then succumb to fits of gagging and choking. Within minutes, he’d assume a catatonic appearance, then fall irrevocably asleep in my arms or baby seat, his body limp from the exhausting stress.

            

             Clearly, Cory was agoraphobic, so I remained fairly confined to the house—and content to be so—for several months. Miraculously, I was able to nurse him, and nursing continued every hour-and-a-half, with feedings no less than five times a night, well into June of 1996, sixteen months after his birth. He nursed for twenty-four months. Initially unable to produce substantial amounts of milk for him during night feedings, I had ot p supplement him with occasional bottle supplements of formula. Attempts to let him “cry it out” were fruitless, as he could—and would—scream defiantly for periods of time that sometimes extended into an hour-and-a-half range or longer.

           

            Well-meaning friends insisted it would be good for Cory if we exposed him more to the outside world and other people. “He needs it,” they’d admonish me. But all of the books we read on the subject of hypersensitive babies instructed us to maintain a specific routine—a quiet, peaceful routine—without surprises, loud noises, or copious amounts of touching or playing. We always watched for the tell tale signs of hiccups indicating stress overload. The hiccups came often and lingered, but we persevered with quiet surroundings, consistent behavior, and tender, careful touching (I was fairly successful with baby massage), and a miraculous dose of patience. The books warned us that it sometimes took close to two years for hypersensitive babies to relax and become comfortable with their surroundings. Cory didn’t improve those percentages.

           

            Our love and patience paid off. He bloomed into a bright, energetic and exhausting toddler and child, who regarded the world as a tremendously exciting place. A place to be experienced and conquered; a proving ground for the imposition of his steely determination and will. His first goal included overpowering the rest of the family—mother, father, and especially his older brother. He became loving and playful, as well as sensitive and volatile, a Tasmanian Devil with a temper to rival the Warner Brothers cartoon character. He bore the nickname “Hurricane Cory” for the second and third year of his life. And he elevated the art of manipulation and argumentation to a science.

           

            He grew from my baby to my little boy, bursting forth to establish his autonomous identity in our family, and in the world. Almost daily I stared at him, and wondered how he got here. But I know how he got here, and I continuously thank God for His precious gift to us. For better or for worse, Chris and I now love a little harder and hang on a little tighter—to both of our miracles. Too soon they are gone, and I did wonder, in melancholy anticipation, about life in a quiet house, without colorful toys, endless questions, expert argumentation, pattering feet and squealing voices. (What does a home schooling mother do once she’s forced into retirement?)

           

            Then there was that name thing that I talked about in one of my posts, when the name Joshua popped into my head as a name for Cory before he was born. A name I hadn’t even considered. A name I set aside because I couldn’t imagine God doing something as “simple” as giving me a specific name for my child.

           

            Within weeks of Cory’s arrival, I learned the meaning of Joshua. I was stunned when I learned it means “God saves.” Once again I considered the possibility that the “voice” I heard had been God, and that I had brushed it aside too quickly. If only I had taken the time to look up the definition; it would have been a perfect name for our baby. (And it may have stilled my anxious heart.) God truly did save him, when all the actuarial tables were stacked against us. Fearful of being disobedient, I seriously contemplated changing his name, but Chris said he really “looked more like a Cory,” and wanted to stick with that. Sometimes I looked at him and thought: “my little salvation from God.” But it doesn’t matter what his name is to think that; he is my salvation from God. Nothing can change that fact. And Cory has turned out to be a perfect name for him.

           

            And I still think of that mysterious nurse who “materialized” in my room at Cory’s birth, the one who could not be identified by other hospital workers and who I never saw again. Several years after Cory’s birth, while I was doing a study on angels, her memory snapped into my thoughts. Could it be? Had it been? I was almost afraid to consider the possibility, so awesome to me was the suggestion or thought of angelic intervention. Sometimes I think of the time when I will meet “her” again, and I am filled with excitement and awe at that opportunity. Will I reminisce with an angelic host about the day they fulfilled their responsibility to minister to one of God’s children? While I am aware that biblical angelic visits were always of the male gender, and many Bible scholars say that an angel would not appear in the form of a woman, I do not dismiss any possibility of entertaining an angel unaware, and the thought causes me to shake my head in wide-eyed wonder. And smile.

           

            Through that stunning two years, through ugly, dark valleys and soaring, verdant mountaintops, I had learned well that with God, anything is possible.

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NEXT WEEK: Epilogue Part 2…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

A Surprise Homecoming: When Your Preemie Comes Home At Last

           Surprise homecomings are sweet. When it’s your premature baby who's making the surprise trip, “sweet” doesn’t even begin to describe the jubilation.

           

            Cory continued making daily strength gains, and I gave more thought to his homecoming. So, on the morning of March 7—Cory’s 8^th day of life—I decided to do a little shopping for preemie coming-home clothes.

           

            And another car seat.

           

            The night before, I’d scanned through the directions for my new, super Cadillac car seat and learned that premature infants were NOT to be placed in the seat because they usually fell short of the length/height requirements. That meant the new plush car seat would need to wait a while for an occupant. So I called the NICU to inform them I’d be arriving late.

           

            When I gave that information to the man answering the phone, he abruptly announced Cory was scheduled for release.

           

            Today.

           

            What do you mean…released?” I sputtered into the phone. “I just spoke with Dr. Shaw yesterday, and he said Cory would be getting ready to go home soon, not today…nobody said anything about a specific day!” My words scuttled over one another as my self-control unraveled. My heart pounded and my hand quivered as I clutched the phone.

           

            Well, this is Dr. Shaw, and I’ve already signed the release papers. Cory’s ready to go home.”

           

            “But he doesn’t even weigh five pounds yet…I thought he had to weigh five pounds. You didn’t say anything about today! I’m not ready…I need a car seat…and clothes…and my husband’s at work…and I don’t know what time I’ll be able to get there!” I nearly sobbed in nonsensical panic. “What time am I supposed to pick him up?”       

           

            I balanced on the threshold of hysteria. What had happened to all of Dr. Shaw’s “we need to be cautious” and “don’t expect too much too soon” talk?

           

            “He doesn’t have to weigh five pounds; that’s just a guideline. He’s very strong and he’s going to be fine. He’s ready to go home. You should try to be here before twelve, because I’d like to talk to you before he leaves. I’ll be here until then.”

           

            “Well, I’ll have to call my husband—he’s almost an hour away from home—and we’ll have to run out and buy a car seat before we get there and…I don’t know exactly what time we’ll be able to arrive at the hospital,” I finished in a defensive clip.

           

             “I’ll see you when you get here.” Dr. Shaw ended the conversation in a firm, doctorial tone, and my shaky hand hung up the phone.

           

            “You have to come home right now…they’re releasing Cory and we’re supposed to be there before noon!” I shouted into the phone when Chris returned my page.

           

            “What!?” he shouted back. “What do you mean they’re going to release him today? We’re not ready for him to come home!” After explaining the situation to him, and briefly reiterating Dr. Shaw’s comments, he promised to come home immediately, then hung up. There was nothing for me to do but stand numbly in the kitchen, feeling helpless and overwhelmed, awaiting Chris’s arrival. There we were, hoping, praying, and fighting for this moment for nearly two years, and neither of us was prepared for the reality. But this was it.

           

            Chris arrived home in record time, flying through the door donning an expression of supreme happiness mingled with uneasiness and doubt. I insisted he contact Dr. Shaw before going to the hospital, while I paced around the kitchen, chewing my lip, nervously and rudely directing questions to fire at Dr. Shaw. Toward the end of the conversation, Chris barked out in an exasperated tone, “But we’re afraid to bring him home…we feel inadequate to care for him.” To which Dr. Shaw replied with a snicker, “I can tell!”

           

            After the call, Chris and I stood in the kitchen, momentarily gaping at one another before rushing to the car and speeding away to purchase the necessary car seat and special homecoming clothes. It was a relatively warm day, but I carried Cory’s crocheted, infant-sized afghan—the carefully folded afghan that had, for more than two months, lain waiting on my bed for its tiny recipient.

           

            Giddily, we scoured the baby section of the store and found a beautiful car seat at a specially reduced price. Selecting two outfits—including a special one for the inaugural trip home—we paid for our purchases while announcing to everyone who inquired the specifics about the new baby awaiting our arrival at the hospital. Then we sped off to locate newborn diapers. Loaded down with several bags of nappies and boxes of baby wipes, we goofily informed everyone interested about our new, soon-to-be-coming-home baby. We must have displayed the wide-eyed new parent look because everyone we encountered asked. Then we ran through the parking lot to the car, tossed the diapers in the back and drove to the hospital.

           

            After walking hurriedly through the hospital parking lot and jogging down various corridors, we stopped abruptly and breathless at the door to his room, then slowly, cautiously approached the bed. In unison, we leaned over the rails and stared at our oblivious, bundled baby. Gee, he still looked so tiny and fragile in that gargantuan bed! Dr. Shaw was gone—it was after 1:00—but he left instructions and papers for us to sign, along with an infant choking and CPR video we were required to watch before taking Cory home.

           

            With those items taken care of, Chris carefully applied himself to preparing Cory for his trip home, while I snapped the mandatory photos. With trembling hands and beads of sweat materializing on his brow, Chris managed to complete the arduous dressing process of his sleepy, limp son, then buttoned the long row of tiny buttons on the back of the blue and white knit outfit. Then we carefully arranged him in his new car seat. We gathered up the doll clothes-sized t-shirts he’d worn, the daily weight and length record, the head warming knit caps, NICU graduate t-shirt, stuffed NICU panda bear, the gray elephant Parker had given him, and went in search of his nurses to say goodbye.

           

            What do you say to the people who work so selflessly to give your baby a chance at life? Who appear so sacrificially devoted to the care of their miniature patients? Thank you hardly seemed adequate. Maybe the joy of seeing those special babies finally go home keeps them going. Maybe it’s the daily miracles in their midst that motivate them to continue even when the fight seems impossible and they sometimes lose. Whatever it is, Chris and I were deeply, eternally grateful for their answering God’s call and for their love, patience and selfless dedication. There were tears and hugs and thank you’s all around.

           

            We were going home at last. Parker didn’t know it yet, but we would soon arrive at his preschool to pick him up, with his baby brother perched in the reserved seat next to his. He’d have a backseat car buddy now.

           

            And there would be no special monitoring devices to schlep home with us. On the phone with Chris, Dr. Shaw had expressed his amazement that Cory had not experienced a single episode of sleep apnea during his weeklong stay in the unit, something unheard of in preemies. All of the other preemies parading out of the unit the last several days had one in tow. Even though I wanted one, we wouldn’t get it. Cory didn’t need it. I’d need to learn to live without it.

            

            Beaming jubilantly and victoriously, Chris and I carried our tiny package and his meager belongings through the hospital, passing smiling, inquiring people who stopped us to peer at our package. We promenaded triumphantly into the lobby, through the front doors, out into the warm, glowing March sunshine. Once outside, we stopped to look at each other and acknowledge the significance of the moment, barely able to believe—or comprehend—how far the Lord had brought us, and the wealth of our blessings.

           

            I could finally relinquish my firm grasp on the verse I’d considered so applicable to the horror in my life almost two years earlier, and ascribe to seven more verses of the sixty-third Psalm:

                       

                       

                        So I have looked upon thee in the sanctuary,

                           beholding thy power and glory.

                        Because thy steadfast love is better than life,

                           my lips will praise thee.

                        So I will bless thee as long as I live,

                           I will lift up my hands and call on thy name.

                        My soul is feasted as with marrow and fat,

                           and my mouth praises thee with joyful lips,

                        when I think of thee upon my bed,

                           and meditate on thee in the watches of the night;

                        for thou hast been my help,

                           and in the shadow of thy wings I sing for joy.

                        My soul clings to thee,

                           thy right hand upholds me (Psalm 63: 2-8 _RSV).

           

            King David’s words say it all. Nothing could be added. We had learned that, indeed, without His steadfast love, there is no life. Not true life, anyway.

           

            Our arms were full and our hearts awash with God’s miraculous gift and love. His praise was on our lips. In the plentitude of His benevolent mercy and grace, our family—together, with its precious new member—made a triumphant journey home.

           

            Only God could have orchestrated such a victory after such resounding defeat. Our broken hearts had been redeemed in so many ways.

           

            Against all human reason and actuarial odds, we traversed the darkest and deepest valleys then soared to the mountaintop. All on the wings of His grace.

           

            The wings of grace that gave me the strength, the hope, the courage and the purpose…to try again.

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NEXT WEEK: Epilogue…life with a preemie, and more

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings, and Happy New Year!!!

Andrea

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/davesoldano/8568509763/">JusDaFax</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>