A Mother’s Day – it is. Happy – it can be.

Mother’s Day has to be the most emotion-filled nationally recognized day of the year. Perhaps not for everyone. But, to me, it seems like it must be.

I’ve only personally celebrated 5 of these special days. Sure some of them were filled with delightfully handprinted cards and banana breakfasts in bed (orchestrated by my ever grateful and special husband).

But yet, of the five, one was spent rushing a 3 year old daughter to an ER and then a PICU from a copperhead bite.

Another one was spent alone in a quiet home with only the sobs of my grieving heart as my precious baby’s body passed from mine after a pregnancy that was far-too-short, but so greatly desired.

On this day for Mothers to be happy.

So many women long for the time to be able to celebrate this day. (“Can I stand with the other mothers in church if I’m still *only* pregnant?”)

So many women dread it. (“Do I stand with the other mothers in church if I’ve only ever been pregnant?”)

Some despise what it means for so many others – because their own mothers weren’t what they wanted.

Sometimes the emotional pain and dread I fear for this day makes me curl up in bed and not want to do anything. Even weeks before this Mother’s Day was due to arrive.

But, I wanna be real for a second here. Because, I’ve learned in the last 362 days since my Mother’s Day loss last year, that there aren’t too many women that still have a beautiful “innocence” of motherhood as I call it. For them, Mother’s Day isn’t just about sentimental gifts made in Kindergarten and a special day off from cooking.

How can you be happy when you have more children in Heaven than you have here?

How can you be happy when now, perhaps for the first time, you have children who are no longer here to feel your love for them?

How can you be happy when your heart’s desire is to change terry cloth onesies and diapers – but all you’re changing on Monday is fertility supplements?

How can you be happy when your older child has you (and your tears, your prayers, your love), but you’re not even sure if, on this day, they will want to call you their Mom?

These questions thunder deep in my heart these long afternoons. I see new photos of my sweet baby Kyle that I haven’t allowed my eyes or my heart to see, and I feel the sense of loss all over again. As if he was just taken from my arms this day. His tiny hand out of mine. The hope of his healing here on earth gone. The minutes he didn’t move felt like hours – and during each one the hope I had of his healing, of his being alive, drained from my heart. And the hours he didn’t move over that weekend turned to tears that carried that hope from my eyes to my hands.  And I sat there in a crowded shopping mall. Numbly making phone calls and arrangements for my girls while people around me had no idea of what I was carrying.  The new maternity sweater I had worn once the night before – the last time I had felt him move – had to be returned. But I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even walk near the store. My heart was so much heavier than my womb.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire is fulfilled, it is a tree of life.” 

Mary, the sister of Lazarus, who walked with the very person of God was sick with grief. Grief of lost expectations, a lost brother, a lost friend, lost hope.

And “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled.” Not because He had lost a dear friend. But because He saw the hurt of sweet Mary. “Jesus wept.” Some around them even asked the hard questions.  “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?”

Jesus never rebuked them for their grief. He never rebuked them for their questions. In fact their grief moved him so much to weep himself. He feels our hurts. He hurts for us. He said this thing to Mary. “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?”

But perhaps that believing is the hardest thing yet.

Believing that God is in control. That God is indeed bigger than any of us. And our dreams. And our plans. And our desires.

My girls and I quote a verse often “For I know God can do ANYTHING…” 

but saying and believing are two different things entirely.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

A woman, who believes her baby will be born within the next nine months healthy and strong. She has hope. She has joy in believing.

A woman, who believes her family’s future is already planned in God’s mind. And His mind is set on Heaven, not on things on this Earth. Her family is just getting an early start there. She has hope. She has joy in believing.

A woman, who believes through the Spirit’s power, she can be a God-glorifying vessel to show God’s light to her own children, despite the past example she grew up with. She has hope. She has joy in believing.

A woman, who believes her heart and her future is tenderly held in God’s hands. And that because of that belief she can hope for the joy of children. She has hope. She has joy in believing.

A woman, who believes all little children are God’s children and can be her children. And loves them all.

She has hope. She has joy in believing.

God says, “Look to me. Watch what I can do.” (Micah 7:7)

Perhaps a Mother cannot solely be defined as a female who births a child. But instead, perhaps, as some explain, the definition is rather difficult to compose — “Because of the complexity and differences of a mother’s social, cultural, and religious definitions and roles, it is challenging to specify a universally acceptable definition for the term.”

So perhaps a woman, who loves a child playing in the backyard, or anyone’s backyard, or one who loves a child playing in Heaven, or one who loves a child that hasn’t been given – yet, or one who loves a child that no longer reciprocates that love can still be called Mother. And can still be happy on this day.

Because she believes, and hopes, and loves.

“But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

–Romans 15:13, I Corinthians 13:13

Good grief.

Sometimes I’m gathering up all my energy to cook a meal. Or sometimes I’m walking through a crowded IKEA store. Sometimes it’s at the park with my girls.

I never know when I’ll see something that will trigger memories of Kyle, or worse, my memories of my dreams of Kyle.

Sometimes I feel like it never happened – that it was all a bad dream – and that now I’m awake and I should go do dishes. Then, I open my freezer and bags of frozen breast milk fall out that I’m holding for a friend.

Kyle’s milk. it says, on the name line.

Then there’s those wretched anniversaries. For the one month anniversary, I was home for several days by myself – my husband was visiting his dying grandfather in Florida. He desperately didn’t want to leave, but I thought I’d be ok.

It’s incredible the things that go through your mind, the moments you relive, all because of silly numbers on a clock or on a calendar!

Every. Single. Memory. It all came back as if I were looking on again while it happened. I felt contractions. I remembered that blessed morphine dose I got to give me a break from the pain for an hour or two so I could get a visit from my girls. I remembered my sweet sister’s laboring over photos – that I still can’t look at. I remembered the tears that were shed by nurses on my behalf behind curtains and closed doors. I remembered holding him. And around the time he was born in my arms, 1:30 AM, I finally let myself fall asleep. Then when I woke up, I just wanted that moment – that awful moment – when I passed on his little body to the funeral home man to come and go quickly.

I had made plans with a good friend visiting from China to meet us at the park that day. Hoping it would keep me from being in terrible despair in my room all day. But, honestly, I didn’t feel like doing anything. Thankfully, my girls are very self-sustaining. They were completely happy to find a movie and their two favorite boxes of cereal.  I heard them talking… “Mommy’s still sad today, Kami. I’ll just get you breakfast today.” “OK! Col-we! Let’s just watch a movie!” “Kami, I can’t find any bowls. We’ll just have to eat the cereal like this, ok?”

Later that morning, Chloe came in and checked on me. I told her, “Chloe, Mommy’s gonna be really sad today. It’s Kyle’s one month day. But he’s not here to have a little party for him. So I just miss him.”

She gave me the prettiest smile and said, “Oh mom, how about we have a baby Kyle picnic, then, at the park? We can have a picnic and play and run. It can be a baby Kyle party.”

While that would probably get most mama’s hearts and turn them around for the better, I was beyond easy convincing at this point. “But, Chloe, Kyle won’t be there.”

Apparently, Chloe was beyond easy convincing too. “But Mom. It’s OK. It’s just a celebration. For Kyle. Cause he’s in Heaven. So it can still be good. And here….”
(She ran to the kitchen and grabbed some blue daisies another friend and delivered to my house the day before and brought them into my room.) “….we can just take these to him today at his flower place.”

My daughter is a genius. The other title for this post was going to be “(Not so much) Like Mother, Like Daughter.”

Chloe proceeded to make a picnic lunch. She’s quite the inventive cook. Peanut butter and rotisserie chicken sandwiches with lettuce? Hmm…..hey. At least they were triple deckers. This was one family outing I was happy to be on a diet.

Seeing those smiles and yogurt mustaches was just what I needed. It got my mind off the ticking minutes. And got my mind on what I had right in front of me. Two beautiful gifts I’ll never deserve. And sometimes I think they’re angels. I guess I’ve been blessed with a lot of angels.

Chloe even got a hopscotch lesson. And a spanish lesson. And a quarter.

Then it was off to what we call the “Flower Place”. Where in the place of harsh, cruel, death, even in January, new grass was growing. And I felt like it was somehow a picture of my heart. I was feeling a little bit of healing. A little bit of growth. And it had all been watered by my never ending flow of tears. Without those tears, without that death, that grass wouldn’t be there. And my heart would never have grown to a place where it would be able to feel like it does now.

So, while in the depths of difficult hard grief, I’m learning that even when I go through deep waters, God will be with me. When I go through rivers of difficulty, I will not drown. When I walk through the fire of oppression, I will not be burned up; the flames will not consume me – because God is my God.  So, my grief, while mostly terrible – is sometimes good.

 – Isaiah 43:2,3

Happy Birthday, “Sam”

January 26, 2012 was a holy day for me. A day where I held both life and death.

A day where I truly understood what life meant to me.

And a day where I truly understood death.

And while today I go about making craigslist deliveries, buying stamps, working out, fixing broken hairbows, cleaning bathrooms, cooking dinner, and all the other things Moms do on Saturdays if they’re lucky enough to have a dad home to help out, my heart grieves for my losses.

But, I also think about my gifts. I’ll take my 3 year old gift out with me today to teach her a few things about the post office. I’ll read on the couch with my 6 year old – actually, she’ll probably read to me. That’s two gifts right there.

Because, while January 26th was the most awful day of my life (thus far), it grew something beautiful in my heart – a desire to count my gifts. And that day, the first gift I counted, was one I gave to God.

Happy Birthday, little Sam. Sesame Sam as we called you. Celebrate big. Because I don’t think anything Happy in Heaven is small.

 

Organizing and light-living.

I’ve been keeping my mind and hands busy this week – organizing. After basically 14 months of a seemingly never ending cycle of physical fatigue that looked something like: morning sickness/recovery over and over, my poor house has been in a state of “barely surviving”. When we walk into the pantry to pull out a loaf of bread, and a pack of batteries, along with a stack of paper plates (that I had forgotten we even had) falls on our heads – we wonder how we found the loaf of bread to begin with.

Oh, it’s semi-clean, but definitely my cleaning and organizing from day to day has been in a very mere maintenance mode.  Enough to keep the bugs out and my kids clothes clean. Needing something mentally and physically exhausting, but not so challenging I couldn’t manage in my barely postpartum state, this seemed to be the trick. I’ve decided to put my eyeballs on every square inch of floor space (and the cubic space above it) and make it spotless. I’m about a third of the way through now. We’ll see if I finish before the end of the month.

I found a few new solutions to some storage problems I’ve been facing for five years.

And I even snapped photos to show you. Because they just might make it to pinterest.

Oh, wait. I got the ideas from there. Nevermind.

But that’ll have to wait for later in the week.

Because I have more Kyle stuff to talk about. I know, I promised “not-so-teary-eyed” stuff. And this shouldn’t be. I just had to share, though.

This has been an interesting week – kind of a week between intense grief and grasping at normal. We started school again this week (Chloe, K5). Only another two weeks before we get to celebrate our “100 Day” in school. I can’t believe we’ve come this far after the year we’ve had. Chloe read several words out of our Bible this week – she was so excited about that! Now her children’s Bible has almost no interest to her. She’s doing so well. It seems she has wisdom and peace beyond her years – and has been such a comfort to us. Even during the Memorial service last weekend, she drew pictures on the programs we had printed for the guests.  If you look closely, you’ll see tears that she drew on our faces. She said these were “happy tears” though – because we “got to hold Kyle, and you were so happy you got to do that”.

Kami, though, has been struggling a bit more emotionally, it seems. She doesn’t want to go anywhere without one of us with her. To which we are happy to oblige. I’ll take all the kid-loving I can take right now. She talks about her brother all the time. She wants to go to Heaven. She asks “Is the flower place (the cemetery) Heaven?”

Our family is a one-car family, and she knows that if she wants to go anywhere to do something, it has to be on one of our 2 car days a week. Sometimes she forgets what days are which, so she always runs to the window to check and see if our car is in the driveway (which means it’s a car day for us) or if it’s gone (which means dad has it at work).

She checked outside the other day for the car, and saw it, and said, “Mommy! I just wanna take our red car and drive over seven mountains so I can get all the way up to Heaven and see Baby Kyle. Let’s go right now, please.”

Then there was the time that she said, tearfully, “Mommy, I didn’t get to give Baby Kyle a goodbye kiss and a hug.”

She was looking through my Bible at church this morning and flipped to the back where the various maps of the Holy Land in ancient times are located. She pointed to the full color images and said, “Mommy? Is this Heaven? I think it is. See the blue? That’s just the sky. And Heaven is behind it.”

Like Kami, Chris and I are trying to piece it all together in our minds, too. Sure, we’re surviving, kinda like our house. But we’ve never been closer. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything. But we’re also still hurting in our own ways.

Remember those lights I talked about awhile ago? We’re still getting them. And some of them are really bright.

We’re hearing from strangers all over who are being impacted by our son’s life. Really?  I had no idea 20 ounces of baby could make such a difference. But he is. And every time we hear from another dear hurting mother, or an OB nurse in another part of the country who is sharing our story with her patients, or we get another card or gift from a reader in the mail…it just lifts our spirits so much. (And thank you cards are coming – I promise!)

But the biggest light this week was from my doctor – the really awesome one who gave us all those ultrasounds whenever we wanted. We stopped by to see him Friday, just to check in and take him some pumpkin muffins. (Which, were awesome, btw. Those will be in a new post this week too. Seriously – no crumbs, because they were so moist, easy, delicious, not-to-sweet – maybe they’ll make it on pinterest…)

Anyway, he watched our video and wanted to show it to some of his doctor friends at a big meeting he has next month. Basically, he’s noticing that all of his patients who choose to carry their difficult and rather “doomed” pregnancies to their natural progression seem to fare immensely better emotionally afterwards then those who choose to terminate. (Note: I’m not saying here that our choice was one that was easy to make, or even the one that is always right in a situation like ours. It was just how God led us after several days of agonizing and praying over our options. For many women, this choice isn’t presented as an option.) He wants to get other doctors on board with him to make the choice to carry the pregnancy to term an option to their grieving mothers. And he wants to use Kyle’s story to help him do that?

I thought about the babies that my sweet Kyle’s memorial fund might help save in the next 32 months in South America. And those that perhaps now mothers might choose to save – who, even in light of yet another “incompatible with life” diagnosis, might have the same or greater impact our son is having. And the mothers who have lost before me, but have finally allowed themselves to grieve, and in turn, heal. Because our son, here on earth at least, wasn’t.

And when I think about those things, my day gets a bit brighter. My God seems a bit bigger. And my heart grows a bit warmer and stronger.

“Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things.” 

~ Ecclesiastes 11:5

My last letter to Kyle – and a special gift for you.

Dear Heavenly Father,

I just wanna tell you a couple of things about my little guy. You know everything there is to know about him – But I wanna still tell you anyway?

He loves sucking his thumb. I’m ok with that. I let my girls do that until they are around 4 or so. But you can let him do that as long as you want.

He loves kicking. I can only imagine how good he is at it now that both his legs will work well.

He was a snuggler. He’ll probably need a lot of hugs like his sister, Kami. He liked to smile, though, too. Whenever he ate. Another Kami-trait.

I have a lot of his milk in the freezer. I know You’ll make sure just the right tiny NICU baby receives it. I kinda hope it’s a boy that ends up with it.  And I hope his mama appreciates the love and warm tears that were sent with it. If my Kyle’s milk can keep another baby boy alive, though…Wow.

I love stars. I show his sisters the stars all the time. Maybe, if You end up making any more, You could let him help You?

Can you just tell him we miss him? A lot. Kami’s pretty upset that she didn’t get to give him “a goodbye kiss and a hug”.  So she kisses her Kyle bear quite a bit.

I got a new nephew yesterday. He’s cute. Like his aunt, of course.  I think I’ll kiss him twice every time I see him. Once for him and once for my baby boy. I can’t wait to kiss them both.

We love our Kyle. And a lot of other people do too. But because of him, a lot of people love You more. I know we do. So thank you.

Tomorrow’s Tuesday. For 20 weeks, I saw my baby every Tuesday. I won’t see him on Tuesdays anymore. And that makes Tuesdays really hard days for me here.  But I know You’ll carry me through Tuesday. And Wednesday. And the other days. Like you have the last 220 days (and all the ones before that). Thank you for not putting me down.

I’m so thankful to you for those days. I’m so thankful I could write him letters every week.  And, if I could write him another letter, it would simply say…

“Enjoy Heaven today, little guy. I know you’re well taken care of. And one day, I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to.  

I’ll see you again (not) soon (enough). Until then, know that I love you, and I always will. 

 XOXO,

Mom”

_______________________________

Below is the video we showed at Kyle’s Memorial Service this weekend. May it be a blessing to you as it was to all of us in attendance on Saturday. I appreciate you all so very much – and in a way, couldn’t have done this journey without your support and prayers. I’ll be blogging again – about not-so-teary-eyed things – starting next Monday, but will be taking the week off. May God bless this video, and you.

Our first week as a family of four.

We began the week with remembering our family as one of five.

The service was beautifully worshipful.

The girls were sweetly helpful. Big sisters. Taking care of their little brother’s special space.  And making him the most heartfelt and special of gifts to send to Heaven on the strings of 31 balloons. Each one representing a week of his precious life.

All this as we felt our family and closest friends circling around us with their arms, their prayers, and their hope. For us. In our God.

As we then looked forward to the birth of yet another baby boy in the coming days, we kept quietly to ourselves. Injecting as much happiness and joy into our girls’ lives as we could while we desperately craved some of our own. I learned something (again). It’s hard to think about Jesus and not feel joy.

We started the day with our Happy Birthday Jesus party. As we ate a breakfast given in love by a church friend. We ate a piece of joy that day. We continued with a bit of gifts. Celebrating the gift given to us. And were greeted with the most beautiful thankful hugs from our sweet girls. I don’t know how many other kids give “great big thank-you hugs” for pajamas. We drew pictures of heaven. And we tried delivering a piece of heaven. To a dear lady friend who was in the hospital from a very harsh gift – leukemia. Our four caroling voices certainly wouldn’t be called heavenly, but our hearts felt closer to Jesus and our Kyle.  It wasn’t quite the grandiose plans we had had in mind for our Christmas project this year. But it was just what I needed.

For those interested (and you, my praying friends, are certainly all invited), Kyle’s Memorial Service will be held on Saturday, January 5th, at 2PM. The location is Morningside Baptist Church.  We want this service to be a testimony of our son’s short life, but really of the amazing things God has done through it all. (And I promise, it will be incredible when you see what your prayers, gifts, and encouragement have done.) We won’t be wearing black. We’ll be in baby blue.

We have set up a memorial fund, in partnership with Compassion International, to help pregnant women and infants whose lives are at risk because of poverty and treatable illnesses in South America.  This fund will be used to support these women and babies by providing clean drinking water, basic prenatal and postnatal care and education, and basic food supplies to make breastfeeding their new infants possible, where infant formula is not an option. They will also hear of the love of Jesus. The love that made our little Kyle’s life possible. The love that’s making their little one’s life possible.

In lieu of flowers at the service, we are requesting that donations be made to the Kyle Rackley Memorial Fund. These donations can be made in a number of ways

* Through our special secure Memorial Fund Fundraiser link.  – Where you can also see how others’ generosity are going to further the cause of Christ. It’s exciting for us – when exciting is hard to come by. Come take a look.

* Through Paypal – send a personal gift to kylerackleymemorialfund@gmail.com.

* Through the mail at

The Kyle Rackley Memorial Fund
c/o Greenville Federal Credit Union
1501 Wade Hampton Blvd.
Greenville, SC 29609

* Keep up with where the money is going through Kyle’s special Memorial Facebook page.

Again, thank you for your grace. Your gifts of prayer, love, support – you all honored my son and brought joy to my heart more than you’ll ever know.

When Christmas isn’t bright.

When bad things happen…when tragedy strikes – whether expected, like in our case, or not, like in the case of those dear children in Connecticut…how do we do Christmas? Sometimes I wonder how I’m going to just breathe. Much less rehang those tiny baby shoes on the tree after bringing them home from the hospital. The only difference to them being that now they have an imprint of Kyle’s tiny feet on the bottom of them.

They’re still empty.

I see evidence of tragedies everywhere now.

An ICU room with a dear wife, mother, grandmother. Who doesn’t realize she’s missing her husband’s funeral because she’s still unconscious from the same accident.

An IV needle that will be administering the third dose of chemo to a dear husband, father, grandfather, great grandfather on Christmas Day in a cold hospital room for his two newly diagnosed inoperable brain tumors.

Smashed windows and hearts of a neighbor – who now has no Christmas gifts for her children. After she worked so desperately hard to provide them with just something happy.

Another mother’s agony in a different state whose sweet baby boy was born into heaven just a few days after mine. And the thoughts in her mind are, “I wonder if the cemetery will do a burial on Christmas Day?”

My filled-already freezer shelf of expressed breastmilk – because there’s no baby to drink it.

My heart hurts even more deeply. Because I know what the world is supposed to be. Perfect, pure, sinless, without pain. And one day it will be. But now it’s not.

And many of these people aren’t even thinking what onlookers are – “I can’t believe this is happening right at Christmas.” As if Christmas is really heavy on our minds. Or if our tragedy had happened at a different time of year, it would have been easier somehow. For many of us, it’s going to be another day to just breathe. To just put our feet on the floor and greet the day. To just try to see something, anything. Because the days seem so dark, black, empty.

I’ve noticed something though in my short lifetime.

The smallest of lights are the brightest in the darkest of rooms.

You just have to look for them. They are there. They are always there.

Flickering. The gentle tears of shared grief from a caring nurse. “I promise I’ll be more professional the next time I come in.”

Flashing. The light in my overflowing fridge (and countertops, and pantry, and freezer) from food gifts of friends who want to meet our deepest need, but can’t. So they provide for another one. I see it everytime I open that door.

Glistening. The shining tears of the cemetery representative. Not the one assigned to us. But another one. Who lost two of her own in the same way we lost Kyle. And asked if she could come to the service. Just to be a support. And her gloves. On that cold day when we laid Kyle to rest. “You take them today. I have pockets.”

Glowing. The handmade blankets, hats, cloth diapers – all given in love by friends, and even strangers. They make my heart warm. Many of them readers, followers, prayer warriors who didn’t even sign a name.

Sparkling. The little eyes on my two girls now. When they say, “Kyle is having fun in heaven today, Mommy, isn’t he?” I look so deeply into those diamonds now.

Shimmering. The soft touch of my sweet friend and doula who never seemed to stop the foot rubs during my long hours of labor. And her unwavering massage on the back of my neck as I passed my baby from my arms, to the ones of the funeral home stranger.

Dazzling. The glory my God is getting from my sweet baby boy’s life. Through his Memorial Fund – that will already because of so many people’s generosity, support a Child Survival Center for 11 1/2 months. Longer than my son was on this earth. I can’t imagine how many lives that will save – physically and eternally.

Through his graveside service – where every woman in attendance had lost a little baby – or babies – sometime during a pregnancy. We felt healing together.

Through the stories that keep coming in from all over the place of people being introduced to Christ because of my little boy’s story. And those being re-introduced.

This dazzling light keeps me from being able to see clearly or act normally because there’s so much of it. Or maybe perhaps it is helping me to see more clearly than I ever have.

Twinkling. The sweet thoughts of what my baby is doing afar off today. Feeling love without fear of pain. Glorying in God’s pure light with untainted motives. Dancing. Without my having to hold him.

Glimmering. It’s almost time to celebrate the coming of the baby boy that made the way for my baby boy to be where he is now. It’s hard for me to think about at times. But it’s sometimes faintly good for me to think about too. That baby boy was born to die, too.

My friend, look for the lights. They are there. And honestly, there are many more of them at Christmas than at any time of the year.

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.

- John 1

A beautiful birth to heaven from a labor of love.

So, the question is, are we still celebrating?

Honestly, the last several days have been full of the deepest grief and pain we have ever experienced.

But, it has also been full of some of the most beautiful moments we have ever been allowed to be a part of. This post is small piece of those beautifully painful moments.

There’s something about raw emotions. Where I live now, we don’t see many of them. Except maybe from my kids when the cookies are gone. Again.

But for some reason, the idea of being open and honest with pain and grief aren’t always witnessed or expressed. Not that this is necessarily wrong or bad. But sometimes it can give the false idea of someone being “okay” with something that they aren’t really okay with. In fact, they can be so desperately in pain in the innermost parts of their soul, and trying to suppress it only seems to make it worse. So in no particular order are my moments, Because way too many can relate. And so many of you want to try.

In the moments before he was born, my husband told a joke. In between contractions. In that small moment of time where there is no pain. But he didn’t finish until the tightening began again. I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t smile. But I gave him a wink. Apparently I attained “my-wife-is-my-hero” status again with that wink. I love making that man happy.

In the other moments before he was born, when the morphine I had taken to enjoy a little visit with my girls a few hours earlier was no longer working and had worn off, and yet, I was still saying no to the epidural, my pain level was intense, but I wanted it. I craved it. It was yet another memory I’d have of my sweet son in my body. And I knew it wouldn’t be long before he arrived. I wanted to deeply feel every moment. But I still kept the anesthesiologist in the room outside my bathroom door.

I delivered Kyle myself. In a tub of warm water. It wasn’t my plan. Well, actually it was my original plan way back when I got that first pregnancy test. Twelve months ago. Being pregnant for almost fourteen months gives you lots of time to think about what you want in a birth experience. And what I had was more beautiful than I could have imagined. I delivered him after 13 hours of laboring. Only 2 of those hours being so intense that I had to focus on breathing and relaxing and letting my body slowly bring my baby closer to my arms. He was born only a few contractions after my water broke. And I grabbed him myself. The doctor knew I was ok. He stood outside the room. It was me, my doula, and my husband. And my little boy. He was in my hands against my chest and I’ll never forget the feeling of his tiny head in my hands pressed close into my bosom. He was warm and when I finally opened my eyes, all I could see was his head full of dark black hair. Just like his sisters’. But I already knew it would be there. I had seen it two weeks ago.

There were no sounds. No one said a word. No one gasped. No one breathed. I didn’t even hear the clicks of my sister’s camera.

The only sound was my sobs. And perhaps a few tears from my support team.

My sweet boy never uttered a sound.

After several moments of pure silent bliss bouncing between complete happiness and painful despair, the doctor said, “I really need to make sure you’re ok. Let’s get you out of this tub and on the bed for a second.” I don’t remember much about that moment, except for the nurse laying down towels for me as I walked across the wooden floor. I carried my son. My husband was scared for me. But I wasn’t. I was so close to heaven. In fact the little body I was holding was just filled with a soul that had left for heaven not 36 hours before. I felt like I was on the front porch of heaven peering in the windows.

Natural birth is such a beautiful thing. Most beautiful in that as soon as the baby is delivered, the pain is completely gone. That makes the moment so much more perfect.

My body recovered without too much trouble. My doctor expressed his sincere condolences and said, “you take as much time as you need.”

It was a long time before I peeled back the blankets to see his tiny little face. His little eyes had opened. They were black as night. His little mouth was open – look down at the “O” key on your computer keyboard. That’s the size and shape it was. His tiny nose was so small I can’t compare it to anything more than perhaps the size of a little black bean. But it was perfect. His tiny fingers were everything i could have imagined. And those fingernails. Almost fully grown. And long. His fingers were beautifully long. He didn’t get that from me.

I slept with my sweet boy for an entire night. There was more blanket to hold than him. But the warmed blankets kept his tiny body from getting cold. And my tears and kisses kept his uncovered face from getting cold too quickly. But it still grew cold too quickly.

We played his music. Almost non stop. We spoke words to him. And at times we didn’t. I held his body that would have never been able to dance or walk or crawl. It only kicked. And I thought about him dancing and walking and crawling in heaven. At that very moment.

My sister took many of these beautiful photos. As painful as it was, she labored in love, to give me something money could never pay for.

I had another beautiful friend who labored over many footprints and handprints and clay molds of his tiny hands and feet for me to hold forever.

I held him again and just breathed. Happy moments to remember with my son.

Not more than 16 hours after my son arrived, I watched a stranger walk into my room. With one of my tender nurses. “The funeral home people have arrived.” She said as she let him in the room. I thought I’d have to sign papers. I’d have more time. But, no. Everything had already been taken care of. I passed my baby quietly to my husband who handed him to that gentle stranger.

When you’re giving your child his last kiss, where do you place it?

Do you watch him leave or don’t you?

Not more than 19 hours after my son was born was I being wheeled out of the hospital. Hands left painfully empty. That’s the second time I’ve been there. The first time though, I had a second chance to leave the hospital with full arms. Her name is Chloe.

Not more than 32 hours after Kyle was born, was I walking into a funeral home to sign release papers. I got to hold him again. He looked like an angel. It’s so difficult to see your son’s name at the top of a death certificate. Or the little blue and red flags waving in the rain and the wind marking your son’s spot. Generously given in love by another grieving mother. So that my son could be her son’s friend. Forever. Now we both feel a sense of comfort.

He had so many gifts. He was laid in his sweet little white casket on a fluffy white pillow surrounded by a tiny blue blanket. In a tiny blue and green crocheted hat – another labor of love from a stranger. In a beautiful white gown. Like what he’s wearing now. That gown was a love labor from a sweet friend – who stayed by my side from the minute I arrived at the hospital until just a few hours before I left. It was perfectly white. She stitched it with the tiniest blue and white smocking – and a robin’s egg blue ribbon on the sleeves. He wore the tiniest blue cloth diaper. The small safety pin was almost too big for it. And he only needed one pin. Yet another labor of love given by a stranger. I’d like to think diapers aren’t in heaven. It just messes up my idea of heaven. But if they are, they probably look like the one he has on now.

I saw him today. Just to make sure he was ok. To make sure his gown was straight. And his hat was on right. It’s so tiny. But it’s still too big. I didn’t want him to look like a smurf! So I went to see him. And I cried. It was the last time on earth I could be his mother.

I held him. I held his hand until it was warmed again. It was so cold. He’d been on ice overnight. We danced. I danced with my little boy. In the chapel. While the soft music played.

I prayed over him. With his dad. For a long time. Even though my God knew everything about my son before He arrived, I felt the need to tell God everything I knew about my son. And I did.

I kissed him one last time. On that tiny little nose.

And I walked out with my husband after we read a few passages from the little Bible on a side table in the chapel.

Preserve me, O God, for in you I take refuge.
I say to the Lord, “You are my Lord;
I have no good apart from you.”

I bless the Lord who gives me counsel;
in the night also my heart instructs me.

I have set the Lord always before me,

because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.

Therefore my heart is glad.

I blew my son a kiss goodbye.

And I walked out the door.

And I’m ok. Only because of God’s grace.

Tomorrow, I will bury my son in a quiet service filled with balloons, guitar music, lullabies, and my family. And I know that I will be ok. Because at this point, I know nothing else except to set the Lord before me, to keep him at my right hand. Because I wouldn’t survive being shaken.

So, am I celebrating? No. But, am I joyful. Tearfully, yes. And as scared as I was about my reaction to the events I knew were coming in my near future, my God did not fail me.

And He won’t fail you.

- Psalm 16

*************************************************************************************************************

And while tomorrow is a private service to mourn our loss, our open service to express our joy in the beautiful gift we were given is coming after the holidays. We will keep everyone updated.

We have also had many requests for those who would like to express their condolences in a tangible way. If this is something you are interested in, we have set up a memorial fund in our son’s honor. I’ll explain more about it in a later post, but for now, the info can be found here.

Celebrating Week 30!

Well, I’ll be honest – I didn’t think I’d be here writing about this week. Way back at the beginning of this journey? There’s no way on earth we were supposed to have this many Bonus Weeks and days with our little man, but yet, again, here we are. (He’s kicking the life out of my placenta right now while I’m typing this, even!) And here you are, still, praying, watching, following, supporting our journey for life. And for Kyle.

I try not to overstate it, but thank you. From all five of us Rackleys.

How far along? 30 weeks, 4 days.
Total weight gain/loss: + 25 lbs. (I’m so thankful for a little swelling relief from last week.
Maternity clothes? Those blessed jeans. (If I weren’t already married, I’d wear them to my own wedding I think.) And my new favorite dress. Although I’m doing a photo shoot next week in a formal (a non-maternity one) I wore 5 years ago. We’ll see how that goes.
Sleep: This was NOT the week for sleeping. Dealing with 5 different infections at once – the most painful being one that was untreatable – I spent many nighttime hours awake. Ashamedly, I didn’t handle this week with as much grace as I was given.
Best moment this week: Eating Whole Fruit popsicles. They took away the throat pain. (And, they’re only 70 calories! *searching for coupons on ebay now*…)

Movement: Yeah. I think he enjoys being small – he has a lot more space to move around.

Food cravings: I haven’t been able to eat much at all this week due to the throat pain – but mashed potatoes and salty grits have helped a lot. So did the homemade chicken soup my sweet mother in love brought me.

Anything making you queasy or sick: Cloraseptic. I. Can’t. Take. It. Can’t do “Magic mouthwash” either.
Have you started to show yet: Yep – but I can still see my feet. feels kinda odd to be almost 31 weeks and still seeing my toes.

Gender Predictions: Working on his other name.

Labor Signs: Nope. Swelling went back to normal. And my contractions all stopped. Thankfully.
Belly Button in or out? IN
Wedding rings on or off? Back on the right hand!
Happy or Moody most of the time: Sadly, I’ve been rather moody. And extremely discouraged.
Weekly Wisdom: Viruses stink. So do their secondary virus infections. And then their third-iary bacterial infections. But they always feel worst at night and best in the morning.

Milestones: Kyle is (hopefully!) bigger than 1 pound, 5 ounces. (I’ll get a new weight on him tomorrow.)

Exercise: Nope. But I’m off bedrest. Well, except for being as sick as a grinch at a Christmas cantata concert that lasts three hours and then has an after party. So, I guess I’m still on bedrest. Just not because of swelling or contractions.

Weekly Prayer Request: Just pray that I keep feeling better. I know I’ve complained a lot on facebook and in my text messages. But this week has been tough. It kinda seemed like the straw that broke this camel’s back. I picked up an adenovirus that left me with a throat so sore, 1500 mg of tylenol wouldn’t touch it. And cloraseptic kept the pain away for (literally, I counted!) 10 breaths. Then, the virus – that I’ve been told is a 1-2 week virus – spread to my eyes. So, viral pink eye. This means, those awesome eye drops that work in about a day? Well, they do if you have a bacterial pink eye. I don’t. So 3-5 days it is. I can’t even touch my girls. but when it spread to my other eye – now it’s bacterial. So on the drops for that eye I go. Then, this weekend, because of the stuff just sitting around in my nose and my sinuses – a sinus infection…and possibly an ear infection too. I’ll get that checked out tomorrow. My voice is completely gone – whisper at best. I know so many people have things so much worse than we do. And I certainly don’t wanna make light of that.

But seriously? I’m like a walking cartoon for speak no evil, see no evil, hear no evil. Or a miserable old female Grinch.

On that note, I do feel like I might be turning a corner – I even felt up to doing a little laundry and organizing Kyle’s little collection of gifts to take to the hospital last night while my family was at church. That was a big plus for sure. So thanks for your prayers. And the gifts. And the meals. And the notes to hang in there…and just for listening to this mama go on and on about how bad she feels. So yeah, even in the time it took to write this post, I feel better and better. So maybe the worst is behind me after all.

You all remind me that all is grace. And that it’s really not as bad as it seems. Because Kyle and I are still together. And he sure isn’t feeling sick. (“Stop that kicking! I’m trying to write, boy!”)

Hey buddy.

What a trooper you’ve been. Better than your mama for sure this week! You get that from your dad. He was my hero this week. He’s kinda my hero every week. But really this week, he showed quite a bit of “knight in shining armor” charm. I’m a lucky girl. And he didn’t complain. Unlike someone else in our house this week. (*ahem*) Because he is my greatest gift. Don’t get me wrong. I love you more than I ever thought I would at this point. (And no worries – you are definitely qualifying for “my smallest gift”.) And I love your sisters. But your dad…he’s my biggest grace. My biggest gift. I thought maybe I’d just tell you a bit about him.

We finally came to a decision on your birth plan this week – with all the doctors, who called all the nurses, who read all the words. Our instructions of what to do with you. And your tiny little body. In so many tiny details. And they all seem on board with it. Our hope is that you’ll stick around long enough to meet us. And if you do, we promise to give you the best moments of an entire lifetime we can. For one, this biggest gift of mine can’t wait to get his hands on you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes you laugh even.

Your dad isn’t a big one for whining. It’s not his favorite thing. But he does have quite a bit of compassion to go around when it’s needed. He showed it to me this week. He showed it to your sisters – they seem to whine about a few things from time to time. He’ll show that beautiful compassion to you if you dare cry in front of him. It usually works to calm everyone right down. Usually.

He loves basketball. And soccer. In fact, he’s convinced that, not only will he play soccer again like he did in high school (he was pretty good!), but he’ll also be able to fit into his high school soccer cleats. They’re still in our closet. You have a few outfits. None of them have carolina blue on them. Only duke blue is allowed in our house. And on his boy. He’s good at anything computers. He’s pretty much good at everything computers. And he loves surfing the internet. We don’t have any kind of cable in our house right now. Really because we don’t have much time for it. But he sure does know a lot about a lot of things – because he loves surfing the internet. He really wanted to teach you how to play video games. He has a couple of favorites. Of course, I’d probably try to hold him off on doing that for as long as I could. But I’m guessing that by the age of 3, you’d be the best Halo player on this side of the Mississippi.

He loves his girls. He knows how to treat us like princesses. In fact, he carries your sisters to bed most nights “like a princess”. I can’t tell you how many “sleeping beauty” kisses he’s had to give to some pretend sleepers on the couch. Your sisters want to marry him. Well, Kami does. But only if he’ll wear a fairy wing to the wedding. And Chloe might be changing her mind – now she kinda wants to marry the Nutcracker. But they’re out of luck. I got him. And I’d want you to be like him. Well, mostly like him.

You know, this week he grabbed my hand, as I was crying tears from pink eye, and coughing up an adenovirus, and whining about my throat – in unmatching pj’s covered in the last gallon of OJ I had drank for the day – ie, in my most unattractive state of our entire marriage, I’m sure…

He grabbed my hand and said, “Every time I pray, I pray for you.”

When I complained, and then had to apologize (for the seventieth times seventieth time in one day), he said, every time. “Babe, it’s ok. I’m so so sorry you’re going through all this. I just want you to be happy. I’m gonna do whatever I can to help you. You just think about resting.“

I hope you stick around long enough to meet your dad. Because I think he’ll say the same sorta things to you:

“Hey little guy. Every time I pray, I pray for you. I just want you to be happy. So you just think about resting.”

When he says that to you, I promise he means it.

I’ll see you soon. For now though – know that I love you another seven days’ worth! And I always will.

XOXO,

Mom

Photography from Christmas 2011 by Rebecca Cerasani Photography. (Pssst! That’s my awesome sister!)

Celebrating Week 29.

How far along? 29 weeks, 5 days. (sorry, I forgot my sign!)
Total weight gain/loss: + 27 lbs. (yep, you read that right…big jump this week – swelling issues, some higher than good amniotic fluid levels are to blame.)
Maternity clothes? My sweet husband snuck a few gifts under the tree this week – I got a new dress. I love love love it.
Sleep: Pretty good still.
Best moment this week: Seeing Kyle’s new little hairs on his head.

Movement: Yeah – all over the place – couldn’t even get a heartrate reading this week…he was a somersaulting guru.

Food cravings: Not really. But those peppermint milkshakes at Chik fil a? Dangerous. Oh and these looked really good to me. Not sure why.

Anything making you queasy or sick: Not really.
Have you started to show yet: Yep.

Gender Predictions: He’s definitely still a he.

Labor Signs: Not really – the contractions calmed down a bit, which was nice.
Belly Button in or out? IN
Wedding rings on or off? Still on…but getting tight (swelling, thus the weight gain…)
Happy or Moody most of the time: Rough week – roughest emotionally yet.
Weekly Wisdom: When you’re too scared to look at what you know lies ahead, you have to look above. You just have to. And keep trusting God to not let you trip and fall. Then, you can still find peace.

Milestones: Kyle is 1 pound, 5 ounces.

Exercise: Nope. In fact, I’m on a semi modified bed rest now.

Weekly Prayer Request: We have quite a few more meetings this week with more doctors and nursing staffs and pastors – and I’m exhausted.  And I still have pumpkins on my piano. I should get those off.

Hey there, Kyle man!

It was so wonderful to see you this week. You are getting hair – tiny little spots on the ultrasound around the base of your neck and the front of your forehead….it’ll be black for sure like your sisters. And you smiled at us. I’ve watched you smiling at me so many times this week. And your eyes – they’re going to open any day now – I can’t wait to see those little eyeballs! Today you were just kinda all over the place again. Like, it was circus time or something. You opened your right hand all the way today. And another 2 ounces? That’s awesome!

It’s Christmas time around here – your first one. The tree is gorgeous – your sisters did a fantastic job decorating it. From their eye level down. Your dad and I spread things out a bit once they went to bed every night. We want to give you a Christmas gift. It will be really special – but of course, you’ll have to wait til Christmas to get it.

We started advent this week – the girls love it. They love their ornaments to hang on our Jesse tree. And they love the candle we light every night. We might even find the time to make an advent spiral this week! And they love the stories of why we needed Christ to come in the first place. But they really love the M&M’s tucked into each box.

The girls and I visited a site for your grave this week. That was strangely peaceful.  A dear mom, who lost her sweet baby boy several long months ago wants you to be placed beside him. She said, “I just want him to have a friend.” I guess I do too. His brothers and sisters visit him often. And bring him gifts. He has a Pluto, and a Hot wheels car, and soon even, a little Christmas tree. I can only imagine your sisters will bring you similar gifts. Although most of them will probably be pink. And covered in lace. Sorry ’bout that.

You’d probably laugh at all the planning and preparation that’s being made for your little life. (And, praise God, it’s still a little life.) It is exhausting and overwhelming at times – like I’m planning for a massive wedding or something. But, that’s what you get when you got me as your mom. Your sisters get crazy planned birthday parties every year. And I’ve already had Kami’s planned since last June. (It’s still 4 1/2 months away.) I think it’s how I’m coping though. When you potentially could only have a few moments or a few hours with you, or even a few days – I want them to be the best they could be. We have an entire lifetime of memories to make with you in such a tiny fraction of a life time.

For now though, enjoy the few Christmas cookies you get now and then. (Maybe that’s why you’re doing backflips every 30 seconds these days.)

And thanks for letting me sleep. You’re just so much nicer than your sisters were.

And I’ll see you soon – for now, though, I’m going to sleep. You should too. But know that I love you, so much more than I thought I would at this point. And I always will.

XOXO,

Mom