he would be five

Another year has passed.

Another year with a hole in our family right between Liam and Simon. This hole is imperceptible to most -even those who know it exists- but, to me, it's gaping. This hole should contain a little boy whose birthday we would be celebrating today. A likely loud and crazy five year old to add to the already loud and crazy chaos that reigns here most days.

It's a Nathaniel-shaped hole.

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

Because Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day is October 15th each year, and the anniversary of Nathaniel's birth and death is October 19th, the middle of this month is always rather... emotionally charged. Even if I wanted to "forget" this day was coming, it would be impossible.

Not that I want to forget. THAT would be impossible.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Five years later, I can say that the sting of Nathaniel's death has gone out of my memories of him (hazy, dream-like images seen through the heavy fog of exhaustion and powerful anaesthetic drugs). The searing intensity of grief and loss has ebbed. The rawness is gone. The pain is still there, but it's more of an ache. A dull roar rather than a piercing scream that tears through my heart without any warning. A throbbing that lies below the surface, always present, but now covered over by the experiences and life lived over the last five years... including the addition of two life-filled little boys and the anticipation of the newest member of our family. 

But it is hard not to wonder what our life would be like with him still in it... what HE would be like.

An almost-black-haired little boy with eyes that would have likely turned some shade of brown, like Andrews. I'm sure that, like Liam and Simon, he'd love all things Lego and Star Wars and Clone Wars and Bionicles, and would gravitate towards heros like Indiana Jones and Iron Man and knights and soldiers and super heros. I know he would laugh at America's Funniest Home Videos and Garfield comics and Wipeout along with his brothers.

I wonder if he'd sit quietly and spellbound during our readings of The Hobbit or The Chronicles of Narnia like his older brother, Liam, or if he'd squirm in his bed like his two younger brothers. I wonder if he'd prefer soccer or hockey. If he'd have allergies like Simon and Andrew, or be able to eat anything like Liam. If he'd be reading on his own yet, or riding a bike without training wheels. I wonder what his personality would be like. What would be his strengths and weaknesses? What kind of brother would he be? What kind of son?

I do know that he would be loved.

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

Somewhere today, that sweet boy who I will have to wait my lifetime to know is celebrating his fifth birthday with his cousin, Lachlan, and with his grandpa, my dad. He is perfect and whole and healthy and happy. He is being toasted by angels and sung to by family and friends who have passed before. He is surrounded by love and light and the glory of God. 

And he is loved.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

For those of you who are new(ish) to this blog, here is the video we played at Nathaniel's service. For those who've been reading for awhile, no obligation to watch it again. I know it's not a "fun" thing to watch. It is, however, almost all we have. The little box of mementos from the hospital -his bracelets, copies of his hand and foot prints, the comb we used to brush his hair, the tiny preemie sleeper we dressed him in- all those things are thousands of miles away in a storage facility in Ottawa. And his little grave is next to his cousin's in Regina.

And so we watch his video and experience again the wonder of his birth, the pain of his loss, and the love we will always feel for our sweet boy, Nathaniel Achaziah Bundy.      

the post that *I thought* I'd already posted Sunday night... oops.

Growing up, Easter was a time of egg decorating, horribly frilly, lacy, itching, non-tomboy-friendly new pretty dresses (*hi, mom!*), pastel coloured everything, pretty baskets full of that shiny plastic fake straw stuff that would be loaded with eggs, chocolates and small presents (we'd often get new kites) during our Easter egg hunt, eating ham and scalloped potatoes, and -of course- going to church. There was a huge city-wide Good Friday service (held in one of the biggest auditoriums in the city) that was organized in part by the Salvation Army. It was always PACKED with people in a scary-for-little-girls-kind-of-way, and it always seemed sooooo looooooong. Sunday morning we'd head to church for the Easter service.

As an adolescent/young adult, some things changed while others stayed the same. The Good Friday service remained a big part of the weekend, although I preferred some of the smaller, darker, more intimate services I attended. Eggs were still decorated and hunted most years, although there were new sets of little hands to do the work. And always there was ham and potatoes. 

The church my family attended since the 70's was the one my parents attended until my dad's death in 2008. Sadly, the church died the same year that he did... sad, but also kind of fitting. Even though the church shrank in size with each passing year until only a handful remained, there was no place I would have rather be on Easter morning. At that church, Good Friday meant preparing and serving a huge meal at a local soup kitchen, with my dad at the helm. Easter Sunday started bright and early with a sunrise service in a park not far from our church, followed by a pot luck breakfast at some of the members' house nearby, then another short, simple service at the church.

(I just went back and re-read my blog entry from this time last year and am now typing through tears.) 

Below is my description of those services:

Sunday morning was always a scramble to get everyone out of bed, dressed, bundled up and out the door for the sunrise service in the park. Every year on the same little hill. A small group of believers, most of whom had known each other for years, huddled in the often FREEZING chill air to celebrate our risen Lord. A group that maybe didn't know everyone else's secrets, but who knew each other well enough to know how much they were each loved.

The love and the joy of being together on Easter morning was clear in each shining, shivering face. Gathered there together, we would listen as the story of that first Easter morning was retold.

And we would sing.

My dad had a lovely, strong baritone voice.

When I think of those sunrise Easter services on that little hill in the park, I can still hear his voice ringing out above the rest.

My dad loved Easter.

I don't know if it's something particular to western Canada, but at every church I ever attended Easter also meant being greeted with "He is risen!" which was always met with a chorus of "He is risen indeed!". Last year during our first Easter here in Gatineau, I really missed that.  It didn't quite seem like Easter without it. As I readied myself for church this Easter morning, thinking about how different Easter is now -out here, without my dad- I was feeling sad. I bit pouty. Near tears.


Not too celebratory.


And so, when a friend at church -a man who towers a good foot above me and outweighs me by about 80lbs- came and wrapped his big arms around me with a deep, rumbling "He is RISEN!", I felt the strong, loving arms of my Lord and felt the sweet joy of knowing I am loved. Without my saying a word, He knew my heart and knew I was hurting. And later during the services, when the worship team sang Hillsong's At the Cross (although in french) -the same song that we used in the video tribute to my dad- it was just another gentle reminder...

I am loved. And that Love was made real in the cross of Christ.

I am loved.

I'm going to post the At the Cross videos (in both languages) for anyone who isn't familiar with the song. It really is worth a listen. Before that though, here are some of the lyrics. Because I get shivers when I read them...

At the Cross

Oh Lord You've searched me
You know my ways
Even when I fail You
I know You love me

Your holy presence
Surrounding me
In every season
I know You love me
I know You love me

Chorus
At the cross I bow my knee
Where Your blood was shed for me
There's no greater love than this
You have overcome the grave
Your Glory fills the highest place
What can separate me now?

English


French

this is going to be hard

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. We aren't Catholic, but Peter and I have often given up something for Lent. Not under threat of mortal sin, like in the good ol' days of the Inquisition, but more out of a desire to participate in some sort of a lead up to Easter. For us, observation of Lent is a choice, not an obligation. In years passed, we've given up TV (ouch!.. and impossible during the Olympics... we love the Olympics), various items of food or drink, meals on specific days, etc. This year, however, will be a bit different. For me at least.

Last night, I decided what I would give up for Lent... my much beloved social networking. For me, that means Twitter, Facebook*, and reading blogs. I will miss my blog reader VERY. MUCH. But part of Lent is to abstain from something in order to use that time/money/energy to grow closer to God.

Wikipedia includes this description of Lent: 

There are traditionally forty days in Lent which are marked by fasting, both from foods and festivities, and by other acts of penance. The three traditional practices to be taken up with renewed vigour during Lent are prayer (justice towards God), fasting (justice towards self), and almsgiving (justice towards neighbour). Today, some people give up a vice of theirs, add something that will bring them closer to God, and often give the time or money spent doing that to charitable purposes or organizations.

This year, my "fasting" will be in regards to my internet use. I feel slightly hesitant about this (especially the ban on blog reading) since I know that many of you come here everyday and I feel selfish not reciprocating. It will be a huge stretch to get out of the habit of checking my blog reader every morning. It will mean missing Lynn's next 6-7 pies, not hearing about Charlie's EEG results (although I'd love an email if you get the chance, Tia), missing out on all the great info/writing/pictures over at the Mothership and the Fishbowl, swooning over Kym's amazing pros, and not being able to keep up with the goings on of so many more of my favourite bloggers... who I can't link to because just going to the blogs of those last five has taken over 20 minutes BECAUSE I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL and couldn't help reading. I am weak.

In regards to the renewed vigour for prayer, I plan to read Contemplating the Cross: A 40 Day Pilgrimage of Prayer by Tricia McCary Rhodes. I've tried to do this in years passed, but life with little boys has gotten in the way. I'm considering reading it aloud to Liam, although I'm not sure how he will handle the descriptions of the whipping and the actual crucifixion... he might do better with an abridged version.

I hope to accomplish the focus on our neighbour by having a few new families over for meals, which does not quite emphasize social justice as much as I'd like, but it's something that we've fallen out of doing since Christmas. I also have an idea of something I could do with my photography in order to raise some money for Haiti. More on that later.

So anyone else giving up something for Lent? Anyone other than Peter doubt I can stay away from Twitter and blogs until April 4th?? Good grief that's a long time! 

I'll miss you, my tweeps and bloggy friends! See you in the Spring!

*The exception I'm making for Facebook is that I've just started a Fan Page for Muddy Boots Photography. I don't want to just drop off the face of the earth on that one. So I'll be checking my fan page and my inbox, but the challenge will be to stay away from my main FB wall. If you haven't already, feel free to become a fan.

ETA: Just to clarify, I'm not giving up the internet entirely. That'd be just, well, impossible. I use the internet for too many things: email, banking, checking the weather, reading the news, finding recipes, homeschool stuff, and answers to other various questions from the mundane to finding the meaning of life, the universe and everything**. Plus we use Skype to talk to our family in western Canada, the States and Egypt. Skype is, duh, over the internet. There's just no way I could give it up. It's more the highly enjoyable yet time-sucking-black-hole of social media sites that I will be fasting from. One day down. (le sigh)


**extra points if you caught the Douglas Adams reference. 

broadsided

Last night before bed, I decided to look back to see what I'd blogged on Nathaniel's birthday last year. It turns out we didn't do much to celebrate or otherwise mark the day. The boys and I had just returned from a visit to Regina, getting in at 1:30am, so we hung out at home as a family and played in the leaves.

When I crawled into bed last night (much too late as usual, but this time due to a certain 9 month old who decided that he'd rather cry from midnight til 1am rather than sleep), I was still thinking about last year and trying to decide what we would do this year when it hit me...

That trip was the last time I saw my dad alive.

I did talk to him many times between that day and his death, but that was the last time I saw him. It's been A WHOLE YEAR since I looked in his eyes. A YEAR since I hugged him. A YEAR since I looked him in the eyes and told him I loved him. And as that realization hit me last night, I felt... it's hard to explain. My head felt heavy and my chest ached. I felt dizzy and a bit out of breath. Sometimes I'm still taken aback at what a physical response we can have to emotional pain. I. Miss. My. Dad.

The night before we left Regina  was also the night of my dad's first kidney dialysis treatment. After months of me saying that my dad was being over medicated, he was finally transferred to a doctor WHO AGREED. He discontinued half a dozen meds and arranged for the dialysis to help flush out  the medication and toxins that had been building up for most of a year (if not longer). I remember walking into the room with my mom half an hour or so into the treatment, to find my dad with his eyes open, alert, and responsive. Talkative even! This was amazing. For weeks he'd been sleeping all the time, not able to hold a conversation, barely even able to keep his eyes open long enough to answer a simple yes or no question.

During the hours we spent with my dad that night, my mom and I were able to ask him some of the questions  that he hadn't been able to answer in the weeks prior. There were so many decisions that had to be made in regards to his care, many of which my family was collectively feeling the burden of having to make without knowing his wishes. He still wasn't ready or willing to discuss funeral arrangements or anything to do with a memorial service, so we didn't push that matter.

I remember so badly wanting to ask him about death. I needed to know how he felt. Was he scared? Did he still stubbornly refuse to even consider the fact that he might, in fact, be dying? Had this last year, with its multiple surgeries, infections, pain, loss of dignity, etc, etc, ETC, changed his faith? What where his thoughts on God? Standing by his bed, trying unsuccessfully to make the words come -willing them to ask themselves- my mouth and mind refused to cooperate. It was one of those moments like in a dream, where you try to talk or scream but can't. The words wouldn't come. When I was finally able to choke down the lump in my throat, I managed to ask him whether he'd been thinking much about death and his response was a clear and articulate, "I'm not afraid to die." And when asked about his illness and God, my dad responded, "God doesn't change, and my illness doesn't change anything."

* * * * * * * * *


I'm not sure why I feel so compelled to share this part of my dad's story on this, what would be my baby's fourth birthday. Partly I think it's due to being able to see Nathaniel's birthday from a long way off. As early as the summer months, I see it coming. June holds the memories of all the initial testing we had done and the news of the Trisomy 18 diagnosis. With July (which always seems to go too fast) comes the knowledge that August is quickly followed by September, and once September hits, it is impossible to ignore October close on its heels. It doesn't sneak up on me anymore.

But this whole thing about not having seen my dad FOR A WHOLE YEAR, well it came out of nowhere. These two great losses -the loss of my dad and my son- have come together in a not exactly pleasant kind of way. Grief has a way of compounding. Compounding in a way that those who have not experienced wave after wave of intense, crushing pain that are the result of a great loss can ever truly understand.

So this year, thoughts of my should-be-four-year-old boy are entwined closely with memories of my died-too-soon father. I hope it doesn't sound too contrived to say that I am who I am, in part, because of theoe two. My relationship with them and the loss of them profoundly shaped and changed me. I am so proud to be my father's daughter. I am so proud to be Nathaniel's mum.

I hope they are proud of me.

From Mourning to Dancing: Part V

(apologies in advance for the funky paragraph spacing)


From Mourning to Dancing: Part IV

Sept 16th, 2005

We  met with an obstetrician this week to discuss the option of early induction around 37 weeks.  We feel that this will give us the best chance to meet Nathaniel alive, while also making it possible for our families to make the necessary arrangements to be with us. 

To be honest, the meeting was quite frustrating. Beyond frustrating, actually. The doctor didn’t have a problem with my being induced early, but when we started discussing the option/possibility of needing a c-section, she was less in agreement with us. Basically, we want the whole labor and delivery treated like a normal pregnancy -like any other pregnancy- up to and including them performing a c-section if Nathaniel is showing signs of distress. But from their point of view, they figure there’s no point putting the mother at risk (since it IS major surgery) when the baby isn’t going to live anyways. They see only risks without benefit. For us, the benefit of having even a few minutes with Nathaniel would be worth the risk!

What really upset me was the doctor listing risk after risk AFTER RISK associated with a c-section. Not only that, but she made some comment about, "What would happen to your other little boy at home if something were to go wrong?" 

What am I supposed to say to that??!

If it were a healthy pregnancy, but the baby was, say, breech, she'd be playing down the risks and assuring us that they do thousands of c-sections each year! She certainly wouldn't be trying to scare/guilt me out of it. 

We really just need for the doctors to be understanding and helpful in making the best out of this situation, and that they’d understand and respect our wishes. After going back and forth for quite awhile, I think we finally got through to her. At least I hope so...

The problem is that she’s one of about eleven or twelve obstetricians who are on call at the hospital. So our efforts to make her see our side may all have been in vain if she's not the one on call that night. I have this fear of being on the table in the delivery room, with Nathaniel’s heart rate dropping, having to argue and plead for some strange doctor to give our little boy the same chance they would give any other boy.

Our greatest hope and prayer and the thing that keeps me up crying long into the night is that we be given some time (any time!) with Nathaniel to hold him, meet him, and tell him how loved he is. The obstetrician reminded us several times how the majority of babies with Trisomy 18 undergo “fetal demise” (which was certainly not news to us, nor was it helpful!), and we just really don’t want that to be the case – especially after carrying him for this long.

* * * * * * * * * *

We’ve just found out that Peter’s parents (who are missionaries in Africa) will be able to be in town from Oct 17^th til the end of the month. As long as I don’t go into labor early (which is a real risk with my amniotic fluid levels continuing to increase), we plan on my being induced around Oct 18^th or 19^th so that they’ll be able to be with us and meet Nathaniel. We’re so thankful that it’s going to work out for them to be here! Being able to somewhat schedule things will mean that my family will be able to be here from Regina too. What a gift.

* * * * * * * * * *


Peter and I are currently trying to decide where we want to have Nathaniel buried. We're in Calgary right now, but know that it is a temporary situation while Peter is in school. But Regina is so far away. Not having done this before, we don't really know how much -or even if!- we're going to want to visit the grave site. Burying him in Regina would make frequent visits impossible. However, we know we won't be living in Calgary forever and I get ill at the thought of flying away for the last time and knowing that he's being left behind. Then I remind myself that it won't be him. Are we even going to want to visit a place that will do nothing but make us think of his little decaying body lying in the cold ground? Will we find comfort there?

We just don't know.


(AND HOW SURREAL TO BE PLANNING BURIAL ARRANGEMENTS INSTEAD OF A BABY SHOWER.)

* * * * * * * * * *


After finishing up the last few hours I need in order to be eligible for maternity benefits (thanks to crossing the picket lines at Telus -I know, I'm a scab... my apologies for having things on my mind other than Union squabbles- and thanks to Peter's sister, Sara, being in town to spoil babysit Liam ), I am now off work and able to enjoy these last few weeks of being pregnant, trying to make things as fun and normal as possible for Liam. 

Speaking of which, we’re potty training right now BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH ON MY PLATE. Actually he’s doing great and it’s turning out to be much easier than I thought it would be. We'll see what happens when his life gets flipped upside down...


Liam is such a joy for Peter and me through all this. He pointed at my stomach the other day and said, “Too, TOO big Mummy”. He refers to my stomach as the “BIG tummy” and his own as the “Little tummy”. How can we not smile when around him? Nothing brings me out of the depths of my grief more quickly than his shining face.


* * * * * * * * * *

Looking back, it’s hard to believe that the summer is basically over and Nathaniel will be here in less than a month. I’m sure these last four weeks will go by much faster than I’d really like. While part of me is relieved by the thought of not being pregnant anymore (and being able to get off the couch without help!), it’s also bitter sweet to think that this will all be over soon. 

Most births are a beginning, but this story will end before it really starts.

we grieve with hope

This week in October is always a hard one for me. I wait for it each year, anticipating it's arrival, yet it always sneaks up on me.

October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and four days later, October 19th, is the anniversary of Nathaniel's birth. And his death. He would be four years old this year.

For those of you who may be new to this blog, our second son, Nathaniel, had a rare chromosomal abnormality called Trisomy 18 (or Edward's syndrome). We chose to carry him to term, knowing full well that his condition was "incompatible with life" and being told at each turn that he would very likely die in utero prior to birth. Except that he didn't. We were blessed with two hours with him... although it wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

When I started writing his story, without formally thinking it or saying it out loud, I kind of/sort of/really hoped to have it done by his birthday. So that I could post on his birthday about his birth day. But unless I do absolutely nothing in the next four days other than write -and unless I write such long posts that likely no one would be interested in reading them- I don't think it's going to happen.

And I'm a little disappointed. In myself. Like I let him down.

I know that that's silly, and that it's about me, not him. Nonetheless, I wish I'd worked more diligently to finish his story on time. But when I ask myself who I'm writing his story for and why I'm writing it, I have to admit that (while I'd love it if you would all take the time to read it) in as much as it is "Nathaniel's story", it's my story too, and I write it for myself and for these other little beings who call me "mom". So that one day they'll be able to read about their brother, and also begin to understand who I was then and how that experience changed me.

How Nathaniel changed me.

It is a story of loss and pain and grief, but also of hope. So I remember him tonight on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day as I remember him everyday. I am thankful for the oh so brief time we were given with him, and I am thankful for the hope.

From Mourning to Dancing: Part III

From Mourning to Dancing: Part II

August 31st, 2005

Many doctors appointments and ultrasounds later, minutes began to feel like hours and days like weeks. It all felt so surreal. Like a dream. Time stood still as it whizzed passed.

One of the ultrasounds was actually an echocardiogram, to take a closer look at the heart. Originally ordered after the initial u/s (the one showing a possible hole in the heart), it was canceled after the Trisomy 18 diagnosis. Canceled. Without checking with us. This was the first of what would be many instance of the medical community giving up on our son. Why probe further when the outcome will be the same? Why waste time and resources on a baby who is essentially already dead??

From the beginning it was clear that most doctors had very little -if any- experience with babies with Trisomy 18. What they knew, they had learned in textbooks. Textbooks that told them that these babies had NO CHANCE of life. Textbooks that instructed them to advise their patients to terminate. When most parents are faced with a list of defects as long as their arm (as we were) and the doctor -the PROFESSIONAL- sitting across from them is describing their baby in a way that makes them afraid to see it, many of them do choose to terminate, which leads to even fewer instances of real-life, practical experience with Trisomy 18.

We weren't prepared to give up that easily.

When I learned that the echocardiogram had been canceled, I called the office and made it clear that we wanted all of the tests available in order to be fully prepared for our son's birth. They agreed and rebooked for a few weeks later. The echo wasn't terribly useful in telling us anything we didn't already know (he had a small VSD (Ventrical Septal Defect), but it was not big enough to even require surgery in an otherwise healthy child), however it did afford us another chance to see our son and to meet with the perinatologist -as biased as he was against continuing with the pregnancy- and ask a few more questions.

Regarding the baby's heart defect and kidney problems, the doctor was clear that neither of those issues would be our son's cause of death. Neither were fatal. I remember sitting there looking at my hands in my lap and repeated asking, "Well what will he die of then?". The doctor, kind and calm but obviously slightly exasperated, kept going back to the Trisomy 18.

"He has Trisomy 18."

You see, most of the stories we had read were of babies who had complications in addition to and because of the Trisomy 18. Serious complications. They were missing organs, their esophagus wasn't connected to their stomach, they had spina bifida, their organs were growing in their umbilical cord... serious stuff. Stuff that, clearly, was fatal. You could easily see that a baby can't live with ___________ (fill in the blank with one of a plethora of problems).

But our baby, although measuring small, didn't have any of these serious complications. So why would he die? WHY??

"He has Trisomy 18. Trisomy 18 is incompatible with life. He will died from having Trisomy 18."

We struggled to wrap our heads around this. If everything worked, why was our baby going to die?

* * * * * * * * * *

Around this time, I also started to get big. And by big, I mean HUGE. According to the ultrasounds, I had 50% more amniotic fluid that was normal. This polyhydramnios (excess amniotic fluid) is common in pregnancies with T18 babies. Although our baby was barely in the 10th percentile, I was measuring 5 weeks ahead of where I should have been. While all the extra room was likely lovely for the baby, it made me very, VERY uncomfortable. At 29 weeks, I was almost as big as I was at full term with Liam. The polyhydramnios also put me at an increased risk for preterm labour and other possible complications, both before and during labour.

It also increased my anxiety. We worried it would affect our chances of seeing our boy alive.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was around this time that we also decided on a name for our unborn son. We chose his names based on their meanings. We chose Nathaniel for his first name, which means "God has given, or gift from God", and we chose the name hebrew name, Achaziah for his middle name, which means "God has taken".

Nathaniel Achaziah.

Job 1:21-22 says,

²¹He said,
"Naked I came from my mother's womb,
And naked I shall return there
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away.
Blessed be the name of the LORD."
²²Through all this Job did not sin nor did he blame God.

Nathaniel's name was a reference to these verses. Together his name means "God has given and God has taken." Even though we didn't understand the how and whys of our present circumstance, we chose to recognize God's sovereignty in our lives and the life of our son. Our decision to carry Nathaniel to term was based on our belief that it is God only who has the right to decide when our son would die. Nathaniel was a gift from God. He knew how the story would end.

We didn't.

From Mourning to Dancing: Part IV

From Mourning to Dancing - part II

Part I

With the Trisomy 18 diagnosis confirmed, we decided that the easiest way to let people know would be a mass email. A pretty impersonal way to find out news of that magnitude, but we knew we were not up to re-telling the story dozens of times and having to exlpain the details over and over. The term "incompatible with life" was still ringing in our ears. We didn't want to have to repeat it at nauseum.

The response from our family and friends was overwhelming. We received emails from all corners of the globe, from friends we'd lost touch with, and from people we'd never even met., but who had somehow heard our new. Many people included poems, scriptures, or verses from songs, the majority of which went unread. The news was much too fresh and our emotions were much too raw for any of it to be helpful at the time.

We spent most of our spare time researching and reading. I joined a support forum for families dealing with a Trisomy 18 diagnosis. Much of my time there was spent reading of the experiences of other families. Other families who had lost babies. I read their stories, looked at their pictures, and cried.

Sometimes it felt like I did nothing but cry.

* * * * * * * * *

After doing almost unending reading online, talking, and really searching our hearts we knew what we were going to do. We knew that we'd never be able to end the pregnancy early. It might have been easier in some ways, but we knew it wouldn't make the pain any more bearable.

The option of induction and ending the pregnancy early was tempting, thinking I'd somehow save myself some pain by not really having a chance to bond with the baby. Because if I could convince myself that I hadn't already bonded with him, that he hadn't already become a part of the very fiber of my being, that he hadn't already taken over every tiny crack and crevice of my heart, and that I hadn't already planned an entire future in which he was an integral part of our family, well it wouldn't hurt so much. Right?

But we knew how much we already loved him. Once it was said and felt, it couldn't be taken back. We still wanted to meet him and see him and hold him. We decided to do everything possible to love our baby while he was still inside of me and for as much time as we'd be given with him once he was born.

While clicking through the archives and galleries of the Trisomy 18 Support site, I found myself focusing on the stories of the babies who had lived for at least a short time after birth. I didn't want anything to do with the stories of babies who had miscarried, or died in utero or during birth. I couldn't handle the thought of that happening to us. Our biggest hope was for time.

* * * * * * * * *

In Romans chapter 8, it talks about the Spirit interceding for us in groans too deep for words.

Groans too deep for words.

That so perfectly describes my state, my heart, my depth of grief at that time (and for a long time afterward, but I don't want to get ahead of myself). It was near impossible for me to pray. I'd get as far as "Heavenly Father, please..." before dissolving into tears and wracking sobs.

Thankfully, even though my words wouldn't come, I knew that those who loved us were praying. When pressed for specifics, these were our requests:
- that I would be able to carry our son to term or as long as possible to give him the best possible chance
- that I wouldn't go into early labor
- that he would be born alive (!)
- that we would have at least a few days with him, even being able to bring him home with us
- that we would be able to plan this all in a way that would allow for our family to be with us when he's born - to meet him, hold him, and help us celebrate his life.

The difficulty in planning something like this was that most Trisomy 18 babies don't survive pregnancy. There's a high risk of them dying in utero. Initially we hoped for a scheduled induction or c-section (more risky for me, but it would have given the baby a better chance, as labour -induced or occurring naturally- would be very stressful for his heart) around the 37-38 week mark. Scheduling the birthday was especially important for Peter's brothers,spread out in the States, his parents as far away as Egypt, and his sister possibly in Spain. Having missed the chance to hold our nephew, Lachlan, when he was born, I knew personally how important this was.

* * * * * * * * *

One of the worst things during this period was the constant uncertainty. Only three days after receiving the diagnosis, I found myself constantly worrying about whether he was still alive. And would he be with me tomorrow? The upside was that I was able to truly enjoy and cherish each little flutter of movement. He was quite active (even at only 20 weeks!), although that made the situation that much more unbelieveable. He seemed so healthy and active.

In those early weeks, we really stuggled over the lack of control that we had over the whole situation. You know the Serenity Prayer? "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference." Well, we couldn't accept what was happening OR change it. We were stuck. It all seemed surreal. We hadn't quite come to terms with it (likely never will), but we were slowly able to accepted that we had no power to change it. We were determined to enjoy the pregnancy as much as possible since it might be all the time we would be given (at least we decided to be determined. At some point...).

It became clear though that being sad and depressed all the time was not helping me or the baby. I had not been sleeping much, had next to no appetite, and could hardly keep down what I did manage to eat. At that point, it was not longer morning sickness - it was the stress of it all. So I decided to (try to) control what I could, and resolved to be happy and healthy for my baby's sake. That was easier said than done however.

If I wasn't playing with Liam and trying to hold it together for his sake, I was crying. So Liam, our little just-turn-two year old ball of energy, sunshine and happiness, quickly became Peter and my sole focus. He was already the center of our little world, but he became (quite seriously) all that kept us going.

I clearly remember sitting with Peter on the stairs to our backyard deck, watching Liam play with the pool we had set up for the summer. He was throwing toys and sand into the newly filled pool, but, as it was only a few days after the diagnosis, we didn't care near enough to stop him. Peter and I were both lost in our own thoughts when Peter said, "If it wasn't for Liam, I'd go drown myself in that pool." I knew he was serious.

Some of you might be taken aback by that, but I wasn't. Not at the time. Not when I felt as awful as he did. But I wasn't worried, because I also knew exactly how he felt about Liam, how much he loved that little boy, and how that love would keep him going.

It was keeping me going, too.

P.S. I Google "Serenity Prayer" to be sure I was quoting it properly. It's obviously been a long time since I've seen the entire prayer (even though it was hanging in my parent's staircase since, oh, TIME BEGAN), and I was blown away by the prayer in its entirety. I'll post it here for all your benefit. It's lovely.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

--Reinhold Niebuhr

Part III

From Mourning to Dancing - part 1

I first read about Stellan many months ago. I forget now how I stumbled onto My Charming Kids, but I was quickly taken in by MckMama's cute kids, her stunning photography and her faith, especially in the midst of what was happening to her baby. And again this week, the blogosphere, twitter and Facebook are being flooded with requests for prayer for Stellan.

This little boy and his little heart have been through so much. He's eight months old, only a little older than Andrew. I'm constantly checking Jennifer's Twitter feed for updates, hoping for good news and at the same time fearing that I might be following this sweet babe's final days.

Yesterday morning, I found myself thinking of Stellan almost constantly. And almost every thought of this little boy (who really I don't know at all) leads to thoughts of a little boy I do know. The little boy that I lost.

I can't help but whisper, "Heaven doesn't need any more babies."

Ever since I added the pictures of all my boys to the side bar, I've been thinking of sharing the story of my second-born. It's still hard when I'm asked, "How many kids to you have?". To say four then requires an awkward explanation, which in turn leads to even more awkwardness on the part of the questioner. But the easier response, "Three", makes me feel like I'm denying him.

I've sort of felt the same way here on my blog. I've shared his video, but not the whole story. I don't want to feel like I'm denying him here. I'm proud that he is my son! Poor boy doesn't get much play on the ol' blog though, so it's time to rectify the situation.

At the risk of people thinking that I'm somehow trying to capitalize on Stellan's story (which I'm TOTALLY NOT. I've been crying over little Stellan and praying for strength and peace for his parents -peace that passes understanding, peace that defies understanding, peace that-is-in-no-way-related-to-understanding because you just can't understand a situation like this), but the truth is that thinking of one little boy naturally leads my thoughts to another little boy. One who I've been really wanting to share with you... my son Nathaniel.

Part 1 - The Diagnosis, June 2005

After six months of trying, Peter and I found out in early March that we were expecting our second baby Nov 9th, 2005. Despite all the morning sickness (it's quite clear to me that it was a man WHO HAD NEVER BEEN PREGNANT came up with the term "morning" sickness ), we were thrilled by the prospect of a baby brother or sister for Liam.

I had my first ultrasound Monday, June 13th, in the evening just before going into work for the night. Although she began my appointment chipper and almost annoyingly cheerful, her tone changed dramatically by the end of the scan. She had spent what seemed to me an exceptionally long time examining one particular area, taking measurements and writing notes. Even though she'd turned the screen away from me, I could crane my neck around just enough to see what it was she was looking at.

On the screen was my unborn baby's little head. Even though I am not an ultrasound technician, I could tell that something wasn't quite right. I couldn't remember what Liam's head looked by ultrasound during my pregnancy with him, but this baby's brain seemed to be divided into four unequally circles, black in the middle with a small rim of white.

After finishing her measurements, the technician left the room saying that she needed to consul with one of the clinic's doctors. When she returned she told me several times to call my doctor as soon as possible to discuss the results, but wouldn't explain what she'd seen or if there might be a problem. Even though the U/S technician didn't say anything decisive, she certainly didn't leave us believing that everything was fine. Everything was clearly not fine.

Was there a problem with our baby?

We left the office and I headed to work. I tried to stay calm, but was completely unable to push back the mounting fear. Without anyone there to check me, my mind raced through every possibility, each worse than the rest. By the time I got to work, I was sick to my stomach and fighting back tears.

Even though Peter tried his best to reassure me that everything would be fine, it was an awfully long night. Awful.

The next morning I called my doctor as soon as the office opened only to be told the results wouldn't be in UNTIL FRIDAY. We already knew that something was likely wrong or at least abnormal with our ultrasound, and now I was being told we would have to wait FOUR MORE DAYS before we would find out the results. I called back later in tears, blubbering and sobbing to the poor receptionist, and told her I couldn't wait that long. I just couldn't. I needed to know what was going on. The reception was very sweet and told me she'd see what she could do. Bless her, she called back about an hour later with a twelve o'clock appointment for me. It was nice to know we'd soon have some answers, but then I started to worry even more. They wouldn't have made the extra effort and gone to the trouble to rush things if there wasn't something wrong, would they? It seemed even more likely now that something really was wrong.

A problem with our baby.

I picked Peter up from work and we went to the appointment together. When we finally met with our doctor, he told us that there were several anomalies consistent with Down Syndrome: choroid plexus cysts (cysts on the glands in the brain that normally produce the fluid surrounding the brain), shortened femurs, and a very thick nuchal neck fold (over 9mm instead of under 5mm). I'd declined all the prenatal blood screening, not thinking it necessary as we had no risk factors or markers for, well, anything. Young, healthy, didn't drink, smoke or do drugs, no medical history of any complications or issues, diseases or illnesses. Our doctor explained that these markers on their own would not be cause for concern, but together the painted a rather different picture.

I sat there on that crinkly paper covered exam table, hardly able to take it in what the doctor was telling us. Never did I imagine I'd be sitting in a doctors' office hearing news like that. The part of me that was even able to register how I was feeling knew without a doubt that if I started crying, I wouldn't be able to stop. Peter was sitting next to me and I could see him nodding his head to indicate to the doctor that he understood, but I couldn't make myself turn and look him in the eyes. I was able to keep my voice mostly steady while we asked a few questions, and the doctor recommended an amniocentesis as the next step if we wanted a concrete diagnosis, which we accepted. There was no way I could endure the remainder of the pregnancy without knowing. The amnio was scheduled for the following week, June 21st.

It was an awful week to endure. There was absolutely no way we could look at the situation in a good light. It seemed like all our dreams for our family and this baby were gone. We read about Down Syndrome, researching and visiting DS parenting forums. But even reading all the accounts of how DS kids bless and brightened their families' lives did nothing to comfort us. For us, this news was nothing short of tragic. We were heartbroken. The option of terminating the pregnancy was discussed (it had to be put out there), but was immediately dismissed. We could never live with ourselves. We even talked about putting the baby up for adoption, but really only because we felt we had to discuss all of the options. We knew that adoption wouldn't be an option for us either. The mere thought of it made us feel sick and selfish and cowardly.

This was our baby.

It was tempting to try to distance myself from the baby. To try to tell myself that it would be better to end the pregnancy early rather than have a child who would be so terribly limited in what he or she could do. I pictured Liam running around with a group of boys playing soccer. Running behind them, trying desperately to keep up was another little boy whose face I couldn't quite see. I couldn't see his face, but I could easily imagine a life of being left out and left behind and pushed aside. It was not the life I wanted for my child.

This was not the baby I'd been dreaming of.

June 21st we arrived at the Southern Alberta Maternal - Fetal Medicine Clinic (just the name sounded scary!) just before 9:30am. We were expecting to just have the amnio done, which I'd been told would take about 15 minutes. First though, we met with a nurse who documented my prenatal history. Then they did another complete ultrasound ( a Level II U/S) of the baby from head to toe. The technician was great and took loads of pictures of the baby, a baby who, to us, looked completely normal and healthy and lovely. When she was through, she went out and talked to the perinatologist who then came and wanted to look at some things for himself. He spent extra time on the heart and, strangely, the baby's hands.

When he was through, we sat down together to discuss his findings. Right away he started explaining that all of the characteristics were consistent with Trisomy 18. We stopped him and asked if the baby had Down Syndrome (Trisomy 21). He answered with a definitive no. We were so relieved! I remember smiling and thinking, "It's not Down Syndrome!" He then proceeded to explain Trisomy 18...

(Both Trisomy 21 (Down Syndrome) and Trisomy 18 (Edwards Syndrome) occur when a baby has three chromosomes in either the 21st or 18th position. The risk of having a child with Downs, for my age group, was only 1:1300 live births. Trisomy 18 is the second most common trisomy after Downs. It occurs in about 1:5000 live births, though it's estimated that the frequency among miscarried babies is one hundred times these numbers. Do I sound like a dictionary? I've often felt like one.)

After our meeting with the perinatologist, it was discovered that we were not, in fact, scheduled for an amniocentesis like we'd thought. Thankfully, the doctor was able to fit us in and performed one that afternoon. The amnio was much more painful than I thought it would be (ie. it was excruciating. The doctor figured he hit a nerve on the way in. Nice. I will NEVER forget the feeling as that needle pierced my uterus.) We were told that the full report could take between two and three weeks, but they'd be able to give us preliminary results by that Friday (using a FISH (Fluorescence In Situ Hybridization) test that uses some sort of probe or light to count only chromosomes 13, 18, and 21 which are the most common trisomies).

Without even seeing the results, however, the perinatologist had little doubt that our baby did have Trisomy 18. As he looked through his notes, he began to describe the findings. The biggest red flag for him was the fact that our baby would not open his hands throughout the scan. They remained clenched the entire time. He then went on to paraphrase the other markers he'd seen on the ultrasound:
- small, spread out eyes
- large skull
- very small lower jar
- small, low-set eyes
- short legs and arms
- etc, etc, etc.

Really, he made our baby sound like a malformed little monster. He made us question whether or not we even wanted to see him. How hard would it be to see an obviously sick baby? Are those the images we wanted to carry with us?

As we sat in his small office considering the mountain of abnormalities it seemed our baby already had, the doctor mentioned that he could call the hospital that day and schedule us for an induction. An abortion.

I remember thinking, "WHOA. Hold on a minute! The results aren't even back! We've just heard about this Trisomy 18 for the first time and you're already asking us if we want to end it all??" Even though we'd pondered that same option only the week prior, having someone else suggest it put me immediately on the defense.

This is my baby!

We politely yet firmly declined his offer and explained that we needed time. We also let him know that we were definitely leaning towards carrying the baby to term, in spite of the diagnosis.

After the amnio, we took a break for lunch (and found A $60 PARKING TICKET on our car window since we thought we were only there for a 15 minute proceedure and then completely lost track of time, what with finding out our baby was seriously ill and all. Nothing like getting kicked when you're down, eh) and then met with one of the genetic counselors. Her name was Jennifer and she was kind and informative and great at answering all of our questions and discussing all the possible outcomes and options whether the test came back positive or negative for Trisomy 18. Even with a negative result, the baby would still face a myriad of problems.

Here is a copy of the results from the level II ultrasound:

Multiple fetal anomalies are noted:

Brachycephaly is present with a "strawberry" shaped skull.

The CSP are not identified during the exam. (I think that's a part of the brain that they normally measure the nuchal fold from. The doctor said it just wasn't there.)

The nuchal fold appears mildly thickened, consistent with her prior exam.

The nose is small and the nasal bone is hypo plastic.

There is micrognathia. (which I figured out means a small jaw)

The orbits appear small and are widely spaced, suspicious for hypertelorism.

There is flow across the interventricular septum suspicious for a VSD. The cardiac outflows appear normal (this means there's a hole in the heart)

Both hands remain clenched with the second fingers overlapping the third and the fifth overlapping the fourth. The thumbs remain inwardly fixed with the fingers.

Fetal choroid plexus cysts are noted.

The observed femur length is less than 90% of the expected.

The fetal humerus length is less than 90% of expected.

Both kidney are echogenic though normal in size (this means they showed up white on the U/S when normally only really dense things like bone show up white)

Both heels are prominent.

I didn't understand half of what the report contained, and it was probably just as well at that point. What we did understand (or could figure out with the help of Google) was that even without the chromosomal abnormality, our baby still had a hole in its heart, kidneys that didn't work properly, cysts in its brain, and bits of its brain that were missing.

Thankfully we didn't have to wait two to three weeks for the final results -which would have been shere torture!- as the geneticist called the following day. My heart pounded as I answered the phone and heard Jennifer's voice on the other end. Apparently, one of the lab technicians had insomnia and decided to go into the lab and work all night, meaning our results came back in less than 24 hours (that's what you'd call small mercies). The results were positive for Trisomy 18.

Our baby had Trisomy 18.

What I haven't explained up til now is that, unlike Down Syndrome, Trisomy 18 is fatal. The term we heard several times during our day at the clinic was "not compatible with life." Not. Compatible. With. Life. Most babies die before birth, rarely surviving pregnancy. Those who do make it to birth typically only live a few minutes, hours, or a few days. Less than 10% (of those who even survive pregnancy) live to celebrate their first birthday.

Truth be told, we were pretty numb to the news. We were so cried out from the week prior. We'd spent all our tears and anger and sadness and frustration on something that we didn't think could possible get any worse (than Down Syndrome) only to find out that it could get worse and it did. That night, Peter and I both seemed to feel nothing. Just empty and numb. It took several days to digest and really understand what it all meant.

Not compatible with life.

Our baby was going to die.

Here is part of the email we sent out to our family and friend, sharing with them this devastating news,

It's pointless to think of how unfair this is. How our family (my family) has already been through so much. How we've already had to bury Heather's baby. Part of me would like to end it all right now and not prolong this pain. To get on with our lives and our family. But then I think that going through another twenty weeks of this pregnancy -even with all the pain and heartache and grief and uncertainty- will be worth it if we're able to spend even a few minutes with this baby. After all, he's still our baby.

We love him.

Oh yeah, it's a boy. The little brother we always dreamed of for Liam. The one who was supposed to be a best friend and playmate for Liam, like Peter was for Tim.

We'd so appreciate your prayers for us over the next few weeks and months.

We're having a hard time praying ourselves.

Amy (for Peter and Liam)

Part II

more lazy talk

Yesterday at church, our pastor called everyone to the front of the sanctuary. I could go into a five point sermon here, but will simply say that he wanted us all to pray together - for ourselves, for each other, and specifically for our city and the province of Quebec.

As Peter and I knelt there along with everyone else, I realized that I wasn't praying. I was waiting for Pastor Martin or someone else to pray.

Is it that, after so many years of asking and having those close to me pray FOR me, I've just gotten lazy (I use that word a lot around here, eh)? Or has the pain that lead to me needing prayer in the first place made it too difficult to pray? It's not that I don't believe in God, and in His existence. I think it comes down to me not trusting Him.

You might be wondering how I can believe in God, but not find Him trustworthy? Well, He's let me down too many times.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this...

Last week, Sara shared her testimony (or birth story, an idea that I love) over at her blog. It got me wondering when was the last time I'd sat down at wrote my story.

It's been a while.

Years.

LOTS has happened.

So I've decided to give myself a bit of homework. I'm going to write out my story. All of it. The good and the bad (there's loads of both). I'm also going to volunteer to share at one of the next women's breakfasts at our church.

I'll share it here too... maybe.

Yikes.

Don't expect anything today or even this week. I'm sure this bit of homework will take a bit out of me to write and, in my attempts to make it perfect, will take several edits and revisions.

I'll keep you posted.

"...but I have overcome the world"

I read a blog post yesterday that was exactly what I needed to read. Here's what really struck me,

...I welled up with tears of helplessness and doubt.

The doubt was never about whether God was powerful or in control. It was always about whether He was good. So today, when I heard from my sister [...]I cried helplessly again about His goodness; and I wondered where it could possibly be.

But this is what I am learning. I am learning that our Heavenly Father protects us from the dangers that are real. He worries over the destruction of our souls, the separation from Him, the eternal dangers that so many of us ignore like naive little children.

But He does not protect us from the living of the bad dreams and from feeling we are lost. He whispers to us through our pain that there is a life beyond the present suffering. He sits silently with us in our anguish--in the nightmares so real and heavy and terrifying, the ones that we cannot escape or blink away. He reminds us that the seemingly endless grief is but a moment that will fade in the vast expanse of the Life to come.

He promises, There is Goodness. There is More. But it is not often in this suffering world that we find it.

I think that maybe this is really where my struggles lay... in seeing and believing in the goodness of God.

So when I said the other day that the only options were that God didn't exist, or that He did exist but didn't care to help and save, I was wrong. The other option is this: He exists and cares enough to save us from that which we really need saving from. From self-destruction and hopelessness and sin.

THAT is His promise.

Through all of the suffering and hardships and disappointments that my family has endured, my dad was firm in his in faith in the sovereignty of God. It's somewhat ironic to me that when I miss my dad the most -and when I question and doubt God the most- is when I'm always brought back to my dad's words prior to his first brain surgery a year ago... that our trials and problems don't diminish the promises of God or change who He is. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end.

I'm going to end this post with a copy of a poem that my dad wrote, and that was printed on the back of the program at his funeral service:

Rising from bended knee, my Lord grasped my shoulders and, looking deep into my eyes, declared that the years of despair were over. Turning me, in order to look beyond the crowd, I saw...

...I saw my mission field. And I knew that the arm still on my shoulder would never be removed. It was time to work.

"But I have been so weak." I protested. "I am unable."

Yet even as I spoke this protest, I knew that my weakness was swallowed up in His perfect strength.

"But I have been unfaithful in the small things", I continued in my fear. "I am unworthy to be given more."

It was then that a deep sense of eternal Truths converged in my soul, and faith became defined, not in terms of an exit door from troubles, but as a mirror that reflects only two images: me- small, weak, and afraid; and the all-consuming presence of God, my refuge. No problem or surroundings can find its way to the surface of the mirror - all it reflects is me and God!

Faithfulness is not dependent upon how I deal with my circumstances, but on seeing only God.

~ Bill Russell, written 7/29/93

A bit of a departure from yesterday's post, eh?

Welcome to my world.

in this world you will have sorrow

This post has been building in me for a few weeks now. Usually I think about it while I'm driving which isn't really condusive to getting my thoughts down "on paper".

I'm still struggling with many aspects of my dad's death. I hardly even know where to start! I think that death in general makes people question their own life and faith and beliefs, even moreso when it's an unexpected death. My dad's death is really making me re-evaluate my faith, even more than after Nathaniel's death when my emotions were just way too raw to do anything other than get through the day.

I really don't think this is a bad thing. Introspection is good. I'm hoping that by putting some of it down and getting it out it will speed up the process. We'll see.

I find myself really struggling with doubt lately. I'm not sure if it's doubt in the existance of God, or doubt in His love (for me in particular) or perhaps a combination. Either God doesn't exist, or He does BUT DIDN'T DO ANYTHING. See, if God exists and is omnipotent, then He's the only one who could've healed my dad (or at least let them discover what was going on soon enough that I could be there to say goodbye). And I do -I think- believe that God exists.

So why didn't He heal dad?

Was it because of a lack of faith? My dad believed right til his very last few hours that he would be fine. Even once he accepted what was to come, he was steadfast in his belief that God continued to be true to His promises, and that He had not and would not abandon him. My dad was faithful til the end.

Was it us, his family and friends, who lacked faith? Didn't we pray often enough or hard enough? I know that we certainly didn't pray that his small intestine wouldn't die and poison him! How could we when we didn't know that was going on? No one knew. So how can we be held accountable for those omissions in prayer??

Was there some lesson we needed to learn out of his death? If so, I'm really tired of learning lessons through suffering. I think I've suffered enough... maybe I'm just really thick skulled.

I know that my dad believed (and was even working on a book about) how there is nothing that we can add or subtract from God. He is 100% perfect and able to do all and everything that needs to be done. But here's where I start to stumble.

The Bible says not to worry about tomorrow, that God will provide and care for us, that God loves us, that He is our loving Heavenly Father who wants to bless us, etc, etc. Now that I'm a parent, I know what it is to love your child. I know what it's like to sit helplessly by and NOT BE ABLE to take away your child's hurt. I know that in those instances, I'd do ANYTHING IN MY POWER to comfort and care for them.

Well if God exists, then there's nothing that's NOT in His power to do! So why doesn't HE DO IT??

Clearly, God can not keep every Christian from dying or keep anything bad from happening to any of them. I know that the Bible also says that in this world WE WILL have sorrow. It's not even so much the FACT of my dad's death that troubles me, it's so many of the details. From all the surgeries and daily struggles of this past year, to his last few months being mostly out of it in the hospital not even able to make the most of that time with his family and his grandsons, to the end coming so quickly -in a matter of hours!- that I wasn't able to be with him.

I'm trying not to let this be all about me, but I really can't get passed this bit. Why couldn't they have found out what was going on sooner? Even the day before?? In that time I could've been on a plane and by his side. Even if the final outcome and all the other timing had been exactly the same... to be with him would've made all the difference for me.

This one detail, this one thing, should've been SO EASY for God to arrange... if God exists.

I feel like I'm talking myself in circles. Likely this is why it's taken me this long to try to write it all down. I don't feel like I'm making any sense.

I guess I'm just hurting still.

I miss my dad.

So when I hear people talk about others who have been healed or recovered from life-threathening illnesses, or even just people praising God for his goodness, if find myself either rolling my eyes or fighting back tears.

And I'm not really sure where to go from here.

I do know I'll get passed it. I'll survive. I've done it before.

I'm pretty sure that this post lack flow and a clear direction, but I'm not going to bother editting it. Sorry internets.