Empty

This evening after work, Pete and I were tidying up the house. There were some random boxes that had been sitting at the top of the steps for awhile now and we finally decided to get to it today. How is it that the attic feels like miles away? It seems like so much work to pull down the attic ladder and lug boxes up there. That’s funny to me.

Anyways, I ventured up the narrow pull-down stairs and Peter carefully handed me all the bins. I had gone up there totally without thinking of the piles of baby things that were in black bags up there. It really hadn’t crossed my mind until I got my bearings up there and out of my peripheral vision, I spotted the sea of bags. The sight of them knocked the wind out of me. Honestly, it was like I couldn’t breathe. And I was surprised by how this all affected me. It caught me off guard and I didn’t feel ready for yet another wave of sadness.

When we packed up Charlotte’s nursery over a month ago now, Peter and I placed all the organized bags of baby things in the back of the attic. The bags are back a ways, tucked back if you will. Each bag is labeled and all the items are categorized but at the end of the day, it’s still a pile of trash bags. I hate it. It feels like such a waste to me. But Peter reminds me that those pretty things will go to lots of good use one day and I know he’s right. I just hate it right now.

I contemplated if I’d go over to the grouping of bags or not. It felt a little more safe to look at it all from afar but given I was already up in our attic, I thought I might as well fully embrace it. I went back and forth in my mind. Finally, I chose to walk over there. I shimmied myself over the ductwork and found myself stuck in the middle of all the baby things we had thought would be somewhere very different right now.

I started to sob. The tears wouldn’t stop. And then I found myself on my knees. I brushed my hand over the plastic bags, trying to feel what was inside each. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to be reminded that this loss was real. Life is going on but the loss of our daughter, Charlotte, is as real as ever – it’s not going anywhere.

When I was on the ground on my knees in my attic, I kept thinking how we had so much stuff yet didn’t have her. The lacking is so painful. It hurts. My arms feel so EMPTY. I feel burdened with this emptiness. While up there, I muttered in my tears, “This is so wrong!”  I prayed to Jesus for His comfort. I told Him how much pain I was feeling. And He reminded me that He allows me to feel and it’s okay. He was with me.

I then moped down the attic stairs and told Peter how desperately sad I was. He held me. And lovingly listened. I then read Tear Soup by Pat Schwiebert & Chuck Deklyen. A sweet friend had recently mailed me this book. I had read this book before; however, I never read it through my bereaved perspective. It’s such a reassuring read. I cried as I read about crying. It was kind of comical. But not, too. Grief is like that – such a mixed bag. As I read the book, these little confetti hearts fell out of the pages. This friend of mine had placed little paper heart cut-outs. It was so touching and thoughtful to me.

Like my friend, Megan, had told me when we met up for the first time after Charlotte died, Jesus loves me! I was telling Megan how much I love Charlotte and saying how much I know God loves Charlotte too and then she said, “And God loves you!” That really struck me. God loves me? Really? Yes – REALLY!

Sometimes, the fact that Jesus loves me sounds so rudimentary. It’s like I get use to it. But the glorious truth that God loves me and loves you is the most powerful statement out there! Jesus, keep washing that truth over me. Thank You that You love me, that You love Peter, that You love Charlotte – that You love the world. Those little hearts kept reminding me how much Jesus loves me and is for me. There’s nothing like it.

 

 

 

Seasons

During my time off from work, I started taking Annie to a park near our place. It’s this huge, open chunk of the forest by a gorgeous reservoir in the middle of suburbia. I love it there. It’s become one of my happy places.

One of my favorite parts of going there is letting Annie off leash. Our backyard is great but it’s not like she can just run and run there. At the park, she weaves through the trees and travels deep into the woods but I can always hear the jingle of her collar. She gets to gallivant through the twists and turns of the woods, chasing squirrels and exploring the terrain. I love that for her. It’s like what dogs were made to do. Run free! There’s just something about watching her through the camouflaging of the greenery with the sun peeking through the shade of leaves that makes me glad. I think it’s because I feel like she is doing what she was made to do (in addition to love on us, of course, which she also does so well).

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For us humans, I feel like worshipping God is what we were made for. Countless times in the Bible, God exhorts His people to praise Him, to bring Him glory. Sometimes, when walking through the woods, these church bells start to play. It’s the craziest thing. I don’t know where they come from, but the hymns travel over the water and resound through the trees. It’s happened twice now and each time, I stop and just lift my hands. It’s me and the Lord in His awesome creation and He plays me a song. He’s so big, so loving.

But, I don’t mean only worshipping God through song but also through our everyday living. I remember at the end of Charlotte’s memorial, I was talking to someone very dear to me and to Charlotte. She told me she grew up in the Presbyterian Church, as did I. She reminded me of the Westminister Shorter Catechism; this states that the chief end of man is to glory God and enjoy Him forever. Now, that’s worship. Then, she continued in saying that Charlotte did this! She brought and keeps bringing God glory. That comforts me.

Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad;
    let the sea resound, and all that is in it.
Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them;
    let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.
Let all creation rejoice before the Lord, for he comes,
    he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
    and the peoples in his faithfulness. Psalm 96:11-13

 When I walk the trails with Annie, sometimes I think, sometimes I don’t. Other times, I’ll pray, and sometimes, I won’t. Sometimes my mind wonders, other times, it doesn’t. This one morning, it did. I was thinking about what it’s like to grieve my daughter, really grieve her. The journey feels daunting. Life feels long. I started thinking about how when I first started walking these unknown trails with Annie, the trek seemed quite long. Not knowing the path ahead made the time feel longer, almost drag. I was a bit nervous even of getting lost. But, as I kept coming to the park and I kept walking the trails, getting more familiar with them, the time went by much faster. I identified landmarks along the way that helped me feel more comfortable. Occasionally, when I would venture into new offshoots of the trail, I’d get uneasy. But then, I’d keep going and what was unknown eventually became known.
I think grief is a little bit like this. Analogies help me make some sense of this whole process. Grief is such a journey and has its own seasons. Seasons are inevitable. You know each of the four seasons is going to eventually come, right? However, you don’t know the intensity or necessarily the duration of each season. Similarly, grief is predictably unpredictable. I know I’m going to have times of being sad, other times of being angry, sometimes confused, fearful, and sometimes, fine -and all in one day. But I also know that as I keep bringing every season into the strong and reassuring arms of Jesus, the grief doesn’t go away but it becomes redeemed. Jesus speaks His life to me and reminds me that Charlotte is safe, and more alive and well than I’ll ever be before encountering my Savior.
I was thinking about all of this while crunching over the leaves in the park another afternoon with Annie. As the leaves were starting to change and I was watching them fall to the ground, I thought, too, how seasons are not only inevitable, they are also sensory and visual. Those yellow and brown leaves weren’t there a few days before. I now was having to bundle up a bit more for the walk. When winter comes along, I’ll see the snow and feel the tip of my nose get all chilly and red. When the anniversary of her death comes, and it will, Peter and I will feel a whole new set of emotions, I’m sure. When other kids come, and I trust they will, we’ll miss Charlotte in a different way. Holidays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and the list in my head goes on and on…
Not to get ahead of myself too much here, but I am realizing how change is not an option on this side of heaven. But, I pray that by walking through the trails and trials of the loss of our little girl, we will be changed to look more like Jesus. Walking is intentional, one foot in front of the other, literally one step and one day at a time. Those sayings seemed more cliche to me until now. Oddly enough, I was watching TV one morning before I went back to work and this car commercial came on and said something like, “What good is change if it doesn’t make you better.” I was like, wow, that’s so true. Jesus, keep changing and making me and Peter more like You.
Not only in grief, but through every season of life, I’m continuing to see how much we need buddies to walk the paths with. As silly as it may seem, I like that my sweet pup walks with me. I also like when my husband joins me for a walk or run through the park. I’m seeing too that there are times I have to walk through grieving alone, wrestling it out with just me and God, leaning on Him, trusting Him. And that’s the thing, He’s always there with me. Jesus always walks beside His kids. Thank you, Jesus, for never leaving my side. You are always good, always faithful, always there.

 

Our New Normal

When people ask me how I’m doing, the only word I can seem to find is: “Okay.” It’s not that what happened to our daughter is okay. It is wrong. It’s not like our life will ever be the same. And how could it be? I don’t ever want to be the same after losing a part of myself. But, Peter and I really are doing okay. The Lord has never left our side.

A week after Charlotte died, I remember this specific conversation Peter and I had. Peter had taken that week off. Like I said in a previous blog, it was a sacred week for the two of us. We slept in, cried, ran errands, did house projects, prayed. While talking, he said, “This past week has been the hardest week of my life.” I thought that was the end of his sentence but he proceeded with the smile of a father, concluding, “But it’s also been the proudest week of my life.”

Dichotomy has been a word I keep thinking about. Peter was pained yet proud. There are moments of extreme grief mixed with confident hope. One minute I am crying and the next, singing. It’s funny like that. My mom and I were talking about this sentiment and I said, “Grief is weird.” It really is. I don’t mean that insensitively. I simply mean grief is unpredictable and raw. It is one day at a time, a lifelong journey I am sure. Like Megan said to my mother-in-law at Charlotte’s memorial, “This will be a journey for them.” It is and that’s comforting and heart-wrenching all at once.

Because of the living power of Jesus, I am far from hopeless! I am a broken, wrecked woman. But He is my great reward. As Paul explains, God brings beauty from ashes:

“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.

We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed” ( 2 Corinthians 4:7-9 NLT ).

Peter and I have such assurance in Jesus. We know now more then ever that we don’t know what tomorrow holds. But we know Jesus holds it all.

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A reassuring sunrise that Peter captured the morning Charlotte was delivered. 8.23.2016

As my Poppa Knabe said to me and Peter on the phone the morning of Charlotte’s memorial, “The sun will come up again. You know where she is and she is safe.  We have hope, faith, & trust. But it’s just hard to do.”

Six-Week Follow Up

Today was my six-week follow up appointment with Dr. Denney. I pushed myself to walk through those hospital doors. Frankly, it sucked. But there is something about doing hard things throughout this experience. A loving lady at our small group, after hearing our news, kindly said, “We have this saying in our house: We can do hard.” As believers in the One who conquered the grave, we can do hard! There is an odd, rewarding aspect of checking off a challenging task.

Pete and I have talked about this, especially as it related to when we went into the funeral home after having Charlotte’s earthly body cremated. The pain was wrenching. I can’t even put it into words. But there was something healing about going through that experience together. In faith, when I choose to fully walk through my grief, though I did not choose this path, there is healing.

At today’s appointment, Dr. Denney was therapeutic for me. She told me that at this point, it is unlikely that we will ever know how/why Charlotte died, at least medically. Everything was coming back negative. The placenta pathology didn’t show anything, there was no known issue with the cord and the preliminary report of sweet Charlotte’s autopsy was answerless. Dr. Denney expressed how she longed to give me some sort of answer but that she will walk this journey with me. Despite the agony of the unknown, there is peace from people simply being with us through this.

For me, the most comforting people to talk to are those who don’t try and say something neat and tidy but rather just be with me and welcome any emotion I bring to the table. When I hear, “I am just so sorry. There are no words. I am here,” I feel loved. And that’s what my doctor did for me today. She was Jesus for me today.

Though my time with Dr. Denney went well, I was obviously devastated. Unintentionally, some people at the hospital had said things like, “How’s your baby?” Not to mention, just being back at the hospital was hard for me. So, I left there in tears. Talking about Charlotte medically and in the place I delivered her, stirs me up. By the time I reached the parking lot attendant, my eyes must have been beet red because she said to me, “Honey, you look sad. What’s wrong?” I couldn’t get anything out except, “I’m just sad.” And then this complete stranger said with assurance, “Just pray.” Her courage and vulnerability to recognize my tears and not simply take my money and open the gate in monotony struck me. God uses all things to minister to His children.

I called Peter and he came home from work early to be with me. I loved that. For the first time since Charlotte passed away, I felt the urge to go through all of the things we had collected since leaving the hospital (her blankets, ultrasounds, footprints, handprints, pictures of her after she was born, countless cards …). Out of love, Peter kindly said, “You sure you want to do that now, Han?” I replied, “Yep, I’m sure.” So, I carefully took each piece out and laid them all out on our bed. I cried holding the blanket they wrapped her in. I re-read some cards and God comforted me in new ways.

One card that fell through to my attention was in a blank envelope. Curious, I opened it and it was from Megan. Megan is married to one of Peter’s co-workers. They lost their daughter, Emily, in a very similar way to how we lost our Charlotte. God gave me Megan. She and her husband came to Charlotte’s memorial and she has sent me such sweet texts and grabbed coffee with me. She’s just been with me. It’s like Peter and I are now apart of this super sucky club that we never imagined being a part of. But in all of it, He keeps showing us that we are known and that He is with us always.

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The stack of cards we’ve received. I’ve kept each one. They mean the world.

I read Megan’s card again. In it, she shared that after Emily died, a dear friend told her and her husband “that she knows no words can take away our tears and she wouldn’t want to because our tears are our outward expression of our extreme love for our daughter.” In my tears today, Jesus knew I needed to read Megan’s letter. He also knew I needed to read about this revelation of Hope:

Revelation 21:3-5 NIV
And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”

September 15th

Today was the day the doctors told me my Charlotte was “suppose” to be born. But that didn’t happen. This day was meant to be different. Instead, today is the 23rd day after I delivered my sweet Charlotte, who had already been born into heaven, immediately into the presence of God. So, today, Pete worked from home, I rearranged a bookshelf, made lunch, ran errands, cleaned up the house, read sympathy cards, received a bouquet of flowers from kind co-workers, and cried…a lot. These co-workers from my previous job knew the situation but were unaware that the 15th was Charlotte’s due date. No detail is too insignificant for my God. He sent me flowers that day.

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After awhile, I gathered up my favorites of all the bouquets. I thought they all looked pretty together.

Sometimes I wrestle with the “what ifs” and “would have beens.” I don’t think it’s healthy to go there too much but I know it can be apart of the grieving process. Charlotte never got to nurse from me, she never got to hear me read her books, she never got that. But really, I am the one who misses out. She gets to be fed by glorious Jesus; He holds her, speaks life to her and somehow, I just have to believe that He raises her. I don’t know for sure what age or maturity my daughter will be when I get to hold her and part of me cares but part of me doesn’t. I just want to hold her. I just want to hold her. I just want to hold her. Jesus, hold her for me until I get there, okay? Please. I trust You already are.

Tonight, we also went to a Bible study potluck with a friend of ours. We only knew him. During the prayer requests, I struggled to know if I should speak up. Pete nudged me and told me if I wanted to say something, I could. So, I did. And it felt kind of awkward to be the “trump card” prayer request. I’m not used to that and I wasn’t sure what to make of all of it. But, I shared that we recently lost our child and that we needed prayer. They were all in shock and so kind.

One of the group members asked if we had any “immediate needs,” such as financial costs, food and so on. I explained that our freezer was full and that God fully met our financial needs. All I could think of was for prayer. Prayer is our immediate need. And I just keep thinking about that – immediate need. Prayer should always be my immediate need. Whether we are venturing through the crushing loss of our daughter or trudging through the ordinary and mundane days –prayer is my immediate need even if I don’t recognize that.

And really, what is prayer. Well, it’s praise, supplication, thanks, stillness, listening, confession, repenting…and all of that boils down to being WITH GOD. I can be really bad at prayer. Through losing my firstborn child, I have realized this more fully. But really, in my weakness, I have seen God be strong. My prayers are weeps, mutterings, fits of yelling, thanks, and I just have this deep sense that the Holy Spirit is making supplications on our behalf. I just know it. Romans 8:26-28 NLT has never ringed so true for me: “And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don’t know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God’s own will. And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.” With that, I will rest.

Family Time

The week after Charlotte’s death, our home was filled with our closest family members. It was comforting to me that we weren’t alone. Yet, I longed for us to all be gathering for a fun holiday or vacation or something. Something else, just anything else but this. I wanted to close my eyes, shake my head and snap out of the nightmare. But the new reality wasn’t going anywhere and it still isn’t.

Having both of our families under the same roof for a prolonged period of time was a first for us, let alone under these circumstances. I really wasn’t anxious about it, though. It went so beautifully. God knit us all together and I think it all really glorified Him. Everyone weathered that stormy week so well. Everyone just did it. It wasn’t by our own strength; it was of His. God used each person’s giftings to minister to Pete and me in incredible ways. With vulnerability, some explained that they didn’t know what to say/not say, or what to do/not do. But by being WITH us, they were and did just what Pete and I needed. I can’t quite adequately express my gratitude.

I learned that though it felt uncomfortable at first, it was good for me to provide jobs for our family members to do. That may sound odd but we could only talk and cry so much. There’s this human phenomenon to it; it’s like we all want to do something to make it all better but no one can. Instead, God provides us comfort through doing accomplishable assignments. Peter and I found that there was something healing about having tasks to do and it was no different for our family members.

My dad has always been a “fixer.” I knew he ached to fix the pain and loss we were experiencing. But he couldn’t. But he was so present. He asked me if there was anything tangible he could do for us. Knowing my dad was always a great painter, I hesitantly asked him if he wanted to paint our master bathroom. His face lit up. Mind you, this was after my parents came up just that weekend before to help us paint our bedroom before the baby arrived. Nevertheless, he wanted to keep helping us. He did an amazing job and blessed us beyond words.

My mom spent time with me and took me shopping for some new outfits. We also shopped for bedding for the nursery that Peter and I were planning to eventually convert into another guest bedroom. We strolled through Marshalls and SteinMart. We didn’t always say much but we were just together. She listened. She was present. That was the best gift of all.

I remember this certain song came on while we were shopping. It was Rise Up by Andra Day. I really like the lyrics. Here are some of them: “And I’ll rise up. I’ll rise like the day. I’ll rise up. I’ll rise unafraid. I’ll rise up.  …  In spite of the ache. I will rise a thousand times again.” (Rise Up by Andra Day) I realize this isn’t a Christian song. But I think of how with Jesus and because of Jesus, I am an overcomer. It’s not because I am so strong but because He is. A verse many people have referenced shares this sentiment that, “…those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” Isaiah 40:31 NIV

Music has a way of triggering my emotions. After hearing the song while shopping, I stopped dead in my tracks, trying to catch my breath, and then broke down in tears. My mom held me. She told me how deeply sorry she was. I needed that. I needed her.

I asked my mother-in-law and Holly to take care of the decorations for Charlotte’s memorial. I gave them my vision that I wanted all white accents with soft lighting from candles and sweet, little bouquets throughout our home. I knew they’d get it. Boy, did they ever. They nailed it. The memorial looked even better than I’d hoped. They even weeded in the front of the house (something I hadn’t done being pregnant in 90 degree, Virginia weather) spread some mulch there and put a hanging basket of white and pink flowers in the front garden bed. Our home looked warm and inviting for our kind guests that’d be arriving soon for Charlotte’s memorial.

Over dinner one evening, I asked Danny if he would be willing to lead worship at Charlotte’s memorial. Danny has this incredible voice and plays the guitar like it’s second nature to him. Peter and I thought it’d be so meaningful if he’d play. Danny accepted the invitation with great humility and honor.

During the hospitalization, I had the song, “It is well” stuck in my head. I grew up singing that song in church and it kept playing as if on repeat in my mind. God did that, I know. Peter told me that he had the song, “How He Loves” playing over and over in his head when we were at the hospital. Thus, we thought it made sense to have those two songs at her memorial. We also wanted to affirm our trust in Jesus, so we added, “Great is Thy faithfulness” to the list, too.

I remember one day, I want to say it was that Thursday before her memorial but I may be getting my days mixed up, but I hadn’t seen Danny for awhile. He and Holly were almost always at our place that week. Holly told me that he was back home in Williamsburg practicing for the memorial. He practiced for like eight hours! I was so honored and humbled by that. Holly practiced a lot with him too, I later found out. She even sang with Danny at the memorial. I’d never heard her sing before but Danny told me she had a good voice.  He was right. Wow. Later hearing the two of them together at her memorial was amazing.

My father-in-law drove three hours to pick up Lizzie at college. She had just started her first week of classes at Iowa State when this all happened. He, Lizzie and Caleb then turned around and drove another seventeen hours to Richmond, all in one go. They arrived at our place first thing the Friday of Charlotte’s memorial, August 26th. Their selflessness and devotion to family were amazing. Again, just having then WITH us was so comforting.

After taking a little nap, Caleb mowed our lawn in the sweltering heat. Josh blew the leaves, cleaned off the deck, and made Peter food (Peter isn’t the best at remembering to eat). They were all so thoughtful.

Funny enough, Peter and I bought a new bed for the guest bedroom that week. Crazy, for sure. He really wanted to have a bed for his parents to sleep on instead of an air mattress. And we were working to convert the nursery into another guest bedroom, so we figured, why not. The bed arrived the morning of Charlotte’s memorial and all the guys helped out with that.

My father-in-law also helped troubleshoot our fridge that conveniently stopped making ice. My dad helped Peter build shelves in the garage. Everyone was so great. And our house never looked better. On the other hand, it had never looked worse to me.

My cousin, Todd, flew in from Colorado to be at the memorial. He arrived Friday afternoon. Pete and I were blown way. Todd has always been a special influence in my life. We’ve always been close, even though we don’t live close to one another. It was just so unbelievably kind for him to fly so far on such short notice to be with us. Words really don’t do this justice.

Mike and Morgan came back down to Richmond after just being with us when I delivered Charlotte three days earlier. It was amazing of them. Mike and Todd helped string these cute, bistro lights on our back porch that I had wanted to be done for awhile now. They did this all in the oppressive, Virginia humidity. Gosh, it was so hot.

My Aunt Missy came down from Ohio and was so loving. She brought all these delicious pastries and cared for me and Pete so well. She and my mom, Morgan, my mother-in-law, Lizzie and Holly did such a great job getting our place reading for Charlotte’s memorial. Everyone did. Morgan gave me this sweet plaque in honor of Charlotte that I hung up before our guests arrived. I loved that. I know there are countless labors of love our family did for us that I am sure I am forgetting and countless more than I’ll never know about. There just really is nothing like family. Thank you, Jesus, for family.

The Acute Aftermath

After Charlotte was delivered, we then started to re-invite our family members into the room to see her and hold her if they felt comfortable. With each wave of family members and friends came new tides of emotion. I felt proud to have each loved one see this baby Peter and I created but I also felt so grieved that we weren’t getting to introduce them to her. Everyone held her so lovingly yet with such a longing for more. I remember Peter standing over her as she lay in the bassinet they prepared for her and him saying, “I’m broken. I’m just so broken.” That snapshot in my head is forever etched in my mind. I hurt so much for my husband. The aching in body was so deep…and still is.

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Mom, Dad, Charlotte & me

My brother, Mike and sister-in-law, Morgan, were able to come down at the drop of a hat from Pittsburgh that day, which meant the world to me. They were able to see sweet baby Charlotte, their first niece. It was so much driving for such a short time and turn-around. My brother hugged me like never before. Words weren’t needed. Time seemed to stop. His love for me was beyond evident as well as his heartbreak.

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Mike & Morgan. This was taken the weekend we broke the news we were pregnant.

Time ticked along and I was soon up and walking. I felt so light, so little and also so empty. My body wasn’t use to not carrying my sweet baby girl. I hated not being pregnant with her. I never wanted to be pregnant so badly. That day after was a bit of a blur. The details of the day before when receiving the shocking news and of the delivery were all so vivid to me down to the color of the bow tie one of the important looking doctor (hunter green). However, I certainly do remember my husband being sick, very sick, that day. Given that he had barely eaten anything and that he hadn’t slept for 24 hours, not to mention the obvious, he started throwing up and didn’t stop for a long while. I felt so badly for him.

Our nurse, Stephania, gathered mementos for us of Charlotte. She told us if we had any desire to have a remembrance, to go for it so that later, we would have it because we could never go back and change our minds. So, we got a clipping of her beautiful brown hair, hand prints, her footprint in clay that Stephania laid in a beautiful shell, pictures, her hat, blankets… Our nurse really went out of her way to gather every little, sweet piece and it was comforting to have something to hold when we would later walk out of the hospital and drive home empty handed otherwise.

The same daytime doctor came back and greeted us. She told us that she heard how well Charlotte’s delivery went and she seemed amazed. God had been so good to us. I had no tearing, no excess bleeding, no infection, and minimal pain. And because of the lacking of complications, this doctor told us we could go home as soon as we were ready; we did not need to stay for 24 hours of observation. I was so thankful. When we first entered the hospital for Charlotte’s induction, I couldn’t bear the thought of going home. The thought of seeing the toys and clothes purchased for her broke my heart. But after the day and a half or so at the hospital, I was so ready to get out of there. The confines of the hospital now felt like a prison to me, some sort of torture chamber. Again, I don’t know why I felt like this but I just did.

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Peter, Gee & Charlotte

Before we could be discharged, we did have to meet with some hospital staff to discuss how to proceed with Charlotte’s remains. Did we want to have her buried or cremated? Did we want to have a formal funeral? Do we do an obituary for her? Do we do an autopsy? Pete and I couldn’t handle the thought of making most of these decisions yet while still in the hospital. They told us that was totally fine but did need to make some decisions within 48 hours for the funeral home we decided on. The social worker gave us a bunch of resources and we combined those papers with the hand full of other documents we had received. This included information on support groups for parents who lost children, our discharge summary, local funeral homes and crematoriums, prescriptions, what to expect when we get home and the list went on and on…

Pete and I really wanted to say goodbye to our baby girl by ourselves. But before doing so, we asked that our family and our friends who had been with us, Abby and Steve, circle around Charlotte and pray. It was like a dedication, a surrendering of our child we never met. So when the time was right, Peter held our baby girl and we all gathered in a tight knit circle and prayed. Who knows what we said exactly, but the sentiment was full of joy and mourning -what good friends those two emotions are. We proclaimed our trust in God in the midst of our pain and we thanked Him for the gift of Charlotte Raye. I’ll never forget it.

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Our family and friends then trickled out of the hospital. I recall my brother, Mike, walking slowly out of the hospital room and pausing by Charlotte in her bassinet. He then gently placed his hand over her little, lifeless body and let it linger there for a few seconds. It was like his sweet way of saying, “See you later, Charlotte. I love you.” I cherish that snapshot.

Then, it was just me, Pete and Charlotte in the room. We held her a lot and cried and prayed. We took pictures of each other holding her. How I will hang onto those photos. We spent a lot of time with our girl as the hospital staff got everything situated for our discharge. When we both reached the ambiguous point of being “ready” to say goodbye to her, we let Stephania know that she could take Charlotte out of the room. Pete and I held Charlotte and kissed her and said our goodbyes. We both agreed we felt as ready as we could. I went into the bathroom and when I came out, she and her basinet were gone. I remember feeling like the wind was knocked out of me and I fell over onto my knees. It was like I couldn’t breath. I just wanted to die. I don’t mean that in a scary, suicidal way at all. I just wanted it to all go away. I wanted to hold my child! I wanted to hold my living baby. I looked at my husband, who was weeping, and he said that they came to take her away. The void in the room was unbearable; it was so empty. I had to get out of that hospital.

A bit later, our daytime doctor came in to officially discharge us and said something to us I remember so clearly. She said, “I always give this same spiel to each family I care for going through what you’re going through. First, you did nothing wrong. You are not to blame for the death of Charlotte. Don’t put that on yourselves; there is nothing you could have done to prevent this. Secondly, you are both parents. Hannah, you are a mother and Peter, you are a father. Even though you are walking out of this hospital empty handed, you are parents to your daughter. Don’t forget that.”

With that, we hugged our nurse and walked out of the hospital hand in hand. I remember as we walked through the main area of the hospital through a sea of people who didn’t know us, who didn’t know about Charlotte, Peter said, “You just never know what the people around you are going through.” Sure, you hear that phrase thrown around but when my husband said it with this new type of conviction, the words rang more true then ever. You really never know what the people around you are carrying with them and how much each one of us needs a kind word.