As I’ve mentioned in several of my previous posts, it is so important to me that Ginny is remembered. Remembering her makes me feel closer to her. It acknowledges her life and impact and makes it more real.
Through this loss, I came to a deeper understanding of the value of remembrance. I can feel the power of a physical and symbolic act of remembrance. To honor someone or something through the act of remembering is spiritual. It connects our bodies to our minds and hearts. It gives significance.
Daniel and I knew we were changed forever because of Ginny. We wanted a physical symbol to remind us of her, our love, how we were comforted in our sorrow, and all the lessons we’ve learned through suffering. We decided to both get tattoos to honor and remember Ginny.
I decided to get her name on my wrist. I wanted it to be obvious that the tattoo has a special meaning. I want people ask; I want our future children to ask. So I will always share her story. I was already permanently marked in my heart. Now I am permanently marked on my body. I love it.
Daniel’s tattoo is more symbolic. On days I think I may want to put my hair up, I wear a hairband around my wrist. During labor, I quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to wear my hairband on my wrist because of the IVs in my hand. Daniel volunteered to wear my hairband around his wrist in the hospital. He used it to put my hair up for me before the epidural. He took care of me. That hairband fell out of my hair and behind my back in the hospital bed during delivery. It was there when we held Ginny’s body and gave it up. When we left the room, Daniel was sure to find that hairband and put it back on his wrist. He has worn it everyday since. It reminds him of Ginny, taking care of me, what we’ve been through, and what we are missing. It has been a physical reminder of the change he experienced. He decided to get a black band tattooed on his wrist to represent that hairband and all its meaning. So beautiful!
There is so much power in a physical symbol of remembrance. Something so small can have so much meaning. It carries the meaning around with it. It pulls on our hearts every time it is seen.
Again and again in the Bible, we hear God asking people to remember – to remember his love, to remember all the times people cried out for help and God drew near, to remember what we’ve learned. Time and time again people forget. Time and time again, God reminds us. He reminds us, then he tells us to remember.
Traditions in the Jewish and Christian faiths come from this call to remember. On the night he was betrayed, Jesus was sharing a meal with his disciples as an act of remembrance of the Passover. He broke bread, poured wine, gave thanks, and said, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me…This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant of my blood.” (Luke 22:19-20) That covenant represents the reconciliation of man and God, the forgiveness of sins, and the defeat of death through the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus.
The act of remembering that meal and Jesus’s loving sacrifice is called communion. At our church everyone forms a line and takes a small piece of bread from a loaf and dips it in a cup of “wine”. Sometimes Daniel and I are asked to help serve it. Daniel will hold the loaf and say to each person, “Body of Christ, broken for you.” I hold the cup and say, “Blood of Christ, poured out for you.” I look each person in the eye as we share in this act of remembrance again and again and again until the entire church has taken communion. If you ever get the opportunity to serve communion, I highly suggest it. It is not checking the box of religious ritual. It is a powerful and spiritual experience. Something about that physical act to acknowledge Jesus’s love for each and every one of us is overwhelming. My heart feels so full afterward. It is a symbol that carries so much meaning.
Sometimes we need that. We need a physical symbolic reminder of what is most important. We get swept up in our lives and forget to remember. These acts or symbols of remembrance make us pause, think, remember, and feel the impact in our hearts. It keeps us grounded and connected to God and to each other.
“Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children’s children.” – Deuteronomy 4:9
I used to think that question was benign. I thought it was a safe question to ask when meeting someone new, like ”Where are you from?”.
But this question is not safe. If someone asks me this question, there is a 80% chance I will cry in the next 10 minutes.
The first time I was asked my immediate response was “no”. Luckily it was toward the end of a brief conversation with a stranger. One minute later I was in my car bawling. I felt intense shame. I felt like I denied Ginny’s existence. I called Daniel, and he quickly reassured me that we can answer that question however we want. There is no wrong answer. We may want to answer “no” to strangers who we don’t know or trust and “yes” to those we know we will be building relationships with. It’s okay either way.
I agreed with him, but I still felt bad for answering “no”. Mostly because that was my automatic response. I didn’t even think about it. It’s not that I forgot about Ginny. It was that I knew it would make us both uncomfortable. I would not even consider sharing something so vulnerable to someone I don’t know. I came to the conclusion that those were not legitimate reasons to answer “no”. I vowed that the next time I would say “yes”.
The next time was when we were out of town visiting family. We met our family’s pastor at their church. He asked the question. I responded “no”, realized I had broken the vow to myself, and then immediately started crying in front of everyone. I explained we had a stillborn daughter in February so the truth was “yes we do have a daughter in heaven”. He hugged me and assured me that I will soon figure out how to best answer that question. He and his wife prayed for us and shared encouraging words with us.
I wouldn’t break my vow next time! I would respond “yes” no matter how uncomfortable or awkward.
….Why is it awkward anyway? And why do I care if it is awkward?
It is awkward because people don’t know how to respond. We aren’t taught how to respond to death and grief, especially when a baby or child dies. People assume it is a taboo subject to bring up, so then they often profusely apologize for even asking the question. But it is okay to talk about. I love talking about Ginny. I don’t like when people feel bad for bringing it up or assume I’m in pain because of it. I’m in pain either way – your mentioning it doesn’t make it hurt more.
I also think my immediate response is “no” because I don’t want to make people sad. This is a lot of people’s worst nightmare, and they are so sympathetic. I know it is silly for me to worry about whether other people are empathetically sad when we are the ones who are really sad, but something in me (Enneagram 9) hates making people upset….
The next few times I was asked was by fellow volunteers. We would get to know each other while working a volunteer shift together. I finally answered, “Yes I have a daughter, but she was stillborn at the end of February. She’s in heaven.” Most people would respond wonderfully. They would say, “I’m so sorry. How terrible?! I don’t know what to say.” Often they would tear up which would then make me tear up. Some asked follow-up questions that I didn’t mind answering at all. Those are the best conversations. I end up feeling loved, and I feel like I’ve honored Ginny by telling her story. Those shifts would end in hugs and smiles.
Then there were the people who didn’t know the right things to say…”Well you got pregnant once, you can get pregnant again.” and “This sort of thing happens; don’t worry.” Those are the wrong things to say (bonus pro tip: never offer condolences with the words “at least”). I tried successfully to not be offended by those remarks. At their root, they are trying to make me feel better. They don’t want me in pain, so they try to minimize the pain and loss. But in doing so, they minimize my daughter’s life. Not helpful. Anytime I get a comment like that, I smile and nod and change topics. I don’t dwell on it, and I give them the benefit of the doubt that they meant well.
Despite the inappropriate responses, I am going to keep answering “yes” for now. It could lead to a deeper connection with someone. Also anytime a story like ours is told, it reduces the stigma just a little bit. By talking about it, it makes it okay to talk about. That makes people feel less alone, spreads awareness, and ultimately spreads a little hope. And that’s good for everyone.
Monday, September 23 was the first day of autumn. It was also my first day at a new job. I started working exactly 1 year and 2 days after leaving my last job. Half the year I spent pregnant; half the year I spent mourning. Now it is time for a new season.
It is bitter sweet to start working again. It feels so good to have a purpose and a to-do list and a schedule again. I feel proud of myself for actually changing careers to something less stressful and more meaningful. My new job is at a hospitality house called SECU Family House at UNC Hospitals. It is a place where patients and their families can stay while undergoing treatment. I help manage the volunteers who make the house run smoothly. I’ve been volunteering at the Family House for a few months now, and I am so inspired by the families who seem to always have hope and appreciation no matter their circumstances. This place has helped me heal, and I am honored to work there now.
It is bitter, though, to be moving forward from this season of mourning. I know my grief isn’t over, but I also know it will not be the same. I won’t have the hours to contemplate, read, journal, and just remember Ginny like I have over these past months. I know I have to keep moving forward, but it is hard.
I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want to forget anything about our time with her or mourning her. People tell me I will always remember her, and I know that is true in some respects. But I know I will forget some of what I’ve learned and how I feel and what it was like; I know I already have. That breaks my heart. I feel like I’m moving away from her. I don’t want to carry this heavy burden of grief everywhere, but I don’t want to let it go. It’s what I have of her.
This time of mourning has been painful but beautiful for me. I feel so blessed that I have had this time. Most people don’t get this, including Daniel. I’ve learned so much, and I’ve grown closer to God. This is what motherhood has been for me.
I don’t want to think back on this season and only think of the pain. I don’t want it to be hard to remember. In the future, I don’t want to categorize it as “that dark time”. Because it hasn’t been dark. It has been life-changing and life-giving and intense. I want to think back on this season with love. I want to think of our sweet Ginny’s life, not just our loss. I don’t know how to preserve memories the way I want to. I’m hoping my writing will help. It seems strange to not want to forget a painful time, but I know those who lost will understand.
In this new season I am trying to be deliberate about a few things. I want to avoid getting caught in the distraction of busyness. I want to give myself the time and space to continue to mourn. I want to recognize and remember the lessons I’ve learned through suffering. But most of all, I want to remember Ginny. I don’t want her to fade into our history. Help us remember her – bring her up when you are around us. Let us know if you think of her. I will move forward, but she’ll stay in my heart.
A couple weeks after Ginny died, I was sitting in a coffee shop listening to the song “I Place My Hope” by Ellie Holcomb. When I heard the lyrics, they took on two meanings. Hope meant what we typically think of hope, but to me hope also meant Virginia Hope. The song says, “I will lift my eyes from this fragile life, For you will rescue me, you are my prince of peace, And I will lift up my soul to you who makes things whole, Oh, mercy love of old, in you I place my hope” I imagined holding Ginny’s fragile body and placing her in God’s hands. I imagined him making her whole in heaven. I surrendered my hope for Ginny’s life to him. It was heart breaking and also freeing.
I began to realize I need to place all my hope in God. I had no choice but to surrender my hope for Ginny. But what other hopes do I need to place in him? After the loss and grief, it is easy to surrender my own life to God. I was so raw and had so little vision for my life; I needed God to make me whatever he wants me to be. I almost didn’t have the strength to lead my own life so I give it to him.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and hope.” – Jeremiah 29:11
In other areas though, it would be much harder to completely trust God. What do I love and cling to too much to trust God with? Definitely Daniel. The thought of placing my hope for Daniel’s life and our marriage in God’s hands scared me. He means the world to me. I can’t lose him! But the truth is, I have no control anyway. My worry and fear and clinging does not add a day to his life. Handing him over to God is an act of trust but it is also just coming to terms with the truth that I have no control.
“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’” – Matthew 16:25
The same is true for the lives of our potential future children. I can plan and plan, but really I have no control. I found myself thinking, “If we do decide to try for another baby, we should time it so the baby isn’t born in flu season.” I caught myself and laughed at my own hubris – 1) like I can even decide when we get pregnant, 2) as if non-flu season gives me power to protect my baby’s life. I have to continuously make the conscious decision to surrender control of our future children’s lives. I hand them over to God because he is the one with control and he is who truly knows best. If he gives them or takes them away, they are his. I can choose to trust and praise because we have hope in both life and death.
“And he said, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’” – Job 1:21
What is the benefit of surrendering and placing hope in God instead of myself? The physical will disappoint every time, but hope in God does not put us to shame. It is freedom to enjoy moments without worry. It is trusting that no matter what happens, our future is full of love and unity. It is no more fear. We don’t have to try to protect ourselves by holding anything back. We can go all in. It is setting our eyes on something bigger and more beautiful. It is embracing the fullness of life.
“And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” – Romans 5:5
“And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” – Colossians 1:17
In grief sometimes you feel alright, like you might have made it through the hard stuff. Maybe you will be better from now on. Then it hits… again. Grief comes in waves. Sometimes the waves come for no reason and sometimes they are triggered.
Triggers can be what you’d expect, like holidays or a due date. Sometimes they can come out of nowhere.
I can see 50 babies stroll by and be fine, and then for some reason the 51st baby makes me break down in tears. I have no idea why.
I think the most random and unexpected trigger I experienced was when I was lying on the couch. My head was resting on my arm. I faintly heard my pulse through my arm and suddenly started weeping. It wasn’t until a few moments later that I realized it was the sound of my heartbeat that made me cry. It was the first time I heard a heart beat since Ginny’s. It was the first time I actually heard a heartbeat after my ears were expecting one on that Monday afternoon.
Some triggers aren’t bad. They can still make you cry but out of love. Sunflowers are a beautiful trigger for both me and Daniel. Ginny’s nursery and pregnancy announcement had sunflowers. They remind us of her and our love for her. Daniel studies sunflowers, so daily he tends a greenhouse full of them. I know that must be hard for him to be surrounded by triggers, but it is also a sweet reminder of the love we have.
Some of our friends know this. One couple left a vase of sunflowers on our porch on the 6th-month anniversary of Ginny’s birth. Another sweet friend planted sunflowers in her garden. I’m so grateful that they remember Ginny.
While sunflowers trigger an outpour of love, other triggers lead to bitterness. The worst is when someone complains even though they are so blessed. It is especially bad when someone complains about being pregnant or about having a newborn. At best I’ll cringe; at worst I’ll have a breakdown. “I’m so over being pregnant.” Don’t you know how lucky you are?! I don’t know what’s worse – your ungratefulness or your ignorance!
I try to keep myself from getting bitter. I try to put myself in other’s shoes. It is really hard to be pregnant, and it is really hard to care for a newborn. It is legitimate to complain. I know these challenges are a part of life, but knowing what it is like to be without, I just want people to be grateful for what they have. It is hard for me to have sympathy. It feels like someone winning the lottery and then complaining about a small paper cut the check gave them.
If your baby doesn’t breastfeed, you are blessed. If your baby doesn’t sleep at night, you are blessed. If your baby has colic, you are blessed. If your baby survived the NICU, you are blessed. If you got to hold your baby alive, you are blessed. Don’t take anything for granted.
I got to hold my baby’s body, and I will always treasure that memory. I’m so grateful for it because I know not everyone even gets that.
I want people to rejoice and celebrate their babies! Admit and proclaim your blessings! You won’t jinx it, I promise. I love when my friends post pictures of their families with gratitude. “How did I get this lucky?” “I love my little family!” These posts make some of the bitterness melt away for me.
This experience has made me more aware of triggers in general. Am I triggering someone going through a hard time? When I posted a happy 34th wedding anniversary message to my parents, I thought of my friend who was recently divorced. Did this post trigger her tears? That thought would’ve never cross my mind before my grief. We shouldn’t stop sharing life in fear of triggering someone, but we can be more aware and considerate.
I felt so terrible the other day when I was walking along the street after dinner. I was telling Daniel how full I was, “I’m stuffed! I shouldn’t have eaten that dessert.” Then I realized I just walked past a homeless man who was probably hungry. I’m sure he thought, “Don’t you know how lucky you are?! I don’t know what’s worse – your ungratefulness or your ignorance!”
Perspective is everything. We should try to step back for a minute and pay attention to those around us. Are we taking anything for granted? What can we do to help someone replace bitterness with love?
Sometimes it feels like God plucked me out of my old life and placed (or more like threw) me into my new life. It’s like God looked at my life and said, “I have bigger things for her” and then moved me like a chess piece.
I typically don’t think of God as the “big guy upstairs” who moves us like board game pieces. God isn’t like that. He’s a loving and intimate light that flows deep into my life and heart. But looking at my life over the past year, there have been some drastic changes that I was dragged through kicking and screaming.
I’ve always prayed that the Holy Spirit guide my path, and I’ve truly felt he has. Throughout my life, my paths were laid straight toward “success”. I felt God opened doors before me at all the right times. Up until a little over a year ago, I always felt I was where I was supposed to be. Last year, I was following the path that made the most sense. I had opportunities toward career advancement open before me. But for the first time, I felt like the Holy Spirit was leading me toward something different, something off the beaten path. I hesitated for weeks. Those weeks were the most anxious and unrestful of my life. I finally followed where God was calling me. I quit my job and decided to be a stay-at-home mom. I’m sure some people thought I was crazy for leaving such a great job and so early into my pregnancy. It was a hard decision, but I felt peace about it.
That decision forced me to shake my old identity. That decision made it possible for me to be present for the moments I had with Ginny, and it gave me the time to grieve after losing Ginny without worrying about getting right back to work. I’m so grateful for that.
That decision also left me with a big dark unknown future after we lost Ginny. I didn’t have the faintest idea what the future held without Ginny. I had no vision whatsoever. I couldn’t go back to my old life, and all my future plans were destroyed. I had to put all my trust in God and hope even when it didn’t make sense. We gave Ginny the middle name “Hope” long before we knew we would need the reminder. I knew God’s plan for my life was beyond what I ever planned for myself. I knew it was something that I couldn’t envision myself. I would need the Holy Spirit to guide me. I would need to be still and listen.
In my old life, it took so much effort to be still. I knew Psalm 46:10 said “Be still and know that I am God.” Easier said than done in a busy life. When I did take the time out of my day to be still, I couldn’t shut my mind off. Thoughts of work and life constantly interrupted quiet time and meditation. Most of the time, I was too tired to even try. I always felt refreshed afterward, but making the effort took a lot of energy.
When Ginny died, my world stopped. I didn’t have anything to prepare for. I was unnervingly still. I felt God’s presence so strongly. This closeness was what I was searching for in the past; now it fell effortlessly in my lap. This isn’t how I wanted to be still. God, I wanted to be close to you in thanksgiving. Do I really need to suffer to know you in this way? Why didn’t you keep this from happening and then draw near to me in celebration?
I’m starting to slowly realize that God was actually near all along, but I didn’t always see him. It is like my suffering was a potent paint stripper that cleared everything else away so God is all that’s left. It hurt to clear everything away, but I can finally see what was underneath the whole time. I can finally see what was covered up by my busyness. It is God’s comforting presence. It’s God’s purpose for me.
I still don’t have a fully defined vision for my future, but I do feel that the Holy Spirit is gently walking with me down an uncharted path. There have been moments of immense clarity and joy and hope that I know I would’ve never experienced on my old path. I’m trying to be deliberate to not fall into busyness and distraction that is so easy to fall into; it is the default in our culture. I want to fully embrace and appreciate my ability to be still.
It has been 6 months since I gave birth to our beautiful daughter Virginia “Ginny” Hope Jones. February 26, 2019 was an amazing day. It is a day that I think back in love. It was not at all what I expected.
February 25 was the day there was no heartbeat, the worst day of my life. It was a nightmare. On that day I thought the worst was yet to come. I couldn’t imagine having to endure labor. But the truth was that finding out the news of Ginny’s death was far more painful than childbirth. Remembering back, childbirth was like a sweet gift in the darkest moment of my life.
In the days following Ginny’s death and birth, I kept going over the birth story in my head again and again. I think it helped me survive those first days. I thought about it with pride and hope. I played and replayed the day in my head; I was afraid of forgetting it. I finally typed it out, and it was 5 and a half pages long. I won’t share that long version here, but I do want to share my birth story.
We arrived at the N.C. Women’s Hospital for my 9 am induction appointment. The nurses quickly lead me and Daniel to a labor & delivery room and our mothers to a special waiting room called Jane’s Room. Jane’s Room was created to provide grieving families a place to wait in the L&D unit. It was such a wonderful resource; I can’t imagine our moms in a normal waiting room alongside excited and happy grandparents.
I can’t say enough positive things about UNC Hospitals. They took such good care of us the entire time. The nurses and doctors were so sympathetic and caring. They explained everything to us multiple times, knowing that in our grief it is hard to concentrate. Each doctor made it a point to say, “This is not your fault.”
When we arrived, I was showing no signs of labor. I was 0 cm dilated. Daniel and I took a birthing class two days earlier. The instructor told us the process for induction. She said they start with a pill which usually does not work. After 4 dosages (12 hours), they will start Pitocin which is usually when labor actually starts. We knew we were there for the long haul and it will probably be over 24 hours before delivery.
The doctor inserted the first dosage of the pill, and the nurse strapped a contraction monitor on me. Looking up at the screen showing contractions, there was clearly an empty section where the heartbeat would normally display. This was a small reminder that Ginny would not be born alive. Contractions started shortly. They were painless and felt like the Braxton Hicks I had felt over the past several weeks. The morning went by quickly as we talked, cried, and sat.
A kind chaplain came in, spoke with us, and prayed. He as well as the doctors and nurses softly reminded us of all the decisions we had to make. What kind of tests do we want on Ginny’s body and the placenta? How much time do we want to spend with her body? Do we want pictures? What do we want to do with her body after? These are decisions no one ever wants to make. They shared the options and told us there was no rush. They also emphasized that there were no wrong answers. Everyone is different and there is no correct protocol for these situations.
Thankfully Daniel and I were in complete agreement. Our mothers supported anything we decided. Ultimately we decided we wanted an MRI of Ginny’s body and genetic testing of the placenta. We wanted to hold Ginny’s body for a short while. We wanted pictures of her but not on our phones. We would have her body cremated. These were hard decisions. Daniel and I both agree that we are not our bodies; Ginny was no longer in her body. She was in heaven.
At around 2:30pm I still wasn’t in any pain. The doctor checked for progress; I was 3cm dilated! I couldn’t believe I had made progress without any pain. She ordered the Pitocin.
A few more hours quickly passed (I can’t explain why time went by so quickly. We didn’t get bored or turn on the TV at all). I was just starting to feel cramps during the tightening of the contractions. The pain was like bad period cramps but was bearable. I decided to get an epidural before it got too tough. I got the epidural around 6:50 pm, and the pain subsided. Getting the epidural was uncomfortable but not terrible.
About an hour later the doctor checked my progress. I was 6 cm dilated. I was pleased with the progress but knew we probably had a long way to go.
Our wonderful nurse explained what we might expect when Ginny was born. She said she will likely have dark lips and face and her skin may be very delicate. She also explained that she would be putting together a memory box for us. It would have pictures of Ginny, hand and foot molds, a lock of her hair, the gown she will wear, and a few other things. We were so appreciative of her care and consideration.
Soon my right side started hurting very intensely. The nurse told me to lay on my right side so the epidural would move that direction while she ordered more epidural. The pain felt like I was being kicked in the side every 30 seconds or so. Daniel held my hand and was there by my side the entire time. Our moms were there nervously praying. I know they hated to see me in such pain.
Before we could get any more epidural, I felt a lot of pressure. The nurse called the doctor in and starting getting things ready for delivery. The doctor checked me again. Less than an hour from the last check, and I was already fully dilated and Ginny was in +2 position. Several doctors and nurses buzzed about the room getting ready while my water broke on its own.
The doctor said I could push if I felt like it or I could let my uterus do all the work. I felt a strong need to push. I pushed a few times, yelling and moaning each time. The yells were not out of pain. During delivery there wasn’t much pain, but there was such an overwhelming strong urge to push. Daniel was still there holding my hand and encouraging me. Soon Ginny’s body was born. I felt relieved and proud. After a brief “Great job!” from the doctors and nurses, there was silence. It was 8:47pm, less than 12 hours from when we arrived at the hospital.
Our nurse wrapped Ginny in the rainbow blanket handmade by Grandma Ginny. We took turns holding her body. She had a cute round face and dark curly hair. I will never forget the moment Daniel was holding Ginny’s body while sitting close to me on the hospital bed. I watched his heart growing and breaking right in front of me. We both wept over her and prayed. We kissed her and loved her and wept. We were a family of three there. Our love made her, and she was so beautiful.
After a while we knew it was time. We called the nurse back in to take Ginny. We handed over our daughter’s body and said goodbye. It was hard to do, but we knew she was not in her body. She was in the arms of Jesus. The day that I thought would be the worst was actually very healing.
It turns out that mothers only stay in the hospital for a few days after delivery for the sake of the baby. Our nurse asked if we wanted to go home that night. We decided to stay the night and leave in the morning. They moved me up to a non-maternity floor so we wouldn’t hear babies crying. On the way up to the other floor, I got a couple of well-meaning “congratulations!” It was heart wrenching. My nurse whispered to me, “I’m getting you out of here. I’m getting you out of here.”
Daniel and I got a couple hours of sleep before the busy next morning. My nurse came to deliver the memory box at the end of her shift. She went through every item with so much care and sympathy. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and for preparing the priceless memory box for us. I feel like I will always be connected to her somehow. She was who cleaned, dressed, and took pictures of our daughter when we didn’t have the strength. She treated her with such honor and love, and there are no words to describe my appreciation.
The chaplain visited again with more helpful words and prayers. Multiple doctors came to explain what to expect with regards to milk coming in and warning signs for postpartum depression.
Then I got discharged. Daniel pulled the car around while I waited for my wheelchair escort. It took forever for a polite man to arrive with the wheelchair. He apologized for being late. He said that the computer told him I was in MRI so he went there first and I wasn’t there. I realized it was because Ginny was getting the MRI. I didn’t explain. On the way out to the car, I just imagined her little body in a huge MRI machine, and I was leaving her. I kept reminding myself that she is happy and loved in heaven. God comforted me.
We did not have a traditional memorial service for her. Most of our family is across the country. I consider the time we had with her body in that hospital room as her memorial. It was a beautiful moment, so full of love.
It was definitely due to the amazing amounts of prayer that labor and delivery went so quickly and smoothly. It far exceeded all my expectations and fear of what birth would be like. It was beautiful and epic and an honor. I can see how if the result was a baby, it would easily be the best day of your life. When I look back, it was a positive experience that makes me feel proud and strong. I have so so much love and gratefulness for Daniel through this. He is the most incredible man. Our mothers were also an amazing support; we definitely needed them there. There is no doubt that God was with us that entire day and the days since.
Thank you to everyone who prayed for us, sent flowers, sent a card, or gave us a gift or care package. Your love and support truly helped and comforted us.
When I was pregnant I used to joke that one of the best parts of pregnancy is not worrying about sucking in my belly in pictures. I could let it all hang out. I could blame all “pooch” on baby bump. No more “burrito” baby or “pizza” baby; I had a BABY baby! I never realized how self-conscious I was about my belly until I didn’t have to worry about hiding it anymore.
Same as most women, I constantly found flaws with my body ever since middle school, if not earlier. I felt like my thighs were too big, I had cellulite, my legs are too short, my hair is too flat. Do my gums show when I smile? Am I walking with my feet out? It’s all silly, petty, vain. We all do it. We should all stop.
I never had more body confidence than when I had my big, round belly and larger (albeit weirder) boobs. I know not all pregnant women experience this increase in body confidence during pregnancy, but I am grateful I did. I remember one of the last days of pregnancy when I was at my biggest. I was goofily dancing around rubbing my belly telling Daniel, “I’m really rocking this preggo-bod!” He wisely agreed.
There is so much beauty in a pregnant woman’s body – growing life. She’s glowing for a reason. It really is beautiful.
After losing Ginny, I was humbled in several ways, but actually body image was not one. The self-consciousness that I had pre-pregnancy didn’t return. I wasn’t loving my body the way I did while I was pregnant, but I didn’t feel bad about the way I looked. I attribute this to three things:
When you are grieving a loss, you just don’t care about things you used to care about. Petty things don’t seem to matter at all. You only care about what’s important. (RE: Fear and Freedom)
Becoming a parent (which I consider to take place as soon as you find out you’re pregnant) changes you. You lose a bit of shame. Life is no longer all about you so you don’t care as much how you look or how you are perceived. I think this is a good thing.
I could no longer watch the family vlogs and baby youtube videos I had watched everyday during pregnancy. I found a new non-triggering topic to watch, body-positive fashion videos! I highly recommend Sierra Schultzzie and Carrie Dayton videos. They are all about shopping for mid-sized bodies and loving your body. I chose these videos because they are light-hearted and not family-focused, but their message has actually started to sink in.
Even without carrying a baby, our bodies are incredible and beautiful. We should not hide our imperfections or feel ashamed of ourselves. We should be proud of our bodies because they are part of who we are and they allow us to do all the things we do.
Pregnant or not, we should all be kind to ourselves and appreciate our bodies. They aren’t perfect, but they are ours and they are beautiful. For now, I’m rocking my burrito-baby bod unashamedly!
Vessel
I wrote that Body Image post a few weeks ago, and I did not post it. The post is true, but it somehow isn’t the whole story. When I think about my body now, it’s true that I’m not ashamed of how it looks. I don’t really care to have the perfect body. But would I say I’m happy with my body?…no, but not because of the way it looks.
If I’m honest, I’m mad at my body. My body failed Ginny. I gave my whole body to take care of Ginny, and it still wasn’t enough. It built her and then abandoned her, and it didn’t even let me know. How could it let me survive and her die?
A couple weeks ago in church we sang a song called “New Wine” by Hillsong Worship. I struggled to sing it. The lyrics I faltered on were, “In the crushing, In the pressing, You are making new wine…When I trust You I don’t need to understand, Make me Your vessel, Make me an offering, Make me whatever You want me to be”.
I gave my whole body to take care of Ginny, and it still wasn’t enough…for what I thought Ginny’s life would be. It was however enough for what Ginny’s life actually is. God had numbered her days (Psalm 139:16). He knew she would only live in the womb for those months, and he knew his purpose for her. My body served her for the days she had. My body was the literal vessel for Ginny’s life on Earth. It was a role that was physically and emotionally painful but full of love. God called me into this role. My body is an offering for the person that I didn’t get to raise. But she is in heaven with no pain or fear or struggle. When I trust, I don’t need to understand.
“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” – Romans 12:1
In addition to Ginny’s life, I know God is using this experience to bring new wine out of me. I love and empathize more. I’m helping others who are suffering, and I feel God’s presence in a new way. My brokenness and loss is being used for some good. As the other lyrics say, “Where there is new wine, There is new power, There is new freedom, The kingdom is here.”
“And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel as it seemed good to the potter to do.” – Jeremiah 18:4
I feel kicks in my belly. But my daughter is already gone. She stopped kicking. I am haunted by the movement that I feel – that I shouldn’t feel. I should’ve ran to the hospital when I stopped feeling her. But I never stopped feeling her. I still feel her. Am I crazy?
Although it feels like my mind is playing tricks, the movements are explainable. When she was in me, I was feeling contractions pushing her little body against my uterus. I thought she was stretching. I was wrong.
The weeks after she was born, I felt all my insides moving back into place as my womb shrunk.
Now I guess I just feel digestion.
During pregnancy our bodies and minds become so keenly aware of any movement. We can feel hiccups and little rolls and turns.
We are then left with the perception and nothing to perceive. The result is a phantom. Phantom kicks.
Early on, in eager denial I thought, “Is she still here?! Is it a miracle?!” Of course not, I saw her leave me. She’s not here, and she’s not coming back. I’ll be the one going to her one day. She won’t come to me.
But why can’t she come to me in a dream? I dream the most random things. Can’t I have one dream of my beloved daughter? Daniel tells me to be careful what I wish for. He dreams of her…then he wakes up.
I still want to dream of her. I want to join him in a dream, and we can be the family we were meant to be – the family we truly are. Do we have to wake up? We can stay a phantom family in a perpetual dream. Who says what’s real anyway? Why can’t our dream be reality?
Be-Still-and-Know 