Sometimes I will be talking to Nate, and he will say, “that’s a good thought, write that down!!” Content for this blog often comes from conversations Nathan and I have. People close to us ask how we are doing in all of this. Statistics for divorce in marriages that face the loss of a child are sky high. Nathan and I vowed to each other, right off the bat, to tell each other everything. If I have a dark thought about Eden or the morning it all went down, I just tell him. We can either suffer on our own, or suffer together. The instinct to save him from my darkness or censor myself to protect him is strong, but unwise. We both naturally want to keep our dark moments inside, not to disturb anyone, but that would cause a divide. We share it all. I could see why the stats are so high for divorce in this kind of catastrophe, but for us, our grief has sparked an intimacy.

Grief Speak

I often feel alone in this journey. Not lonely, but alone. Does that make sense? People are around, but no one gets it. Nathan is the only one who understands. It’s like we speak our own secret language. For this blog I feel like I have to articulate very specifically so that others can grasp what it is we are going through. But with Nate, I just have to ramble off a few words about a trigger or emotion, and he can often finish my train of thought. And if we aren’t so synchronized, when I do get the words out, he had the same thought in his head but hadn’t yet found the words to express it yet as I had. Together we are starting to speak the language of grief fluently. That being said, we are always mindful of working at staying united. This kind of harmony doesn’t just happen.

More than Sympathy

Now, back to the thing he told me to write down this week. I had a friend send me a quote about grief. Her intentions were spot on, but the quote itself was all theatrics. It was very dramatic and clearly attention seeking by the one who wrote it. It went something like, “When someone you love dies, the heart wrenching pain never subsides, you just get good at hiding it from the world.” I’m sure that felt good to write or say out loud, but it’s inflammatory…it’s all shock factor. I could possibly have more readers on my blog or followers on Instagram with sensational rhetoric, but it seems attention seeking to me. I am not trying to gain sympathy, (believe me, I feel sorry for myself enough as it is). Over the top descriptions of our journey would stir up emotions but it would do very little to provoke change. And that’s what I want from all of this. I want people to read about our story and find a way to…

Love more. Appreciate more. Feel more. Talk more. Cry more.

But mostly love more.

So please keep in mind, I am being very careful with the words I choose in this blog. It may be shocking or conjure up feelings of sympathy, and that’s ok. But know that I am hoping for more than that.

The Burial

I haven’t shared much about the day we layed Eden’s body to rest. I must say, the days leading up to it were much worse than the day of. Dealing with the details of picking out the right plot, preparing funeral arrangements, choosing a casket and picking an outfit for her to be buried in were each their own form of hell. Everyone pitched in which was very helpful so I just had to give the final say once details were worked out. Choosing her coffin and her outfit sticks out the most in my memory. Flipping through a binder that just shouldn’t exist. Infant coffins. Is there anything worse? They were all hideous. It seemed like it was moments ago that I was choosing nursery furniture, and now this. There was only one that we didn’t absolutely hate, so we went with that. Later that day I got a call from the poor funeral director to say that the one I wanted wasn’t available, and sadly the ONLY one available was the one I hated the most. Lol. Whatever, I thought. It’s almost better that way. She is dancing in heaven right now, who cares what her casket looks like. Eden certainly doesn’t!

Then the outfit. There are many benefits to having little girls but dressing them up in cute outfits is tops for me. So, this task was particularly cruel. Nothing seemed appropriate. I had so many pieces that were special to me, but I didn’t want them buried with her. I wanted to keep everything that had ever touched her skin. So, I thought I better go buy a new and final outfit for her.

Torture.

I stood in the baby section at The Bay utterly lost. What am I doing here? How did this happen? Get me out of here. Get me home!! Nathan was on another floor looking for a suit for the funeral, but I had to get the hell out of there.

Eden was such a good sleeper that I considered having her lay to rest in a pair of cozy jammies. It is what she wore most of her life. I kind of regret not doing that, now that I think about it. In the end I chose a cute blue dress that was a gift when Cambria was born, and pink leggings with bare feet. She wore a knit sweater that her sisters wore before her, but I took that off her right before she was buried. I just wanted to see it on her. It was summer so she never had the chance to try it on.

Last Kiss

It was Cambria’s 2^nd birthday in between the funeral and burial. Poor thing. She may have been slightly overlooked. We had a BBQ and cake with Peppa Pig balloons. She was thrilled. I recently saw a photo of that day and I don’t even remember that meal. I looked absolutely awful. I was, however, looking forward to the burial day. I would get to see my baby again. I was determined to get my last snuggle, final words, and just be in her presence. I built it up in my head. Like a first date I was giddy about. I told Nathan I wanted to go into the viewing room with her first. Just her and I. When I walked up to her, my heart sank. Out loud I said, “You aren’t my baby.” She wasn’t there. It was her shell, and that is all. I immediately felt so foolish. What else did I expect!? I got the funeral director to pick her up out of her (ugly) coffin and place her in my arms. I got to hold her for the entire hour. It’s an odd thing, to say the least. Personally, it was the right thing to do for closure, but there is also something so fundamentally wrong. I was holding my baby, but all the best parts of her were gone…her spirit, her smile, her smell and her warmth. Like opening a beautifully packaged gift only to find that there is nothing inside. Ultimate disappointment.

None the less, I held her. I sang to her. I was bopping around like I would do in her nursery, to calm her. It was all instinct. I wrote her a letter that I left in the casket. I considered sharing it here, but its just between her and I. I like it better that way. After the family said their last tear-filled goodbyes to her earthly body, Nathan and I kissed her one last heartbreaking time, and placed her back in her cozy blankie. We watched the sunlight slowly eclipse off her face as the little box closed. Nathan picked up the box and carried our girl to the hearse, tears flowing. That quick little drive from the funeral home to the cemetery had me thinking of our drive from the hospital to her new home. So much joy and anticipation. Bringing home baby. Is there anything better? Our family was complete, she was it! The missing puzzle piece we longed for had been firmly secured into its rightful place, only to be forever lost. The cruelest reality.

Butterflies. Bubbles. Burial.

We met the girls at the cemetery. We didn’t allow them to come see Eden’s body at the funeral home. That morning I gathered rose petals from our garden so the girls could scatter them. Our pastor had a few words, a prayer and we closed by singing Jesus Loves Me with the girls. Aspen and Cambria were blowing bubbles and running around. I wanted them to be free to act like two & three-year olds. This wasn’t a church service, they weren’t disturbing anyone. For the most part they had no idea what was going on. I wanted the burial to translate to them on some level just in case Aspen did have memories of that day, my dad suggested releasing butterflies.

The symbolism was simple. An easy way for the girls to have a small grasp of what was going on here. Look! Off they go, into the heavens, where Eden is. We all assumed the metaphor was that the butterfly was like Eden. Her soul breaking from her earthly shell, to be even more beautiful, whole, free, and I dunno …fly around? It works on a few levels I guess. The girls loved it. They all beautifully emerged out of their box and took their first flight into the summer sky.

The Butterfly Battle

As dad was researching them the night before he kept piping up with random fact about butterflies, chrysalids and metamorphosis. It dawned on me. Sure, Eden can be compared to this beautiful angelic butterfly. BUT…the cocoon journey (or chrysalid…is there a difference??) is me. That’s where I am. I am the butterfly who must FIGHT to get out of that suffocating cocoon to gain transformation and freedom. That struggle is what prepares the butterfly for the next step. Their muscles are gaining the strength they will need to fly. If someone were to just cut the butterfly out of their cocoon, freeing them from their impending struggle but ultimate freedom, the butterfly would fall to the ground and die! The struggle is necessary. My pain is necessary.

Just like the cocoon journey, the grief journey has no short cuts. Not if you want to gain lasting freedom. I have clearly laid out that my Hope is firmly planted in God, throughout any trial, He is my anchor. This doesn’t mean that I am not devastated. Instead of Exhausted, Empty, Exposed and Embarrassed, I could choose: Hope, Joy, Ambition and Healing, argues the optimist. Let me say to you, not only would that be utterly impossible for me, it would be a disservice to myself and Gods plan for me. From what I can understand, God doesn’t want me to deny my emotions and blindly follow Him with a forced smile on my face. He is a personal God. Like I posted the other day, James 1. While facing trials our faith will inevitably be tested. It’s not a sin to question your faith, or wrestle with God. He wants an authentic faith. As you persevere through the testing of your faith, you gain maturity, a sense of completeness, lacking nothing.

The struggle is necessary.

This Sunday it will be 12 weeks. And by next Thursday she will officially have been gone longer than she had been with us.

I hate it so much.

In these 12 weeks I have only been to visit her grave four times. Three alone, and once with the girls. The times I went alone were awful. I was a wreck each time. I blurt out the words, “I am so sorry” repeatedly. I just can’t help it. I don’t plan to say that, it just comes out. I can’t help but feel like I failed her. It plagues me. No matter how many times I hear, “There was nothing you could have done”, I still feel like I failed.

The Valley

Rightfully so, her grave lies at the base of a steep hill. I must descend down it to get to her. The valley of the shadow of death. And when I am done I have to drag myself out of that pit and face my day. I thought the symbolism was bang on. Nothing feels good about visiting that site. We are yet to design a headstone. It is the last thing on Earth I want to do. Her beautiful name on the plastic temporary marker makes me feel like she is still near. Like the situation itself is temporary. Once we’ve placed an official stone with her name on it, it is there forever. And she will be there forever. We slaved over that name. That perfect name we chose for our perfect baby. I wanted to see it on her birthday cards, yearbook’s and driver’s license one day. Not on something so hideous as a gravestone.

It is all seeming far less temporary these days. Denial is fading. The seeds they sprinkled over her fresh grave had taken root and sprouted green grass. Last time I was there, it was the first thing I noticed. I guess she has been gone long enough for grass to grow. I played with the little baby blades of grass with the tips of my fingers like I would do with the delicate hairs on top of Eden’s head.

I better be strong as an ox after this grief, because this suffocating cocoon struggle is kicking my ass.