It's winter! It's Christmas time! It's time to be excited, happy, jolly! Right?! We have our Christmas lists, our gifts for others wrapped tight for our family and friends. It's such a happy, beautiful season... But is it really that great for every woman?
No. It's hard. It causes anxiety. It hurts. It's painful.
I see you, sweet mom whose number one wish and prayer is to have a baby.
I see you, precious woman, who just like me, took that Christmas pregnancy test and it was negative. I see you, I've cried with you, I feel your devastating pain.
I hear you, sweet girl, when you realize you can't give that positive pregnancy test to your husband for the very best Christmas gift.
Sometimes our Christmas wishes don't come true. Sometimes our prayers aren't answered right away. Sometimes what we pray for is answered in a completely different way than we want.
I'm going to be completely honest and straightforward with you... I hate Christmas. I hate the gatherings, the meals, the talks. It breaks my heart. I hate it because my baby should be there. We should be celebrating his first birthday. We should be cutting his first birthday cake. He should be grabbing his "smash cake" and putting it all over his face. He should be enjoying his first visit from Santa and receiving gifts from his grandparents and cousins.
As I decorated for Christmas this year I remembered the year before... My Mom and Dad were here. Mom helped me decorate and my Dad graciously went to CVS 3 times to get more lights and extension cords.
I desperately wish that this year they could watch Baby Ben open Christmas gifts from them... but that's not the case. He's not here.
I can dwell on the sadness, the heartache, the sorrow, the fact that the pregnancy test, yet again, was negative. I can tell you a million reasons to be sad this season. I could write a freaking book of reasons to be depressed this season! But really... there are so many reasons to rejoice. Yes, Ben and I will be the only ones in my family without a child. Yes, it's hard to watch the other kids open their gifts. Yes, it breaks my heart that we don't have a blue cake at our Christmas dinner to celebrate. Yes, it hurts that I've tossed countless negative pregnancy tests into the trash cans in tears. Yes, I am dreading Christmas day because that's the day of my child's birth. Yes, I am broken. But God is bigger than this.
I'm terrified that Baby Ben was my one chance. I'm scared that we can't have another precious baby. I'm fearful that I had my one opportunity, but I have to believe. The Christmas story is so powerful.
It's so amazing, it's so mighty! Our God is strong. He is so much more than me. I want what I want, but I have to trust that He is stronger than me. He's bigger than me. He's better than me. He is perfect.
Women out there who feel defeated, women who cry when you take that pregnancy test and it's not what you want; that woman who didn't get the adoption papers or foster papers, that woman who feels empty... I feel you. I understand. I hurt with you... but please know that our God is bigger. He feels your pain. He feels your emptiness. He feels your ache.
He is so much more. He was born to give us hope, to give us a purpose, and so much more.
Yes. I absolutely feel your pain. Yes, I know how bad it hurts. I know how hard it is to tell your husband that yet again, this month I failed. I understand that the adoption papers didn't work out. But, moms, we have to believe. I call you moms because you are moms. You may not have children yet, or you may not have as many children as you wanted yet.... Either way, our God is powerful.
This is the season to spread joy to one another. Whether that be you giving your friend an extra gift, spending more money on your boss than you planned, spending more money on your students than you anticipated... It is so worth it.
Make the choice to choose joy. Make the choice to be positive. Make a choice to be happy. Make the choice to make someone's life better.
Precious mom, sweet woman, believe that He hears you. Its's not always the answer you want to hear. It's probably the opposite of what you want to hear, but He knows better.
Take this journey with me. Take this journey of trusting Him, above all. It's hard, it's tough, but let's do it together... You can do it, precious woman. Your time will come. I'm proud of you or being so strong. I know it's hard. I know it's arduous. I know it's difficult. But you can do it. You can make it through this Christmas season. You can do this. I believe in you.
Love Always,
Allison
Saturday, December 10, 2016
Friday, September 30, 2016
a letter to our son
A letter to my son-
Ben, there are some things I want to say.
First,I want you to know that I loved being your mommy. I loved every single second I spent with you in NICU, even when it shattered my heart. I cherished helping the nurses, and even teaching some of them, how to care for your omphalocele. I loved rocking you for hours. I even loved staring at your monitor and making sure all of your numbers were okay. I loved walking through the doors, checking in and practically running to your "crib." I loved learning to feed you there, I loved scooping you up and holding you for hours on end. I loved how the nurses loved you and thought (knew) you were so super adorable and such a good baby.
Even more,I loved every moment we had with you at home. God certainly blessed us by being able to be together in our home. I loved snuggling with you on the couch, I loved waking up to feed you, and I even loved your cry... It was so pitiful! I loved watching you on the monitor. I loved watching your daddy hold you and love on you, y'all were so much alike. I loved rocking you in your nursery and listening to your little snore (another way you and daddy are alike!)
You absolutely changed our lives(and many more). You taught me what selfless love really is. God used you in your short time to minister to me and help me. You taught me how to be a mommy. You taught me how to change stinky diapers without gagging :) You taught me to change my life to better your life. You taught me to rely on God more, you taught me more than I could ever even list. You were the absolute best son I could ever have asked for.
I talk about you all the time. Your daddy and I talk about the precious times we spent together with you and I am now even able to talk to others about you without sobbing!
I miss seeing your daddy hold you. You were so incredibly tiny compared to him! It always made me giggle when I would do laundry and your clothes were so much tinier than his! I miss seeing your daddy bottle feed you and love on you. Although he had never even held a baby before, he was such a natural with you! I miss seeing you sleep, you literally slept exactly like your daddy. I miss seeing you hold on to his finger, you loved to hold on to his big finger so much! It melted my heart each time you reached for it.
I miss hearing your handsome daddy singing to you. He sang to you ALL the time. It was the only thing that made you stop crying! He is an amazing dad, as you know.
Every now and then, I will catch your daddy signing your dirty diaper/omphalocele chaging song:
"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you
Tomorrow I'll miss you,
Remember I'll always be true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you
I'll pretend that I'm kissing
The lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true
And then while I'm away
I'll write home every day
And I'll send all my loving to you"
You would be so proud of him. He is working so hard to provide for his little family and choose joy each day. You changed his life too, sweet baby boy. You made him an even better man.
Next, I want you to know that you are not forgotten. You wouldn't believe the amount of people, who almost 8 months later, are still thinking about you. People are still donating to NICU, ministering to us during this hard time, and doing many things to raise money for NICU, your home for the first part of your precious life. People are continuing to be changed by your life. I have been told that you have helped others choose joy, learn to pray more, and be more appreciative of their own children. You blessed so many people. You will never be forgotten.
Sweet baby boy I want you to know that we are doing our best. We are trying
so hard to trust in the Lord and choose joy each day. Your daddy and I think about you constantly. My heart aches to hold you, to love on you, to feed you and help you grow. I long for more moments, but I am relying on God to help me understand that this is all in His plan.
If we are ever blessed with more children I promise to tell them all about you. You will always be my first son, my first beautiful baby. Future children will always know that they have an older brother who now lives with Jesus.
I also want you to know that I'm kind of jealous of you! I can't imagine the glory of Heaven that you are experiencing. I know that in the short time I taught you about our Lord. We read about Him and sang about Him, and now you are praising Him at His feet every second of the day! I wish you could tell me all about it!
Ben, even though I tried... words can't even express what all I want to tell you, say to you. You were the most amazing person I know. I wish I could say that I have touched as many lives in my almost 30 years as you did during your short time. You are truly an inspiration and I admire you.
I love you always. I love you forever. You will always be my baby. I will always be your mommy. You are so loved. I will see you one day again, and I will scoop you up and hold you forever. We can praise Jesus beside one another for eternity.
I love you.
- Mommy
Thursday, May 26, 2016
52 days
Our journey has had so many ups and downs. So many trials, so many successes. Our journey is still continuing, and we are still experiencing those ups and downs and heart breaking trials. It will probably never be over.
52 days.
52 days is how long I had with my sweet baby Ben. He spent most of that in NICU, but we had some beautiful, precious times at home as a family. The Lord was faithful, and He gave us that time together. My husband, Ben, is an amazing father. He knew exactly what to do when I questioned my ability. We grew as a close-knit family, including our fur baby, Heidi, who absolutely adored her baby brother.
But 52 days. That's not long enough. That's not enough days at all. We just didn't, in my small opinion, have enough time. However, I will cherish each second of those 52 days for the rest of my life.
But let me explain something to you...
In baby Ben's 52 days, he reached people. He reached their hearts, and he touched their lives. Think about your past 52 days... What have you done to make a difference? I'll be super honest... The past 52 days I have cried, I have shouted prayers to my Lord, I have written in my journal, I have hidden from the world, and I have been incredibly broken.
Yes, I have my days where I get up and decide to choose joy and I accomplish things, small victories, but mostly I have just been here, just existing. And I can't help that.
My husband and I have been seeing an amazing counselor to help us through this tragic grieving process. I have seen doctors and I have been closely watched. I have depression, whether that be post partum depression or "regular" depression. I have ignored it for quite some time, but I am finally on the path that I need to be on for healing. For almost a year I cried out in my raspy, shaky voice, for Jehovah Rapha to heal my son. Now I am doing the same thing, but I'm asking Him to heal me.
I don't feel like myself, I'm not myself. I want to be, I try to be, but I just can't be. I'm praying that the medical professionals can help me fix it, but let's be real, I'm mostly relying on Jehovah Rapha to heal me.
I have to believe with all of my heart that I'm experiencing this for a reason. Our resurrected King has a plan for me, for my family. I have to believe that we are not forgotten. Yes, the funeral month passed. Yes, people lifted us in their prayers, people got down on their knees for us, and I am eternally grateful for that. But please understand that we still desperately need and covet your prayers.
I wish I could say that in the past 52 days I did as much good as my baby did, but I cant, and I haven't. And that is eye opening. I have decided to do the very best I can to encourage people and help others just as my sweet baby boy did. I know that Ben would be proud of us if we would be strong, faithful believers. That we cling to that Anchor and we change lives.
Hope has a name. Joy has a name. And that name is Jesus Christ. If you, in whatever your situation may be, are claiming hope or searching for happiness, and you are trying to do it alone, then God bless you. I don't know how you do it.
As I've written before: He is the one that picks me up when I'm sobbing on the floor. He's the one that somehow brings a spark of joy to my heart when I am utterly depressed. He has that incredible power to comfort us, care for us, and heal us. Only He can provide that. He's the one that walks with us through the toughest times and hears our hearts.
I believe that baby Ben understood this, somehow, in his tiny baby brain. I know that he reached more people in his 52 days than I have in my 28 years. But I'm ready now. I'm ready to continue the legacy Benjamin Michael started. I'm ready to start changing lives. Are you?
So I am proposing a challenge to you, friends. For the next 52 days, make the choice to make a difference. Make the choice to reach people. Make the choice to trust Him in your darkest moments. Make the choice to choose joy. And make the choice to celebrate those victories, no matter how small. Let's do it together. Let's celebrate together the difference that we are making. It can be anything from "Today I put on pants" to the greatest feat you can imagine. Each and every single victory should be celebrated. Let's encourage one another, in honor of my baby Ben, to make a difference in this world.
Comment on the blog, comment on facebook, use the hashtag, share how you're choosing to make a difference. Let's celebrate together each other's victories. Let's encourage one another. Let's band together as people, as believers, and let's do this.
52 days. Just shy of 2 months. See what you can do in 52 small days. 52 days brings us to July 17th. How big of an impact can you make, how can you change the world by then? Let's do this together. I know you can do it. I know WE can do it. I know you can make a difference. Let's make a difference together.
#babyben52daychallenge
We can do this. I believe in you.
"So be truly glad. There is wonderful JOY ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while." 1 Peter 1:6
Choose Joy,
Allison
Share your victories on my facebook here
Share your victories on Instagram
Share your victories by commenting on this blog post
use the hash tag #babyben52daychallenge
52 days.
52 days is how long I had with my sweet baby Ben. He spent most of that in NICU, but we had some beautiful, precious times at home as a family. The Lord was faithful, and He gave us that time together. My husband, Ben, is an amazing father. He knew exactly what to do when I questioned my ability. We grew as a close-knit family, including our fur baby, Heidi, who absolutely adored her baby brother.
But 52 days. That's not long enough. That's not enough days at all. We just didn't, in my small opinion, have enough time. However, I will cherish each second of those 52 days for the rest of my life.
But let me explain something to you...
In baby Ben's 52 days, he reached people. He reached their hearts, and he touched their lives. Think about your past 52 days... What have you done to make a difference? I'll be super honest... The past 52 days I have cried, I have shouted prayers to my Lord, I have written in my journal, I have hidden from the world, and I have been incredibly broken.
Yes, I have my days where I get up and decide to choose joy and I accomplish things, small victories, but mostly I have just been here, just existing. And I can't help that.
My husband and I have been seeing an amazing counselor to help us through this tragic grieving process. I have seen doctors and I have been closely watched. I have depression, whether that be post partum depression or "regular" depression. I have ignored it for quite some time, but I am finally on the path that I need to be on for healing. For almost a year I cried out in my raspy, shaky voice, for Jehovah Rapha to heal my son. Now I am doing the same thing, but I'm asking Him to heal me.
I don't feel like myself, I'm not myself. I want to be, I try to be, but I just can't be. I'm praying that the medical professionals can help me fix it, but let's be real, I'm mostly relying on Jehovah Rapha to heal me.
I have to believe with all of my heart that I'm experiencing this for a reason. Our resurrected King has a plan for me, for my family. I have to believe that we are not forgotten. Yes, the funeral month passed. Yes, people lifted us in their prayers, people got down on their knees for us, and I am eternally grateful for that. But please understand that we still desperately need and covet your prayers.
I wish I could say that in the past 52 days I did as much good as my baby did, but I cant, and I haven't. And that is eye opening. I have decided to do the very best I can to encourage people and help others just as my sweet baby boy did. I know that Ben would be proud of us if we would be strong, faithful believers. That we cling to that Anchor and we change lives.
Hope has a name. Joy has a name. And that name is Jesus Christ. If you, in whatever your situation may be, are claiming hope or searching for happiness, and you are trying to do it alone, then God bless you. I don't know how you do it.
As I've written before: He is the one that picks me up when I'm sobbing on the floor. He's the one that somehow brings a spark of joy to my heart when I am utterly depressed. He has that incredible power to comfort us, care for us, and heal us. Only He can provide that. He's the one that walks with us through the toughest times and hears our hearts.
I believe that baby Ben understood this, somehow, in his tiny baby brain. I know that he reached more people in his 52 days than I have in my 28 years. But I'm ready now. I'm ready to continue the legacy Benjamin Michael started. I'm ready to start changing lives. Are you?
So I am proposing a challenge to you, friends. For the next 52 days, make the choice to make a difference. Make the choice to reach people. Make the choice to trust Him in your darkest moments. Make the choice to choose joy. And make the choice to celebrate those victories, no matter how small. Let's do it together. Let's celebrate together the difference that we are making. It can be anything from "Today I put on pants" to the greatest feat you can imagine. Each and every single victory should be celebrated. Let's encourage one another, in honor of my baby Ben, to make a difference in this world.
Comment on the blog, comment on facebook, use the hashtag, share how you're choosing to make a difference. Let's celebrate together each other's victories. Let's encourage one another. Let's band together as people, as believers, and let's do this.
52 days. Just shy of 2 months. See what you can do in 52 small days. 52 days brings us to July 17th. How big of an impact can you make, how can you change the world by then? Let's do this together. I know you can do it. I know WE can do it. I know you can make a difference. Let's make a difference together.
#babyben52daychallenge
We can do this. I believe in you.
"So be truly glad. There is wonderful JOY ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while." 1 Peter 1:6
Choose Joy,
Allison
Share your victories on my facebook here
Share your victories on Instagram
Share your victories by commenting on this blog post
use the hash tag #babyben52daychallenge
Saturday, February 13, 2016
to the women that saved my baby's life... every day
We didn't have good NICU/SCN nurses. We didn't even have great nurses. We had phenomenal nurses.
These women are incredible. They're special. They're called. They're dedicated. They're amazing They're so many things... But to me, mostly, they're heroes.
You have no idea how much your little choices in your life impacted mine. You chose to get up every morning (or evening). You chose to drive to work. You chose to go to shift change and learn about my baby. You chose to save my son's life... every day.
When I was creating my birth plan I never thought of you.You never crossed my mind. I had never seen a NICU, I had never even imagined that you existed. I had no idea that for the first month of my son's life you would be the one caring for him. Most people have no idea what you do, they've never thought about it, much like myself before I was faced with the situation. Except now I know.
I know that behind those 2 sections of alarmed doors, behind the video doorbell security system, behind the parent scrub in station, and behind the check in counter, you pour your heart out into tiny little lives day after day.
I had no idea that you would be the one to change by baby's diaper. I had no idea that you would be the one to feed him his little bottles or rock him when he cries when I wasn't there. I never imagined that you would be the one to sit me down a week after he was born and hand him to me for the very first time. I didn't know that you would be the one to know his facial expression for when he was hungry or when he needed his diaper changed. I didn't know you would be the one to talk to him in a soft voice when he started to get upset. I didn't know you were going to be the one.
I was so jealous of you.
I was jealous that if you wanted to know how he was doing, you could simply look over at him. I had to call the hospital, give my 4 digit secret code, and ask you.
I was jealous that when he cried at night you were the one to comfort him.
I was jealous that you were the one to give him his first bath, give him his first feeding, and change his first dirty diaper.
In a very odd way I was even jealous that he peed on you when you changed his diaper rather than me.
Except I couldn't dislike you. Yes, I was envious... but I loved you.
Every single time I think about my little miracle's life, his story, I think about you.
I think about how you didn't just save my baby's life. In a way you saved mine too.
You taught me so much.
You taught me what it meant when Ben made a certain face, you had seen it for 12 hours day after day. You taught me how to breastfeed, even when it got hard. You taught me how to change his dressing on his omphalocele, and you did it calmly, knowing it broke my heart to have to learn that. You taught me how to feed him, how to burp him, how to hold him. You taught me his feeding schedule, you were perfect at it from your weeks with him. You taught me how to read his monitors... What a normal heart rate, pulse, and respiratory number should be. You also taught me not to obsess and stare at his monitors, but to read my baby. You taught me how do that.
You heard me.
You heard me cry over my son. You heard me pray for endless hours over him. You heard me sing to him, in my tired and raspy voice. You heard me read the same books in my same mommy voice day after day. You heard me struggle, you heard me rejoice.
You sat with me. You held my hand. You hugged me. You even cried with me. After the doctors left and I was in shock and had no idea what they were saying, you sat down beside me, looked me in the eyes, held my hand, and calmly explained everything, in words that I understood. You let me ask the same question over and over. You patiently answered the phone every hour and reassured me he was okay throughout the night.
Most people don't know what you do. They don't know you. But I do. I know that you save lives constantly. You think your job is just to save the tiny lives, but you save the grown up lives too. You helped me when no one else could.
You helped me during the darkest of days. When no one understood, when no one knew, you did. Most times you knew even better than I did.
You give your everything everyday to families in crisis. You spend 12 hours straight with 1 or 2 babies, watching over them and rushing to help them. When you're not at work you think about our babies. I've even heard you call and ask about the status of one of them while you were at home "relaxing."
I'm blown away by you.
What I'm trying to say is "thank you." Stupid words on a computer screen will never be adequate. I'll never ever be able to give back to you what you gave to me.
Thank you for teaching me, thank you for sitting with me, thank you for hearing me, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for holding my hand. Thank you for acting like it was perfectly normal for me get excited because he was finally able to be fed again or the fact that he pooped. Thank you for acting like it was normal for me to sob with you. Thank you for sending me home when you saw the dark circles under my eyes and my inability to keep my eyes open. Thank you for texting me pictures of him, even if maybe you weren't really supposed to. Thank you for choosing to do what you do. Thank you for deciding, every day, to save lives.
Most people have no idea what you do. They don't know how important you are or how crucial your role is. They have no clue that you play an incredible part in people's lives, but I do.
I know how truly amazing you are. I will never be able to tell the story of our journey without talking about you. You are a part of our miracle story. You are irreplaceable. You are giving and kind. You are selfless. You are impeccable. You are appreciated. You are so freaking appreciated. I am a better person for knowing you.
Choose joy,
Allison
These women are incredible. They're special. They're called. They're dedicated. They're amazing They're so many things... But to me, mostly, they're heroes.
You have no idea how much your little choices in your life impacted mine. You chose to get up every morning (or evening). You chose to drive to work. You chose to go to shift change and learn about my baby. You chose to save my son's life... every day.
When I was creating my birth plan I never thought of you.You never crossed my mind. I had never seen a NICU, I had never even imagined that you existed. I had no idea that for the first month of my son's life you would be the one caring for him. Most people have no idea what you do, they've never thought about it, much like myself before I was faced with the situation. Except now I know.
I know that behind those 2 sections of alarmed doors, behind the video doorbell security system, behind the parent scrub in station, and behind the check in counter, you pour your heart out into tiny little lives day after day.
I had no idea that you would be the one to change by baby's diaper. I had no idea that you would be the one to feed him his little bottles or rock him when he cries when I wasn't there. I never imagined that you would be the one to sit me down a week after he was born and hand him to me for the very first time. I didn't know that you would be the one to know his facial expression for when he was hungry or when he needed his diaper changed. I didn't know you would be the one to talk to him in a soft voice when he started to get upset. I didn't know you were going to be the one.
I was so jealous of you.
I was jealous that if you wanted to know how he was doing, you could simply look over at him. I had to call the hospital, give my 4 digit secret code, and ask you.
I was jealous that when he cried at night you were the one to comfort him.
I was jealous that you were the one to give him his first bath, give him his first feeding, and change his first dirty diaper.
In a very odd way I was even jealous that he peed on you when you changed his diaper rather than me.
Except I couldn't dislike you. Yes, I was envious... but I loved you.
Every single time I think about my little miracle's life, his story, I think about you.
I think about how you didn't just save my baby's life. In a way you saved mine too.
You taught me so much.
You taught me what it meant when Ben made a certain face, you had seen it for 12 hours day after day. You taught me how to breastfeed, even when it got hard. You taught me how to change his dressing on his omphalocele, and you did it calmly, knowing it broke my heart to have to learn that. You taught me how to feed him, how to burp him, how to hold him. You taught me his feeding schedule, you were perfect at it from your weeks with him. You taught me how to read his monitors... What a normal heart rate, pulse, and respiratory number should be. You also taught me not to obsess and stare at his monitors, but to read my baby. You taught me how do that.
You heard me.
You heard me cry over my son. You heard me pray for endless hours over him. You heard me sing to him, in my tired and raspy voice. You heard me read the same books in my same mommy voice day after day. You heard me struggle, you heard me rejoice.
You sat with me. You held my hand. You hugged me. You even cried with me. After the doctors left and I was in shock and had no idea what they were saying, you sat down beside me, looked me in the eyes, held my hand, and calmly explained everything, in words that I understood. You let me ask the same question over and over. You patiently answered the phone every hour and reassured me he was okay throughout the night.
Most people don't know what you do. They don't know you. But I do. I know that you save lives constantly. You think your job is just to save the tiny lives, but you save the grown up lives too. You helped me when no one else could.
You helped me during the darkest of days. When no one understood, when no one knew, you did. Most times you knew even better than I did.
You give your everything everyday to families in crisis. You spend 12 hours straight with 1 or 2 babies, watching over them and rushing to help them. When you're not at work you think about our babies. I've even heard you call and ask about the status of one of them while you were at home "relaxing."
I'm blown away by you.
What I'm trying to say is "thank you." Stupid words on a computer screen will never be adequate. I'll never ever be able to give back to you what you gave to me.
Thank you for teaching me, thank you for sitting with me, thank you for hearing me, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for holding my hand. Thank you for acting like it was perfectly normal for me get excited because he was finally able to be fed again or the fact that he pooped. Thank you for acting like it was normal for me to sob with you. Thank you for sending me home when you saw the dark circles under my eyes and my inability to keep my eyes open. Thank you for texting me pictures of him, even if maybe you weren't really supposed to. Thank you for choosing to do what you do. Thank you for deciding, every day, to save lives.
Most people have no idea what you do. They don't know how important you are or how crucial your role is. They have no clue that you play an incredible part in people's lives, but I do.
I know how truly amazing you are. I will never be able to tell the story of our journey without talking about you. You are a part of our miracle story. You are irreplaceable. You are giving and kind. You are selfless. You are impeccable. You are appreciated. You are so freaking appreciated. I am a better person for knowing you.
Choose joy,
Allison
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Empty Womb, Empty Room
I have written many pages in my journal about this. Through my tears, my vision blurred, I have written, but it has been very hard to type this post out. It has taken me longer than normal to finish this post because it breaks my heart to write the words. I apologize for the delay.
Please don't read this and think that I am constantly a mess. I am a very proud momma, I love my time with my sweet baby. I am enjoying life not pregnant! I even got to go on a DATE with my handsome husband! There are many positives.
This is post is about my first days at home after leaving my baby for the first time. And those days were hard. Those days were dark.
.....
I was finally being discharged from the hospital. I had been excited about this day for quite some time. Although I had done my best to make that hospital room our "home," it just wasn't. It was time to go home, to my real home. For the first time in a while.
Everyone knows the rules, new mommas have to be rolled out in wheel chairs.
There I was, sitting in a wheel chair. Ben was walking in front of me, pushing a cart full of our bags and gifts from our families. My wheelchair was being pushed by our sweet nurse, and ordinarily, this sounds perfectly normal.
We got into the elevator, and with each level the elevator went down, my heart sank a little bit more. As we reached the ground level, I'm pretty sure my heart reached rock bottom.
My nurse rolled me out of the elevator and on towards the exit. And I couldn't help but to notice... to compare. Most momma's get rolled out of the hospital in a wheel chair too, that we had in common. In that fashion I was normal. However in other momma's laps there were carriers that held babies.
Their new, fresh-smelling, perfect babies.
In my lap I held nothing.
My lap was empty.
My heart was empty.
The nurse handed me a bouquet of flowers, and then I held something. I smelled it, but it didn't smell like a new born baby. I felt it, but I felt pricks from thorns, not the smooth skin of my beautiful, soft baby.
On the ride home I tried to come up with things to occupy my mind, my heart, but it didn't work.
We reached home just a short 15 minutes later, and somehow although I was holding flowers, bags, and pillows... my heart and my lap felt even more empty than it did before.
As I walked into my house for the first time in 2 weeks, I thought I would feel joy. I missed the smell of my home. I missed the excitement of my puppy Heidi, I missed the blue and white stairs that led me upstairs to my comfy bedroom, to my son's nursery we worked so hard on. I missed the candles on the coffee table. I missed my cast iron skillet on my stove. I missed it all. This now, even with the anticipation built, meant nothing. It all meant nothing... Because my heart, my lap, and my arms were empty.
I realized for the first time ever that I was home without my son. And my heart shattered.
When we toured this house I was pregnant with my son. When we moved in, my son was in my belly listening to me unpack those boxes. He was here when we decided on the paint color for his nursery. He was there for my months of bed rest. He was here as I spent hours in his unfinished room, crying out to God to help me.
My son was there as my husband picked me up of the floor and ushered me to the shower. He had been here for everything. But now, he wasn't here. Instead, he was lying in a diaper, under a heater and blankets, hooked to his machines, on the 8th floor of a hospital, and I was at our home.
I did my best to get used to life at home without my son. I saw my "choose joy" items, and now I had to work hard to choose that joy. I had to work hard to find it at home.
I tried to set up my home in a way that would make me choose joy-- I set up my pumping station in Ben's nursery. I was on a strict 3 hour pumping schedule, like my son was there and hungry, every hour he would eat- I would pump. I set up a pumping parts cleaning station in his bathroom. All of this was so that I would associate Ben's areas of the house with something positive... Something MUSC's counselor's told me I should do.
But choosing joy at this point was hard. Choosing joy, in those moments, was just impossible. Sometimes I think those counselors get paid to feed me bull crap. I'm just being honest. I did everything they told me, and I still felt empty.
My womb, for the first time in almost a year, was empty. My son's room, was empty. My arms and lap were empty. My heart and my soul were empty. My eyes, after many hours, were empty.
I began to cry out, with almost dry eyes and a raspy voice, again to my Savior. My prayers of healing my son were now more real. My prayers were from the heart of a broken momma, desperate for healing for her helpless son.
I pray for him constantly, with almost every conscious thought. I pray as I shower, as I pump. I pray as I walk from the entrance of MUSC and I make my way to his bed...I make those turns... I could do it in my sleep.... right, left, right, left, elevator....... right, left, ring the intercom, enter, left, turn in my cooler of breast milk, scrub in, right, right, right.... The whole way, I pray.
My prayers now are from the bottom of my heart. They are the most honest and the most real prayers I have every prayed before. I praise Him for each tiny milestone we hit. I beg Him to protect my son, to hold him in His strong hands. I beg Him to heal my little baby. That is my heart's cry.
But I know He hears me. He hears this momma's heart, this momma's soul. He hears this desperate momma's tears as I leave my son every night. He hears this momma's loud sobs and tears at night as I sit in the nursery, pumping, not breast feeding as I so desire to do. He hears me. He sees me.
I'm getting used to my new life now. My life in the nicu. I sit with him for hours now, I read to him, I talk to him, and I sing to him... I sing "Jesus Loves Me." I still can't make it through the whole song... Maybe only once or twice I have been able to. The line "They are weak, but He is strong" gets me every time. I just weep.
I'm clinging to that simple children's song. Because just as it applies to my tiny, helpless son, it applies to me. I am weak. I am broken. I am needy. I am absolutely at my weakest, but He is strong. He's going to help me through this. He's wrapping His strong arms around me, and He is comforting me. He picks me up. He carries me. He walks with me through this journey. He's helping me find the joy in this. He's helping me celebrate each tiny victory. He's showing me, yet again, that He is faithful. He is the Ultimate Healer, and our story is far from over. Our story, our journey is just beginning.
Each day is a little better,. Each day I see that He is even more faithful. Each day brings hope.
Each day I become stronger. Each day, I am the best nicu momma I can be. Each day I can't wait to get my hands on my sweet little ducky, and I cherish those hours holding him, talking to him, reading to him, singing to him.
Every single day, my Ultimate Healer heals my heart just a little bit more.
Choose Joy,
Allison
Please don't read this and think that I am constantly a mess. I am a very proud momma, I love my time with my sweet baby. I am enjoying life not pregnant! I even got to go on a DATE with my handsome husband! There are many positives.
This is post is about my first days at home after leaving my baby for the first time. And those days were hard. Those days were dark.
.....
I was finally being discharged from the hospital. I had been excited about this day for quite some time. Although I had done my best to make that hospital room our "home," it just wasn't. It was time to go home, to my real home. For the first time in a while.
Everyone knows the rules, new mommas have to be rolled out in wheel chairs.
There I was, sitting in a wheel chair. Ben was walking in front of me, pushing a cart full of our bags and gifts from our families. My wheelchair was being pushed by our sweet nurse, and ordinarily, this sounds perfectly normal.
We got into the elevator, and with each level the elevator went down, my heart sank a little bit more. As we reached the ground level, I'm pretty sure my heart reached rock bottom.
My nurse rolled me out of the elevator and on towards the exit. And I couldn't help but to notice... to compare. Most momma's get rolled out of the hospital in a wheel chair too, that we had in common. In that fashion I was normal. However in other momma's laps there were carriers that held babies.
Their new, fresh-smelling, perfect babies.
In my lap I held nothing.
My lap was empty.
My heart was empty.
The nurse handed me a bouquet of flowers, and then I held something. I smelled it, but it didn't smell like a new born baby. I felt it, but I felt pricks from thorns, not the smooth skin of my beautiful, soft baby.
On the ride home I tried to come up with things to occupy my mind, my heart, but it didn't work.
We reached home just a short 15 minutes later, and somehow although I was holding flowers, bags, and pillows... my heart and my lap felt even more empty than it did before.
As I walked into my house for the first time in 2 weeks, I thought I would feel joy. I missed the smell of my home. I missed the excitement of my puppy Heidi, I missed the blue and white stairs that led me upstairs to my comfy bedroom, to my son's nursery we worked so hard on. I missed the candles on the coffee table. I missed my cast iron skillet on my stove. I missed it all. This now, even with the anticipation built, meant nothing. It all meant nothing... Because my heart, my lap, and my arms were empty.
I realized for the first time ever that I was home without my son. And my heart shattered.
When we toured this house I was pregnant with my son. When we moved in, my son was in my belly listening to me unpack those boxes. He was here when we decided on the paint color for his nursery. He was there for my months of bed rest. He was here as I spent hours in his unfinished room, crying out to God to help me.
My son was there as my husband picked me up of the floor and ushered me to the shower. He had been here for everything. But now, he wasn't here. Instead, he was lying in a diaper, under a heater and blankets, hooked to his machines, on the 8th floor of a hospital, and I was at our home.
I did my best to get used to life at home without my son. I saw my "choose joy" items, and now I had to work hard to choose that joy. I had to work hard to find it at home.
I tried to set up my home in a way that would make me choose joy-- I set up my pumping station in Ben's nursery. I was on a strict 3 hour pumping schedule, like my son was there and hungry, every hour he would eat- I would pump. I set up a pumping parts cleaning station in his bathroom. All of this was so that I would associate Ben's areas of the house with something positive... Something MUSC's counselor's told me I should do.
But choosing joy at this point was hard. Choosing joy, in those moments, was just impossible. Sometimes I think those counselors get paid to feed me bull crap. I'm just being honest. I did everything they told me, and I still felt empty.
My womb, for the first time in almost a year, was empty. My son's room, was empty. My arms and lap were empty. My heart and my soul were empty. My eyes, after many hours, were empty.
I began to cry out, with almost dry eyes and a raspy voice, again to my Savior. My prayers of healing my son were now more real. My prayers were from the heart of a broken momma, desperate for healing for her helpless son.
I pray for him constantly, with almost every conscious thought. I pray as I shower, as I pump. I pray as I walk from the entrance of MUSC and I make my way to his bed...I make those turns... I could do it in my sleep.... right, left, right, left, elevator....... right, left, ring the intercom, enter, left, turn in my cooler of breast milk, scrub in, right, right, right.... The whole way, I pray.
My prayers now are from the bottom of my heart. They are the most honest and the most real prayers I have every prayed before. I praise Him for each tiny milestone we hit. I beg Him to protect my son, to hold him in His strong hands. I beg Him to heal my little baby. That is my heart's cry.
But I know He hears me. He hears this momma's heart, this momma's soul. He hears this desperate momma's tears as I leave my son every night. He hears this momma's loud sobs and tears at night as I sit in the nursery, pumping, not breast feeding as I so desire to do. He hears me. He sees me.
I'm getting used to my new life now. My life in the nicu. I sit with him for hours now, I read to him, I talk to him, and I sing to him... I sing "Jesus Loves Me." I still can't make it through the whole song... Maybe only once or twice I have been able to. The line "They are weak, but He is strong" gets me every time. I just weep.
I'm clinging to that simple children's song. Because just as it applies to my tiny, helpless son, it applies to me. I am weak. I am broken. I am needy. I am absolutely at my weakest, but He is strong. He's going to help me through this. He's wrapping His strong arms around me, and He is comforting me. He picks me up. He carries me. He walks with me through this journey. He's helping me find the joy in this. He's helping me celebrate each tiny victory. He's showing me, yet again, that He is faithful. He is the Ultimate Healer, and our story is far from over. Our story, our journey is just beginning.
Each day is a little better,. Each day I see that He is even more faithful. Each day brings hope.
Each day I become stronger. Each day, I am the best nicu momma I can be. Each day I can't wait to get my hands on my sweet little ducky, and I cherish those hours holding him, talking to him, reading to him, singing to him.
Every single day, my Ultimate Healer heals my heart just a little bit more.
Choose Joy,
Allison
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