On Christmas 2014

My heart still aches for one more day with my daughter, even though I know if that wish were granted it wouldn't be enough.  I haven't written in well over a year, not a sentence, nothing in my book I was so eager to finish in 2013.  As my grief ebbs this holiday time I sat down to write but sentences wouldn't form.  Somehow, mingled with my tears emerged a poem.

Just Out of Reach

I hear you
In the leaf on the tree
rustling, quietly,
gently brushing my ears with its soft whisper.
The song of a bird
sitting, perched on a branch,
searching the sky for another.
The raindrops on the window
falling,
methodic,
 pat....
         pat....
                  pat
on a cool afternoon.

I see you
In the morning dew
tiny clear pearls,
clinging, glistening on each blade of grass across the lawn.
Bright sun rays
piercing, through the slivers of space among the clouds above,
a window to heaven, slender fingers reaching down to caress the Earth.
The dancer on nimble toes
graceful, gliding,
soft chiffon skirts swirling around her ankles
flowing in time with each perfect step.

Alone in my thoughts
I wander,
never too far, you're always near yet
just out of reach.
Your round soft head nestled, safely
in the crook of my arm.
Your skin, as downy feathers, silken beneath my fingertips
your eyes, clear green, sparkling
like sundrops in the dawn on the sea.

My nose gently touched the curve of your smooth baby forehead
our eyes locked in tenderness as the heaviness of sleep approaches.
and then your smile,
slowly,
creeping across your face,
bursting forth, exposing the sunshine residing within your heart.

That was our time
my favorite time,
just you and me

I hear you today
In the gravel beneath my feet
crunching,
grinding the asphalt to powder
rhythmically, under the bottoms of my shoes.
My legs burn and run,
faster
carrying me, away
away from the pain,
from the emptiness since you've gone,
away from the phantom ache still plaguing my arms,
longing to hold you
One
More
Time

Hot, salty tears,
trace crooked paths down my cheeks,
seeping into the corners of my mouth
lips parched, thirsting for just one more day
one more space in time to savor you, to know you
to love you,
Here.

Nights Like These

It's nights like tonight...moments such as these that I feel most inadequate...overcome and overwhelmed at the enormity of the task that is raising surviving multiples.

Nights like tonight when the grief in your living child's eyes mirrors your own...when you see your daughter's own arms ache to hold something tangible to feel close to her sister in Heaven.  The confusion and the questions "Why did she get so sick?  Why did she die?  When can I see her?"  My responses sound so feeble, so empty as my mind races to choose my words to match their level of understanding and to keep fear out of the picture, all the while knowing they are watching my every move, expression and cadence in my voice.  They're searching for clues to put this puzzle together so it makes sense.  Except it doesn't make sense.

My eyes well as I listen to my daughter ask God to help Zoe know that she loves her & misses her & wants to play...then buries her face in her pillow and holds a xerox copy of her sister's handprint to her cheek.

I know those tears, those questions and the physical aches...now amplified as I watch my daughters grieve and long for their sister.  This may sound strange, but I am thankful Zoe died when my girls were young, before they could speak and ask these questions.  They didnt have to watch me fall to pieces & be unavailable to them.  I've had a few years to work on my own grief to find a place where I can grieve with them and more importantly, support them as sadness and questions come to the surface.

My own prayer tonight is to be prepared to answer what I can and to offer comfort when there is no answer.  Before that I will sweep up the broken pieces of our hearts and mop up the puddles of our tears.

A Candid Look at Grief

I came to know Franchesca about a year ago.  Someone sent me a link to her online magazine specifically for parents who have experienced infertility, pregnancy or infant loss.  In a word, Fran is an inspiration with a quiet grace about her that emanates in her writing and her art.  She is the founder of Still Standing Magazine, artist at Small Bird Studios, book author, an advocate for parents who experience a pregnancy or infant loss, gifted photographer, mother to beautiful children on Earth and her baby Jenna Belle in Heaven, and just a lovely human being.

When we spoke on the phone last year she asked if I would write a guest post for the magazine about my own grief journey and how I've found hope in the years since Zoe died.  I of course said yes, but then got busy with other things.  And then I started reading the quality of the articles that were posted in the magazine and I got intimidated.  The writers, all mothers who have lost children, are extraordinarily talented.  Sometimes I feel like I'm reading poetry, the writing is that good.  So I thought to myself, whatever I write had to be fantastic!  So I procrastinated.

I went through a period of a few months that were challenging for me personally.  I was really wrestling with my depression, working with a new psychiatrist on my medications and new therapy.  October through February are generally hard months for me as they include Zoe's NICU discharge anniversary, the holidays and her death.  That's five months out of the year that are more difficult than the other seven.  Nearly half a year and I have moments where I feel like my head is barely above water.  I hate that.  I don't like feeling that way, I don't like when I think I'm doing well the anxiety and depression will creep up behind me and gather me up again.  I want to change, I want it to be different and I'm working hard to make some changes.  But surely I could NOT write about that for Still Standing!  That doesn't sound hopeful one bit.  And isn't that what every grieving mother is looking for?  Hope???

I finally sat and wrote my reality.  During the process I uncovered some interesting details about myself...my need to label myself, my need to be a beacon of light, my fear that someone will pull back the curtain one day and find the real me that often feels broken.  I sent my article off to Franchesca with an honest fear that it wouldn't be what she was looking for to share with her readers.  To my delight, I was wrong.  Fran immediately responded she would love to share it and thought it would resonate with many moms struggling in the same ways.

Thank you Fran for encouraging me to share the reality of grief, the reality that healing takes time, it takes work, and it has peaks and valleys along the way.

You can read my article here: Broken, but not Shattered

I Choose Hope

One of my favorite preemie parent support resources is Papas of Preemies - an outstanding blog and online community highlighting the oft looked over, father's perspective to the preemie experience. Joel Brens, founder of PoP, is a father of preemie son Jayden. His love for his family shines bright whenever he speaks of them and his passion for making sure dads don't get lost in the shuffle emanates from every conversation we have.

I was honored when Joel asked me to contribute a piece for his "I Choose Hope" campaign. As I mention in the post, hope quite often seems elusive for a preemie parent when we are bombarded with awful statistics about morbidity and mortality. And for many, we fear holding on to hope when our babies appear to be doing well - we all know how quickly the tides can change in the NICU. But I also know that we all need hope, we need to believe that life will be good, no matter the outcome.

Please take a minute to read my post for Papas of Preemies by following the link below. There are several other wonderfully written posts on the blog as well so I hope you will spend a few moments looking at the life of a preemie through the eyes of a devoted father.

http://www.papasofpreemies.com/2013/01/i-choose-hope-keira-sorrells.html?m=1

Advocacy & Awareness

I've been honored to contribute guest posts to two different sites this month for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness.  Please read and share them:

Life After NICU - offering support to families through all stages of their NICU experience and well beyond discharge day.  They have a blog and very active Facebook page.

Loving October, Living my Purpose

I love October.  Of all the seasons, Autumn is my favorite.  I love the crisp, fresh air that greets me in the morning when I step outside.  I love to pull my sweaters off of the shelves in my closet.  I love wearing my boots and hearing the crunch of the orange and yellow leaves under my feet.  I love pumpkin patches, state fairs, and hot apple cider.  While Autumn is the time of year when nature begins to wither away, I feel energized by the perfect sunny days that get me back outside after the sticky heat of the deep south.

October holds fond memories for me when significant experiences have occurred.  In 1998 my husband and I married on one of those perfect cool Autumn days in North Carolina.  If I could have hand picked the weather for that day, I would have picked exactly what we got.  Fast-forward nine years to October 7, 2007 when I finally got that wheelchair ride out of the hospital with the last of my triplet daughters, Zoe Rose.  My girls were born 15 weeks early and while Zoe’s sisters, Avery and Lily, spent 120 days in the NICU, Zoe was a much different baby with a far more complicated NICU course that lasted 291 days. Read the complete post 

National Premature Infant Health Coalition - a collaborative of professional, clinical, community health, and family support organizations focused on improving the lives of premature infants and their families.  Visit their website and Facebook page.

Story from a Parent

I usually like to remain in control.  I like to plan ahead and I love having a schedule.  Nothing gives me more satisfaction than making a list and then taking my dark brown sharpie and marking through one of my tasks.  When half my list is done, it’s time to start a new list on a fresh, clean piece of paper.  Control.  Having a plan and a purpose.  It really is just an illusion though, false security.  Any parent of a preemie or parent who has lost a child will tell you that and yet we may find ourselves grasping desperately for something to give us that security back, that sense of purpose.  While we may have once seen our lives laid out before us, after the trauma of loss or an extremely early birth, the future turns from high definition to fuzzy and unfocused.  How do we get life back into focus?  How do we find ourselves in a place where we can once again feel secure and grounded? Read the complete post

A Time to Dance

“There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.  A time to cry and a time to laugh.  A time to grieve and a time to dance.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

My Zoe…those cheeks, that smile, the sparkle in her green eyes – I can still remember what it was like to rub lotion on her arms after her bath.  I remember the feel of the tightened skin on the scar across her side from her PDA ligation, the dimples in her chest from chest tubes, those little silver slashes covering her heals.  Her battle scars.  Why didn’t we win that final battle?  I don’t know.  I hope for an answer one day when I find my sweet Zoe again.

I’ve been grasping for her…reaching, trying to grab hold and keep her tight in my arms.  Like trying to catch the wind – it’s an exercise in futility, it has a way of slipping effortlessly through my fingers.  Wind wasn’t meant to be held.  Her physical body is not here any longer, but the sensation of remembrance still tingles on the tips of my fingers.  She’s in my heart forever, locked in a mother’s love that never diminishes, only grows stronger with each passing day. 

Letting go – it feels like forgetting – but that isn’t the case at all.  I am finally beginning to understand that.  My sorrow doesn’t need to be the tie that binds me to Zoe.  A little girl with so many challenges stacked against her and yet she smiled and giggled at every turn.  She spread joy to nurses who worked tirelessly every day saving the lives of our tiniest babies.  Their job is wrought with painful losses, it is unavoidable in the NICU.  My little girl was supposed to be one of those early losses – but she wasn’t.  She lived and her smile lifted the spirits of many along the way.

I don’t want grief to bind me to her – she didn’t embody sadness – quite the opposite.  Nancy Guthrie wrote in her devotional book Hope, about letting go of our grief.  Her words really resonated with what I've been struggling with.  Giving myself permission to allow grief to loosen it's grip on me.  She writes:

 “We realize at some point that we have to figure out how to keep on living, how to incorporate the loss into our lives.  We want to feel normal again, to feel joy again.  But the energy and emotion of grief keep us feeling close to the one we love or connected to what we’ve lost.  Letting go of our grief feels like letting go of the one we love, leaving him or her behind and moving on.  The very idea of it is unbearable….We can make the painful choice to let it go [our grief] – not all at once, but a little every day…We can begin to let go of our grief so we can grab hold of life and those who are living.  But I think the only way we can do that is by telling ourselves the truth – that if we choose to let go of the pain, at least let it become manageable, it does not mean we love the one we’ve lost any less.  And it doesn’t mean that person’s life [no matter how short] was any less significant or meaningful, or that we will forget…Perhaps it’s not so much that we let go of our grief, but more that we give our grief permission to lessen its grip on us.”

Not all at once, just a little each day.  It has been four and half years since Zoe died and I am not where I hope to be on my grief journey.  Not by a long shot.  It is a process, a marathon, a test of emotional, physical & spiritual endurance that lasts a lifetime  I haven't had any radical changes, no lighting strikes or booming thunder – I just look for a gentle breeze to caress my cheek each day and wipe away a tear.  Carrying with it my pain, bit by tiny bit.  Giving myself permission to love her like I love Avery and Lily.  I don’t love them out of fear of losing them or out of the trauma and guilt I experienced due to their early birth.  I love them wholly, completely, and actively.  Love isn’t noun, it isn’t a feeling – it’s an action.  Love with deeds not words, love with compassion and gratitude.  Gratitude for the gift that was taken away and gratitude for the miracle our girls survived their early start to life.  Gratitude for having had a chance to have Zoe at all.

There’s a new song by Taylor Swift called “Ronan” – written about a little boy who died from cancer.  The words pierce my heart and tears flow down my cheeks when I listen to it, but I love it.  There are lines in the song that reflect moments I had with Zoe. 

Here are the lyrics and link to the song – it is amazingly beautiful.

Ronan

By Taylor Swift

I remember your bare feet down the hallway

I remember your little laugh

Race cars on the kitchen floor

Plastic dinosaurs, I love you to the moon and back

I remember your blue eyes looking into mine like we had our own secret club

I remember you dancing before bed time then jumping on me waking me up

I can still feel you hold my hand

Little man, from even that moment I knew

You fought it hard like an army guy

Remember I leaned in and whispered to you

Come on baby with me

We’re gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years

I remember the drive home when the blind hope

Turned to cry and screaming, “Why?”

Flowers piled up in the worst way

No one knows what to say about a beautiful boy who died

And it’s about to be Halloween

You could be anything you wanted if you were still here

I remember the last day when I kissed your face

I whispered in your ear

Come on baby with me

We’re gonna fly away from here

Out of this curtained room in this hospital

We’ll just diappear

Come on baby with me

We’re gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years

What if I’m standing in your closet trying to talk to you?

What if I kept the hand me down you won’t grow into?

And what if I really thought some miracle would see us through?

But what if the miracle was even getting one moment with you

Come on baby with me

We’re gonna fly away from here

Come on baby with me

We’re gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years.

I remember your bare feet down the hallway

I love you to the moon and back

•

I can see her green eyes looking into mine too – she held a secret and we all wanted in on it. 

I whispered into her ear the night before she died, I can still feel the tickle of her wispy black hair on my lips. 

I can feel her squeeze my finger in the middle of the night before they made us leave. 

And I kissed her face, her sweet pudgy cheeks, one last time. 

As the passage from Ecclesiates says – there is “a time to dance” – that is what time it is in my life right now.  I have grieved.  And I have grieved hard, fierce, and strong – I’ve gone down deep into that valley, that pit, that cave.  But the sunlight peeks through the clouds spreading it’s warm rays on my face.  I feel the tingle of the gentle heat on my cheeks and I let it wash over me into my heart.  My footsteps are lightened, a smile finds it’s way to my lips, and hope begins to fill my thoughts.  I feel a sense of freedom, permission in some way to unlock the heavy burden of my grief.  I memorize this feeling; I stop in the moment and allow happiness and contentment to pulse through my body.  I welcome this sensation and ask it to stay a while.

Just this morning, I sat on the edge of the bed as Avery woke up.  She turned to me with complete love and adoration in her eyes that only a child possesses, yawned, then reached out her arms & clasped her hands behind my neck to pull my forehead to hers.  With a sigh of relief and in that sweet, sleepy voice, she said “Mama” – as if I were her refuge, her safety, her comfort.  I locked myself into that moment and reveled in it.  That was how I danced this morning.

Passing Through the River

Avery & Lily

I don’t want this to be the same post you’ve read for the last two years each time my surviving triplets, Avery and Lily, start a new school year.  And yet, I can’t ignore that it feels quite the same.  That ever-present mix of excitement & anticipation swirled together with longing & heart ache for my daughter, Zoe, who isn’t going off to Kindergarten with her sisters.  Many agree that grief ebbs and flows, it is not linear.  It’s path cannot be charted, nor the surges predicted.  And so I’ve created a calm place in my mind where I can go when I need to settle my nerves and anxiety.   But even my calm place cannot escape the reality that my arms still ache to hold Zoe, my chest feels tight and I miss my daughter terribly.

My calm place is a river.  I see myself in this river of life – the water is cool and refreshing, the rich green of the trees and the grass-covered river banks surround me as the smell of damp moss fills my nose.  The quiet around me is pierced only by the trickling of the water, an occasional song of a bird, and the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze.

Zoe Rose

I wade easily in these waters, my white cotton dress clings to my legs and flows between them; my hair falls loosely around my shoulders as I push a wisp behind my ear.  The same wisp she twirled in her pudgy little fingers hours before we said goodbye .  A half smile finds it’s way to my lips as I see her eyes before me, sparkling back and reflecting the love that only exists between a parent and a child.  

(c) Naomi Levit Photography

I drag my index finger lazily along the surface of the river.  A gentle wake appears behind me as a leaf softly glides from above and continues it’s dance in the rippling trail I’ve left.  I’m alone, lost in the languor of my thoughts, in my own dream.  The solitude is inviting, I’m comfortable and the sun rays shine through the leaves of the forest around me creating streaks of ethereal light in the air as the scent of honeysuckle drifts by and I look ahead to the clearing. 

The clearing I know is coming.  The clearing I face from time to time as the river of my life moves on.  The trees part and the water ever so slightly begins to pick up pace around me.  With each step the power of the water increases and begins to pull at my feet below the surface.  It pushes at my back, moving me along so that I cannot turn to escape.  I can only continue forward.  The soft roar of the rapids are ahead, my heartbeat quickens and my skin feels pricked by a thousand tiny needles.   

(c) Naomi Levit Photography

I’ve been here before.  I’ve been through these rapids.  I’ve gasped for air when I slip on the algae covered rock, been pulled under by the force of the river and felt the rush of water above my head.  I’ve reached up to grab for anything that can pull me up again, anything that can set my feet on something solid.  And here it is again, raging in front of me.  I’m a bit more prepared this time.  I know the challenges I will face; and I know how my heart will pound in my throat, pulsing and throbbing loudly in my ears.  My senses will heighten to everything around me leaving me exhausted once I’ve finally passed through.

I also know that I will not drown.  My grief will not control me indefinitely.  I know the intense power of the river won’t pull me all the way to the bottom.  And when I reach up, I’ve got something that rescues me each and every time I slip; every time the river of life threatens to engulf me.  Like the calm after a thunderstorm, the water will return to the peaceful stillness I crave, where I can walk gently and easily, dragging my index finger along the surface of the water again.

“He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.  Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”   ~Isaiah 40:29-31                                                                                                             

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”   ~Isaiah 43:2                                                                                                     

They may look like triplets....

An exerpt from my latest post for Preemie Babies 101, the parent blog for support organization, Hand to Hold.

“Oh, twins! They’re so cute!” exclaims the lady in the checkout line at the grocery store.  In a nanosecond, I have the following conversation with myself: “No, they’re not twins, they’re triplets you just can’t see the third one.  Does this lady care that one of my girls died?  Am I just going to depress her and ruin her day by bringing to the light the fact that babies die?  How do I phrase it?  Surviving triplets?  Two of my triplets?  Two of three?  How much longer will I have to stand here?  Can I just turn and run away?  If I just say ‘yes, they’re twins’, have I dishonored Zoe and confused Avery and Lily?  Do I have the energy to deal with this today?” (read more)


Join the discussion: If you are raising surviving multiples, how do you handle questions about your surviving children?

Preemie:Lessons in Love, Life, & Motherhood

In the last 36 hours I have devoured this exquisitely penned book, by author and preemie mom, Kasey Mathews.  In the book, "Preemie: Lessons in Love, Life, & Motherhood", Kasey takes us through her journey as a preemie mom, wife, and woman complete with all the nitty gritty details so many of us try to hide.  She is open and honest in a way that caught me off guard at times, yet offered so much comfort in knowing that I was not alone in some of my deepest fears as a mother of preemies myself.  She does not hide behind a facade of having it all together; and when her life is turned on its head, she carries us along her path with eloquence and a sense of honesty that leapt off the page and nestled in my heart.

On Tuesday, I eagerly ripped opened the package Kasey sent me as I stood in my kitchen about to prepare dinner.  My girls were in the living room at their usual post, seated at the coffee table with a stack of construction paper and an enormous box of crayons.  I was mesmerized from the first page and didn't move for a good 15 minutes as I dove head first into Kasey's life.  The detail with which she recalls such poignant moments in her life painted such a clear picture, I felt as if I was standing in the hospital room with her, or pushing her in her wheel chair to visit Andie (her 25 weeker daughter) for the first time.  I could hear the scratching of the doctor's pen on her paper and all the beeps and bings of the machines in the NICU.

While Kasey's story is uniquely hers...it is not unique.  Hundreds of thousands of parents go through the NICU experience every day in our country.  My own story, though different, had such amazing similarities I had two shows running simultaneously - Kasey's and my own.  A slide show of images flashed through my mind of each moment I shared with Kasey along my own path.  

I am so thankful to Kasey for having the courage to bare her soul to the world, to be brave enough to put in writing her raw emotions.  This book will offer hope to new preemie parents currently in the NICU.  Likewise for parents like me who are a few years past the traumatic events of giving birth months to soon, it reminds me that I am not alone.  That even my deepest held fears and guilt are not unique and as I continue to push forward in my own life, I can do so with tenacity and grace, as Kasey has so clearly exhibited.

I highly recommend that parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, caregivers, and healthcare providers purchase and read this book, cover to cover.  It will give you a peek inside the thoughts and emotions of us preemie parents who often are so wrapped up in surviving we have difficulty expressing all that lives inside of us, even for years past the NICU.

Thank you Kasey...for sitting on the end of my bed these last two days!

First Preemie Babies 101 Post

My first monthly post is up on www.preemiebabies101.com. Be sure to check it out and leave a comment!

Happy Mother's Day

I Could Call You Beautiful

I could call you beautiful

because you are mine.

I could say you will change the world

because I have a mother's faith in you.

I could say you will be loved by everyone

because I love you,

But, today as I hold you in my arms

I can only say, dear baby

I am so happy you were born

Thank God!

by Marion Schoeberlein

The poem above was given to me by one of Zoe's primary nurses when Zoe was in the NICU; we were going on 3 months and Zoe was still sedated on the ventilator.  Life felt hopeless at times, I never dared ask about discharge because we were prepared to be there for a year, if not more.  It was a marathon physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  On a day to day basis I would flip-flop between feeling helpless as Zoe's progress seemed to move at a snail's pace and eager anticipation as Avery and Lily graduated to the step down nursery and were on their path to coming home.

Kangarooing Avery & Lily

Avery getting a bath

Bathing Avery and Lily was so exciting for me, being able to pick them up out of their cribs and hold them anytime I wanted almost made the NICU feel like my second home.  I brought real baby clothing in for them, blankets and little toys.  They even had a mobile above their crib and their very own CD player to filter soothing classical lullabies to their ears.  All of these things were so important to me because, while we were still in the hospital, I was at least able to do the things that "normal" mothers do for their babies.  For so long I had not felt like a mother, more like a bystander or a visitor; a common sentiment of NICU moms.

Daddy, Zoe, & Me

After doing Kangaroo care with Avery and Lily, I'd walk across the hospital to Zoe's quiet room in "The Garden" (the part of the NICU where the chronic babies go).  There she'd be, asleep, the rhythmic swoosh, click, swoosh, click of the ventilator breathing for her would fill my ears.  Zoe would shift slightly, grunt, clamp down on her ET tube and we'd hear a shrill "beep, beep, beep, beep" and the "ding, ding, ding, ding" of the various alarms measuring her heart rate, respirations, and pulse ox.

Me & Zoe

The room was grey, though I did have a big comfortable chair and when the proper number of nurses and respiratory therapists were assembled I would get myself situated just right, a boppy around my waist because as long as I held her I couldn't move.  I always feared she'd extubate while I was holding her so I would allow the muscles in my arms, neck, and back to tighten and twitch.  No amount of physical discomfort on my part could keep me from the treasured minutes of holding Zoe in my arms.

My first Mother's Day was spent in the NICU.  Avery and Lily had been discharged a few weeks prior and Zoe was making huge strides, moving to the newly built step down nursery on a high flow canula!  We still did not have a clue when we might bring Zoe home, but for a few hours that day I had all three babies in my arms.  Dressed them in precious onsies Richard purchased for them and I revelled in the fact that from this day forward Mother's Day would be a day I was allowed to celebrate!

My first Mother's Day

During our NICU stay, days stretched into weeks, and weeks ultimately into 9 1/2 long months and the definition of mother changed into something far greater than what the dictionary defines as "a female parent".  I prefer to think of NICU and bereaved moms as the other definition of mother: "something that is extreme or ultimate of its kind" (used in expressions like "the mother of all ships", allow me the liberty to manipulate the meaning just a tad).  

As preemie moms and mothers who have lost a child, we have to dig deep within our souls to uncover the strength that lies within.  Many have described motherhood as a primal instinct we often see played out in nature by a lioness' fierce protection of her offspring.  NICU moms and bereaved moms are quite the same.  We would take every wire and tube, procedure, medication, and surgery upon ourselves if we could so our babies wouldn't have to endure such things.  We would do more than change a diaper on our 1 pound babies if we could, and we would do anything, literally anything possible to protect, love, and nurture our babies.

Me & Zoe

And as a mother who has lost a baby, who has watched life slip away, and held the shell of my once warm daughter with sparkly green eyes; we would give up anything to have that baby's life back.  To have one more day, sing one more song, or have just one more snuggle to fill the void in our empty arms.

I promise you, NICU moms, no matter where you are along this life journey, even when you feel your weakest, you are far stronger than you may believe.  This seed of strength was planted the moment you knew there was going to be a complication.  You may not feel it yet, but over time it will grow and you will find yourself as that fierce lioness protecting and advocating for your child with grace and determination.  

And to the many moms whose arms may be empty this year, know that you are and always will be a mother.  You became a mom from the minute you dreamed of having a baby and when your worst nightmare was realized, and you had to let our baby go, your seed of strength was planted too.  Step by step, at your own pace, you will find a moment when you won't have to force yourself to smile, when moving your feet from your bed to the bedroom floor won't take quite so much effort.  You are stronger than you feel and for both NICU and bereaved mothers there is a vastly growing network of parents who have been where you are and want desperately to offer you just one small ray of light, one small piece of hope.

Lily, Me, Avery, Zoe (8 mos old, still in NICU)

I am in awe of all the moms I've met along my NICU and grief journey who have found a way to channel their experiences into something that helps even one other mom find that sense of hope we all crave.  Happy Mother's Day to the many, many moms I count as dear friends who offered me that hope, always at just the right time, exactly when I needed it.  I love all three of my daughters, and my two other angels in Heaven, with every ounce of my heart and soul and feel so incredibly privileged to be given the chance to be their mother.

Birdie & Lily

Namo with Lily & Avery

And Happy Mother's Day to those who have been like mothers in their own ways to me - my wonderful stepmom and my mother-in-law, both of whom love their granddaughters in an immeasurable way and did everything they could, when they could, to help us through some of my darker days.

Zoe with Mimi

To my own mother, I am usually great with words, but I find myself unable to properly express my gratitude for all that you've done.  You stood by my side, even when I locked everyone out, and you never left.  In your own graceful, quiet, and loving ways you held me up and even offered a mother's care to my babies when I was too grief-stricken to do it myself.  Quite simply, and very deeply, I love you! 

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!

Much love, peace, and hope to all of you!

Mommy with Avery & Lily