4th of July (belated)

Yeah, so it's a little past the 4th, but I wanted to put up some pictures, and these are the most recent pictures we have! We celebrated American Independence at our little apartment in Chambery as it stormed and rained outside. Kirsten actually walked in the house drenched and had to change clothes!

We ate watermelon, pasta salad, hamburgers, and, of course, 4th of July flag cake (thanks to those who have sent yummy white cake mixes and frostings!!) and brownies. We had a blast with the help of some great decorations sent by my wonderful mom (and Target, oh, how we miss you!). We got the sweet star tablecloth, the Happy 4th banner, plates and napkins, and, all importantly, THE FLAG (none of us had one)!

After playing some fun games and eating cake, we ended our evening with fireworks...well, actually it was a 10-minute long video of an award-winning fireworks show from Malta that we found on the internet. But, hey, what are you going to do when no one around you really feels like shooting off fireworks to celebrate the big day? We did laugh, wondering if all of our future 4th of July's would be spent sitting in front of the computer screen in our huts in Chad! (yikes!) Actually, we have a lot of fun celebrating holidays here. It helps to remind us of home and it's a fun excuse to have a party and get to hang out with all of our friends. We've been so thankful for all of our friends since we've been here in Chambery. We couldn't do it without them!

Friends (l-r): Sue, Julie, Emily and David, Margit, Kathleen, Kirsten, Rachael, Rob, Cate holding Ben, David, and me in the front.

Motherhood

There are many in the world who have dreamt of and still dream of motherhood, I'm sure of it. I know that every single woman who has lost a baby, or suffered through years of infertility, dreams of motherhood.

What are my tears for these days? They are for the loss of my chance at motherhood. I find myself sometimes being able to think of nothing else but wanting to have a child of my own. The thoughts and dreams are all-consuming at times. I sit during class, during church, at parties, at home and calculate, and recalculate all the permutations of how we could manage to be pregnant again, and where we would have to live when, and when the baby could possibly come, and when the next one could come. Even if I've thought through every possibility thirty times, I try and calculate them again, thinking (delusionally?) that one of these times, I'll think it through in such a way that I'll come up with a better answer--that I'll come up with an answer that puts a baby in our crib in this very room from which I write, in the middle of September. But, unfortunately, so far, none of my calculations have given me that answer, except for going back in time and erasing everything that has happened.

Everyone keeps telling me, "you are a mother, you are Ella's mom." But reallistically, it really doesn't feel the same. And as I find myself watching and holding other people's children, it just hurts more. I hold them, dreaming of what would have been with Ella. I watch them crawl around on the ground, and smile for pictures. I watch them squirm when I tickle their feet, and hold them tight for a hug goodbye. But holding them will never take the place of Ella. They just remind me how lifeless she was when I held her in my arms. It just causes me to dream of my little baby girl crawling around on my rug, and drooling on my couch. And then it all comes flooding back--the reality of life at this point. That my baby is gone, and I can't see what the future holds. And once again, I see my dreams of motherhood as just that; dreams. I think back to last August and September, as we began planning for this pregnancy. It seems so, so long ago. And it saddens me to think, that somehow, we find ourselves on the brink of that same period of planning that started so long ago, and thinking how long it will be before we find ourselves holding another little baby, if we even will.

As much as I've tried to fight it, I find many of my tears now to be tears of jealousy. It's hard to even type that, becuase of course, no one wants to think that that is true. But it is. It's funny how, now, after I've lost my baby, I notice that about 60% of the women in Chambery just so happen to be pregnant right now. And that is only counting the ones I can really tell. I'm sure there are hundreds of others that are with child that I'm not even aware of. It's literally impossible to drive into town, walk into a grocery store, or even take out the trash without seeing a woman as pregnant as I was just three weeks ago. And when I see them, it just rips my heart out. I have literally had to turn away my head and not look at these women, because it just hurts so badly. In some crazy "twist of fate" there is a teacher at my school here who was only three weeks behind me in her pregnancy. I hadn't seen her since before we left for vacation. At the time, I was showing, and she was not. I had just found out we were having a girl, and she was waiting to find out. Last week, we returned to school, and I desperately hoped to not have to see her for many, many months. Only going three days each week now, I thought this might be possible. However, Thursday, I was sitting in the break room and saw her walk in. She was just about my size (before delivery). It hit me very hard. I could tell she did not want to bother me, though wanting to show her sympathy, and so she walked by with a simple, "Bonjour, Karen" and continued on. My heart was so heavy, and it was difficult to make it through the final hour of class without tears. I went home and cried for several hours. I only thank God that this didn't happened to her, because, not being a Christian, I don't know how she would make it through the grief.

In the last three weeks since delivering Ella, I have heard the announcements of four friends' new pregnancies, and two new births, and several pregnancies soon to be announced. How is it that none of this could have happened while I was pregnant. Why does it have to happen now? Maybe it's all of that, that makes my heart just grow and grow in yearning to be a mother. I don't know.

Sometimes now, my pain is quieter. Sure, the tears come...often, just ask Rob. But I find now that the pain is deeper inside, that tears can't express. I can't really explain it. It's like before, the pain, hurt, and grief were in a different place, somewhere more on the exterior. The crying actually helped a little, and the things about which I was crying were tangible, current things. Now, though, I find that when the tears come, they well up from somewhere really deep inside me, I don't know from where. The pain is really deep down, like I can't reach it. I find that the sadness starts and permeates my heart and my soul for hours before ever reaching my head and my tears. And even then, the tears are quiet, inward tears; the kind that aren't meant to be heard and make you want to be alone. It's a scarier sadness, actually. It's a kind that feels like it won't ever go away. It feels like it has become a part of your heart. And maybe it has. And maybe it is the kind that won't go away...just like Ella will never come back. But I've been reading this book about loss and grief, and the author talks about how extreme loss does become a part of our lives, but it doesn't mean the end of our lives. I guess it's kind of like when a person has a really bad injury, and they are left with scars. It doesn't mean that the injury is still there, but their body has been permantly changed forever. It won't go back to being the same, but will learn to live in this new different state.

I can't remember if I've written about it before, but during our vacation, before Spain, when we were in London, I fell down four stairs and onto the cement ground. (I didn't fall on my belly and everyone assures me it had nothing to do with her death.) I fell onto my left knee and my right elbow. Though nothing was broken, I still found myself at a second dr.'s visit yesterday to check-up on my knee that is still somewhat unbendable and has no feeling in a 2x2 inch area. In addition to that, both my knee and my elbow still have noticeable scars on them. Although I've been treating them daily with vitamin E, I am starting to realize that they are probably here to stay. And a part of me is kind of glad for these outward scars. To me they are a constant reminder of Ella (whether because I got them while carrying her, or because they came just a week before her death). I think for the rest of my life, I will have visible reminders of the internal scars that I've incurred because of this little baby girl. Not everyone is that lucky. When my future children (Lord willing) ask, "mommy, how did you get that scar?" I can tell them about their sister who went home really early to be with Jesus.

"I won't forget you little girl, I love you. I always will."