Cynicism and Hope

"If we have another child and we decide to take the breastfeeding class again, what will we say when asked if we have other children? 'We took this class about two years ago, had a daughter, then she died before we could put any of the knowledge into practice. So we're back. Best of luck, suckers.'"

Thus I began a conversation with my husband before work this morning. While I am not a person who always sees life through rose colored glasses, I have never been this cynical before. 

Several hours after Isabella died, our midwife held her while we talked about what happened. She told us that Isabella's death was considered a trauma. As a result, we would feel vulnerable and as if anything bad that could happen would happen. Driving would feel dangerous, we might assume catastrophes would befall us, and we would have fears that never entered our minds before. She was correct. 

Life feels incredibly fragile. My husband recently stayed at work late and did not text me until he was coming home. While he only left about 45 minutes later than usual, my mind went down the worst case scenario route after about 30 minutes. If he was dead and I just did not know it yet, how should my evening proceed? I decided to defrost the scallops anyway because I figured my dad could help me cook them if my husband was dead. I would take time off from work. We already have cemetery plots so I would not have to figure that out. I know what funeral home I would use. I'd pay off the house with his life insurance. I'd call an airline to see if I could change his name on an upcoming ticket to my sister's due to extenuating circumstances. I had a game plan because, why wouldn't my husband die? As I was in the kitchen prepping dinner and deciding how to survive with his death, I missed his text saying he was heading home.

These days I have to actively remind myself it is not appropriate to go up to random pregnant women and tell them that their child may die, even if everything is textbook perfect so far. When people complain about their children, I tell myself that it is normal to grumble about kids and I do not need to stomp over and tell them they should be grateful they are not sleeping through the night because it means their child is alive and crying. I am seeing entirely new and rather ugly sides of myself since Isabella died.

Coupled with this cynicism is the desire to hold onto hope. While Isabella's death was traumatic for us, unexpected, and hurts like crazy, it is only one chapter with this degree of loss in an otherwise good story. (But who's to say other future chapters won't be full of more devastating losses?) Previous chapters have had heartache, disappointment, frequent doctor appointments and fears, but those are common elements of people's stories. Although we are not guaranteed future children or their survival, we are choosing to hope. Often choosing many times a day to hope. 

This hope cannot be rooted in circumstances, whether children, finances, each other, security, etc. Our hope must be anchored in something unchanging.

The idea of hope as an anchor has been in the forefront of my mind since shortly after Isabella died. My mom sent me information about a group called Hope Mommies. The couple who began it has a very similar story to ours. Their firstborn, a daughter, was also delivered via emergency c-section. She spent 36 hours in the NICU and passed away. (Isabella was there 29.5 hours.) They, too, were surrounded by a community as they grieved. Over the fall I participated in a Hope Mommies study called Anchored. The study's name comes from Hebrews 6:19. 

Lost Bumblebee

It was a tremendous struggle to have hope this morning. On my drive to work I heard the Danny Gokey song, "Hope in Front of Me." As it started playing I literally groaned. About three blocks away from work, tears started welling in my eyes at the lines: 

There's a place at the end of the storm
You finally find
Where the hurt and the tears and the pain
All fall behind
You open up your eyes and up ahead
There's a big sun shining
Right then and there you realize
You'll be alright

Disclaimer: I did not make the video, ignore the typos

The final line is, "I still have hope. You are my hope." I sighed and dried my tears as I parked. Not an ideal start to the day. Walking in I saw a coworker on parking lot duty and asked for a hug. (This was probably the second time I've asked coworker friends for a hug this year; not a common occurrence.) 

She gave me a hug and told me she had not hugged me before because she did not want to make it harder for me. Then she shared her story of loss. Her grandson died shortly after birth three years ago. It was her son and his wife's first child and he was also born via emergency c-section. His death still hurts daily and they miss him. After about a year her daughter-in-law got pregnant and had another child. While the pain is no longer as raw, it never goes away. After her grandson's death she bought a tabletop sculpture of large hands holding a baby to remind her that her grandson is being held by the Lord. We both cried and I walked into work feeling better. 

My husband and I have hope. It is not the hope of having another child. As we have learned through painful experience, we are never guaranteed children nor that they will outlive us. Our hope is anchored in Christ, who has conquered death, is unchanging, and has Isabella safely cradled in his hands. As the song states, "Even after all I've seen...I still have hope. You are my hope." And we remind ourselves of this hope many times a day.

Unattributed images via Google image and Pinterest

Calvin and Hobbes, Bill Watterson