Forever changed

So everything is over. The funeral was absolutely beautiful and I plan to write an entire blog post about it–with pictures and a copy of the talk I gave–for those that want it. We are home now and everything feels weird. It somewhat feels like everything I have been experiencing over the last 5 months or so were leading up to his funeral–and now I don’t know what to do or how to feel. For the most part I feel normal and a bit like I just had a bad dream. Because I never really had Isaac in my life, I feel like his presence was almost phantom like.

Until I think of our family. It doesn’t feel complete without him. Aaron and I were asked how many children we had the other day by an old acquaintance–they knew about Isaac, but hadn’t made the connection between the story they had heard and meeting us again in person. When he asked us, Aaron and I froze and looked to one another for an answer. Neither of us spoke and both kind of let out an awkward chuckle–not really knowing how to respond–so we stood there stammering. In an attempt, I’m sure, to understand the awkwardness, this man shuffled through information in his memory and remembered our situation. He felt instantly remorseful for his question. You could physically see when he realized what had just happened. It wasn’t his fault. Really, there is just no way to always be careful and considerate in a situation like that. He hadn’t see Aaron in years–had heard our story through someone else, so I felt bad at his embarrassment. There was nothing we could say that would make him feel better though. It was hard and awkward for all of us.

Ironically, we ran into another of Aaron’s friends that night–but this man had lost a child in December. His wife was 8 months pregnant. Sound familiar? Their situation was completely different than ours, but the outcome was the same and we could understand and relate with each others grief.

How opposite those two encounters were.

What was interesting about the second one was talking to a fellow parent who had lost their baby. It would seem they knew exactly what we were going through–and we them. But in reality neither of us could understand. Our situations were so different. I had a hard time with that over that past few weeks, when message after message came flooding in of people telling me their stories. While I sincerely appreciated their vulnerability and putting themselves out there, it was hard for me not to want to say “you have no idea”.

Sometimes, in our hurt and grief, we feel as if we are the only ones experiencing pain. It’s hard to relate with others when they aren’t experiencing what we are–even if it’s similar. I hated every time someone told me that they had also lost a child. It seemed to make my anger grow. Why could God let so many children die? How was this part of a greater plan or purpose?

On top of that, I didn’t know how to deal with the information of an infant passing–when they were perfecting healthy and normal otherwise. The weight of that knowledge laid heavy on my heart. What if Isaac had been healthy–but I lost him anyway?

But Isaac wasn’t healthy. For months Aaron and I went to devastating doctor appointment after appointment. Every time we went it seemed as if there was more bad news. Another solid nail in his tiny coffin. Each hospital visit was just more evidence that our sweet baby boy was not going to live–no matter how much I wanted him too.

I never really got to dream for him. I never got a baby shower. I wanted one. I never bought him a crib or clothes or very many toys. I never decorated a nursery or planned outings for Audrey and him. I never pinned fun baby boy things on pinterest.  I never got to hope past birth. So even though he was taken–just like those other babies were–I never even got to hope for a life with him.

I tried anyway. So many times I thought that maybe all the doctors and ultrasounds and hospital visits were just wrong. Maybe, just maybe, my baby didn’t have trisomy 18.

But he did have trisomy 18. And sometimes in the thick of everything that happened, it’s hard to remember that is why he died.  My baby had a chromosomal defect that many doctors say is just “not compatible with life”. My baby had a third 18th chromosome and that third chromosome took his life.  It’s why I didn’t know how to relate with people who told me stories of how they had also lost a little one.

I had another experience the other day that caught me off guard. Someone off handedly joked about people being retarded. I wanted to scream that they were talking about my son. I didn’t, because I knew they didn’t mean it in the way the said it. However, it still was more personal than it ever has been in the past.  Jokes about having a third chromosome have never been funny to me, but there is no humor now. Having a third chromosome took my son’s life. Had he lived, he would have been severely mentally retarded. It’s not a joke that I can ever take lightly now. Not that I should have in the past–as I am positive that I have called someone or something “retarded” before. But now. Now those words cut so much deeper–they hit so close to my heart–they could easily be mistaken for physical pain.

My son changed me. My sweet little innocent boy, although perfect now, was not born into a perfect body. His body held him captive and death was the only way to be free of life’s trials and others thoughtless comments–such as the careless joke of being “retarded”. I am certain this person had no intention of offending me, my little boy or anyone else–but that’s the problem, right? We need to have more care and consideration in our words and actions.

I am at a point now where I don’t know how to live my life. It’s still all too soon and new to feel like I have “moved on”, yet remaining in the dark despair is exhausting. It feels wrong to be happy. It feels wrong to laugh and have a good time–but I KNOW that is what Isaac would want for us. He is, after all, our gift of laughter from God.

I am grateful for Audrey and moments like these. She is just a beautiful ray of sunshine that cannot be darkened. Her smile, her laugh, her infectious giggles and personality forces us to smile and remember we have so much to live for.

I still don’t know what to say to people when they ask about our family. My body is shrinking and I look less and less like I just had a baby (minus the fact that I still have extra weight–I don’t look like I do). Soon I will have nothing left but the short sweet memory I have of holding him in my arms.

It’s a surreal world I live in right now. I don’t know how to react to life. Tears come out of nowhere and yet other times when I talk about him, I feel like I’m talking about someone I used to know–a long time ago–no emotion at all. I long to feel his presence. I wish I could feel him constantly around me. I wish I could wear his memory like a warm fuzzy coat, constantly engulfed in his company.

Aaron and I had a long drive back to AZ and our topics of conversation were everywhere.  Different things would trigger our grief and we would both find ourselves hit with emotions that seemed out of no where during normal conversations. What got me was talking about future family vacations. It seemed hurtful to plan fun trips without our little boy. I had a hard picturing have fun at the Grand Canyon or visiting Tombstone, when I couldn’t factor Isaac into that picture.

I know that my life has been altered. I am on a new road and there is no back tracking. I can never be who I was. I will always be Isaac’s mama and my experiences in relation to him will continue to mold and shape my life.

While life will go on and many will never know that I am the mother of an angel, I pray his existence and example will continue to mold and shape me into a more perfect being–worthy of his celestial presence.

The gift of laughter…

It’s interesting how this journey has evolved so far. In the past it would seem just the mere mention of my baby could send me into unexpected tears. But now I can have normal conversations without awkward pauses or sideways glances as people ask me when I’m due and if I’m excited– are we ready–now we have one of each and so on.

While those questions and comments are still a little hard to swallow, I made a choice awhile ago that this baby was a blessing. There has been heartache associated with this pregnancy for sure, but I can honestly say that there have been very, very few times when I had wished this hadn’t happened to us. In fact, in many instances I feel honored to be this cute little baby’s mama. I know Aaron feels the same way. It’s comforting to the both of us.

At church Sunday, the lesson was titled “Living Joyfully in Troubled Times“. I felt like this lesson was orchestrated just for me and seemed to mirror all the lessons I have been learning this week. I guess the Lord was really trying to pound something into my head.

Our teacher did an amazing job and I could write an entire blog post about how cool I think she is (starting with the fact that her mother is french and so she was raised french. Right in Paris–so she speaks fluent french, which is pretty darn cool). But I’ll just start with her contagious testimony of our Savior  and her talent for teaching made the lesson riveting.

The lesson follows the teachings of one of the former LDS prophets Ezra Taft Benson. The lesson spoke about his character and how he learned to find joy in troubled times. One of my favorite quotes was this:

“Elder Neal A. Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described President Benson as a “careful watcher of events, [who] maintains a certain buoyancy and cheerfulness we would do well to watch. Such buoyancy,” Elder Maxwell said, “comes not from ignoring enveloping events, but from noticing these and yet looking beyond them to promises having to do with how the kingdom will finally prevail.”

I loved this!! The buoyancy did not come from ignoring the events, but from acknowledging them and looking beyond them. It’s ok to recognize that you are indeed having a crappy go of things. It’s ok to say you are having a bad day. It’s ok to acknowledge the fact that loosing a baby is hard thing.

It’s so easy to get weighed down by our situation. In fact I had a moment the other day where I realized that my body would need to recover from having a baby. I don’t know why I had skipped this step in my head. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t “nesting”. I wasn’t buying onesies or a crib or other fun/cute boy accessories. So I guess in my head I skipped the step where I would need to recover from having the baby too. All of a sudden I realized I would have milk–and if it’s anything like when Audrey was born, I would have lots of it. I hope the birth and delivery goes better than it did with Audrey, but I could still ended up in bed literally too hurt/sore to move for two weeks.  When I was recovering from Audrey’s birth, seeing her sweet little face seemed to help with the pain and weight gain and all of it. But losing the baby, but still having all the physical evidence that I just HAD a baby–feels overwhelming.  Of course, I won’t know until I go through it, but it started a whirlwind of thoughts in my head and it made me wonder how birth moms of adopted babies fill that emptiness and void.

But according to President Benson, while acknowledging it is fine,  I must look beyond this one event. There will come a time when my body heals. There will come a time when his passing will be more of a memory than a daily emotional and physical trial.  And maybe it will be time to have another baby. To get to these places I must find the joy. And I do believe the joy is there.  There will come a time when I get to hold this little boy in my arms again and raise him as my son. I must look to the future, because there is a future.

“Without faith in our Heavenly Father, we cannot be successful. Faith gives us vision of what may happen, hope for the future, and optimism in our present tasks.”

This helped me find so much peace in what needs to happen with our baby. Heavenly Father has a plan for our little one. I am not sure what that is quite yet, but I do believe that He is so very much aware of our situation.

On another, but similar topic of finding joy, Aaron and I have been trying to decide on a name. We have wanted to name him since we found out his condition, but we are SO bad at being decisive that we just could not come up with anything that we LOVED. Because you have to LOVE the name you choose to name your child, right?

One of the deciding factors for us is what the name means. We like the name to have more meaning than just liking the sound of it, so we usually look things up and try to find a name that fits our child.

When Audrey was born we took like 3 or 4 names to hospital with us. I don’t remember them all now, but I am pretty sure that Audrey was lower on the list. Well, Audrey’s birth and delivery was so hard, long and painful–that being reminded that Audrey’s name meant noble strength just seemed to fit her.

One of the names that just seemed to be a given for our little boy was “John” or “Jonathan” for many reasons.

1. It’s Aaron’s dad’s name (John)
2. It’s my daddy’s name (John)
3. It’s Aaron’s middle name.  (Jonathan)

So the family connection seemed perfect. However, we couldn’t decide if we wanted a first name or middle name.

Then someone brought up the name Isaac. Aaron and I have always been fond of bible names. In fact, we were pretty sure that we would probably go that route.

So I looked up the names Isaac and John/Jonathan.

Isaac means: Laughter

Jonathan means: Gift of God

John means: God is Gracious

Laughter. Isaac meant laughter. It seemed perfect. When I made the title of this blog, Laughing through tears the point was to find the joy in the heartache. I had every intention in finding things to laugh about. I didn’t want this sweet little boy’s life to be completely associated with sorrow. His life is more than that and he has indeed brought us so much joy–and he has Audrey’s nose and lips!!! For sure those lips would bring us so much laughter.

So Isaac seemed like a good name. But now what? Isaac John? John Isaac? Jonathan Isaac? Isaac Jonathan? I am sure everyone reading will have their favorite, but in the end I really like the idea of what Jonathan meant, “Gift of God”.

I mean look at those beautiful lips!! This is a 4D ultrasound that was taken when I was around 26 weeks maybe? I don’t remember for sure.

God was truly giving us a gift in this sweet small baby and I have no doubt that we will feel his love and personality as strongly as if we were able to raise him into adulthood.  The biggest problem we faced now was committing to a name. I mean, it took 3 days for us to name Audrey after she was born. We just couldn’t really commit to a name. I mean naming a kid is like carving out their destiny right? What if you name your child the wrong name and now they can’t be president?!? 😉 In fact my friend wrote an entire book about that. (Well, about how your name is your destiny–not becoming president, incase you were confused).

The other night, when we were saying our evening prayers with Audrey, we prayed for Isaac. It felt a little weird calling him by name, but a relief as well.

So I am putting it out to the internet world. Aaron and I are attempting to make this official.  This post is to help us commit to the name. Haha. If I put it out there to the Internet world, then it makes it somewhat official right?

So I would like to announce to the world that our baby boy has officially been named:

Isaac Jonathan Isom

Eek. That is scary.

But I can assure that I do believe that this little boy is truly God’s gift of laughter to us. I believe that he will indeed help us to find “joy in troubling times”. He will help us to “Laugh through the tears”. He is a blessing and sweet miracle. We are so grateful to have him in our lives, no matter how long that is.

But I might always just call him my baby boy.