The Perfect Soul

I knew today was going to be interesting. I often sub at a middle school (like today) and knew that there was a pregnant woman there nearing the end of her pregnancy. It was the last day before Mrs. G's maternity leave officially begins. I already knew this. I'm pretty keen on knowing what is going on around me, especially since everything seems to be babyloaded lately. Ultra baby.

Sure enough, I walk into the teacher's lounge and Mrs. G is surrounded by lots of food and the staff as she is being showered before motherhood officially begins. I grimaced at the thought I had to visit the teacher's lounge today at all since my food had to be microwaved. I avoided it yesterday by making a PBJ. Yes, I specifically planned not having to enter the teacher's lounge so I might avoid the baby talk. I checked to see which lunch slot I would have, knowing she had 8th grade lunch. Phew, earlier. The rest of the day carried on fine.

During 8th period, I headed to the empty teacher's lounge to read since it was a free period for me. Another teacher walks in and asks me how I am doing. She was always really sweet during my pregnancy. She reminds me a little of myself; type A and brutally honest. She apologized to me and said she knows because she had a stillborn daughter born 35 years ago. She also told me that she went on to have two more children. I was frustrated. Of the two schools I sub at most often, I met two women who had stillborn babies. It angered me. Then, she looked me in the eye {...which is super impressive. It seems no one does that anymore} and said something very important. At least I think it is important:

It doesn't get better, but it does get easier.

I'm glad she acknowledged that it will never be better, or okay, that my son died. Never. But I am also glad she followed it with a statement of hope. You know when you're on a road and know that the only way to the good part is through the bad part first? That's what living in my shoes feels like. I know there will be times ahead where I am genuinely happy. I'm still on the beginning of that road, though, and it's so hard to see what's ahead through the fog.

She asked me if we were able to see him once he was delivered. I told her we were and that we even took photos with him (still no photos from NILMDTS, though I did email and receive a response). We held him. We spent time with him. We could have kept him as long as we wanted since he was our child, after all. Thirty-five years ago, that wasn't reality. You could not see your deceased child-- they would not let you. While I knew this also to be true, I still cannot imagine that. I can't imagine health professionals in hospitals denying me the right to see my son, dead or alive. It's not their child or decision to make, in my opinion. She told me that she really wanted to see her daughter and it still angers her that she was not allowed that right. Frankly, before I became a mother to a dead baby, I would've thought it to be disgusting that anyone would want to hold or, gasp, kiss a deceased person. I thought having ashes in your house was creepy. I'm ashamed of thinking such thoughts. How naive. How ignorant.

She then went on to tell me a story of woman she met while fresh from her tragedy. That woman also had a stillborn baby (more common then of course).  She told her a story that I'll probably mess up in writing/interpreting. I was half giving myself a pep-talk to prevent myself from crying as she was speaking. I heard parts of the story. The woman explained to her that sometimes babies are born perfect souls, like our babies. They never lived life on earth and just needed their souls to be born perfect into the arms of God. We were chosen to be mothers to perfect souls.

While I don't accept that as proof or explanation for Andrew's death, it does give me a small portion of peace in knowing he was born a perfect soul. He was born pure and lives on with God and all the other babies and deceased loved ones we've lost here on earth. She told me hearing that helped her tremendously. She was okay with being the bearer of a perfect soul as it takes a special person for such a job. Perhaps it's just what someone says to provide an answer in the midst of confusion, but it sounded wonderful, despite my scientific doubt that Andrew's death was strictly so I could give back to God a perfect soul. But either way, he was a perfect soul no matter why he passed and I have to accept that.

{...pausing for a moment as I watch two robins playing on our front yard. It's in the 50's, smells like spring, and I can barely contain myself...}

I walked into subbing 9th period feeling a little better until 3 girls shouted over the loudspeaker an announcement of congratulations to Mrs. G and her baby girl. Phew. Dodged a bullet there. I'm sure glad it's a girl. Why? I guess just knowing I never had a girl makes me feel better. My jealously is far greater when facing those who have newborn boys. It's the life I envisioned having... but I didn't envision pink and bows. Silly, I know. But again, it's my ridiculous logic.

Once the bell rang, I headed to a house of a woman who also gave birth to a stillborn baby a couple years ago. I have been reading her blog for sometime now (in tears far before I even conceived Andrew) and she has since adopted one boy from Africa and they are currently in the process of adopting a second boy. She and her husband will be flying to retrieve {what word is appropriate when talking about human life?!} their second child very soon. Since infants in Africa are not given the proper nutrition or formula, she asked if anyone would be willing to donate formula. She wanted to bring the maximum luggage allowance and provide formula as a gift to those children. I read this and felt that I immediately had something to give. You see, when you sign up for a baby gift registry, your information is sold to the masses. Similac and Enfamil sent me at least 6-8 cans of powdered formula with hopes to hook me as a formula feeder. When Andrew died, I threw out all the cans that landed in my mailbox-- all except 2 cans and a few smaller samples. When I read that she needed formula donations, liquid gold she called it, I entered the nursery and rummaged through the bags of stuff we quickly unloaded all of the baby contents of our kitchen cabinet into once we showed up back home empty-handed. (Holy run-on sentence! I don't care... my thoughts are winded sometimes) I managed to scrape up those two cans. I dropped those off today and met her adorable son, Tommy.

As I was driving home, I began to weep, yet again. She allowed me to borrow two books that she read when first dealing with the loss of her daughter, Leah. Holding on to Hope, and The One Year Book of Hope, both by Nancy Guthrie. While thankful, I was taken over emotionally by this. My thought process went as follows:

Really, a year? I have to grieve my baby for a year? No wait... a lifetime.
Someone wrote a book of hope for grief because they had experience with it, sadly.
She read these because she lost a daughter, also to stillbirth.
I saw two women in one day that lost babies also to stillbirth. That's not acceptable. 

A song came on the radio-- something about a newborn and how time flies as babies grow-- so I turned the channel, obviously. Channel 3: a Christian channel. And then Praise You In This Storm by Casting Crowns came on.

So, weepily, I did.