Harlynn’s Labor of Love

On our Facebook page a week ago, we posted a link to Val’s blog explaining Harlynn’s Labor of Love, and how they planned to honor Harlynn’s life and memory on April 10th, what would have been her first birthday. The response was very humbling, and we are so thrilled and touched that so many of you want to join in.

A dear friend of Harlynn’s family created a card to use if you wish to leave something with the person/people you labor over in love. You can click on a document linked below to get one card, or a page of cards, print it off, and distribute. It will be exciting to see how many of these cards are floating around by the end of the day on April 10th.

Thank you for teaming with us, and making this a special day for Harlynn, her family, and for all those who could use an extra helping of love.

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Harlynn (3)

~ 2014 ~

I want to share part of my blog about holding out hope after the most difficult year of my life. As 2014 waits just around the corner, 2013 will follow me all the days of my life. Part of the new year, however, is all about you. You and I are in this together. Not because we asked to be, not because we ever thought we would be. Yet here we are. Without our babies. Surviving while sometimes not believing it’s possible to take another step. Another breath. Somehow, though, we do. We keep going. We keep breathing. May 2014 bring us peace, strength, and renewal.

[Excerpt]

One thing I will say is – 2014 will be the year of ministering to the hearts that are broken like mine. I’ve read so many blogs about perinatal loss, grief, etc. and I want to be a resource for people as well. I know those have helped me so much, and there are so many truths those people spoke to me. So many of those truths I wanted to be the exception to. I wanted it to not be true for me. Yet…that wasn’t the case. They speak of what they know, and what they know is they’ve been in my shoes. They know where the road leads and what challenges and heartaches are along the way. And now I know too, and want to also encourage and share with the loss-world. If I can bring a glimmer of hope and encouragement to any grieving mother or father after the loss of their baby, I would be honored to have that part in their journey.  And this is a journey I understand. A journey I get. I’m not the same I once was, and others soon forget that. I live it, though. I understand what it’s like to be expected to be the same Val I was before losing Harlynn. But I’m not her anymore.

A dear woman, and new friend, said during a speech once that after she suffered a serious brain injury, since she looked the same on the outside, people assumed she was fine. Some were even annoyed or put-off when she would display awkward behavior – after suffering a BRAIN INJURY! But since her outside was the same, they assumed the inside was too. She made the point of “not judging a book by it’s cover.” Her cover was the same. Her story wasn’t. Her speech resonated with me to the very core of my being. My cover looks the same. My story, however, is not.

So to those people who have the same cover, but their story is different….to you parents who had to part with your precious babies….2014 is the first year of many I’m devoting to you. To helping you, to hurting alongside you, and to honoring the little ones you love. I resolve to do this. I commit to it. To you.

2014, the new year, won’t be a clean slate. I have scars and wounds still healing from this year. Just because a calendar turns, doesn’t mean everything from the previous year goes away. Harlynn will be a part of this family for always. She’ll be a part of my life every year. Losing her has taught me numerous lessons I dare not forget or dismiss. But even though I will forever carry the events and heartache of this year with me, I do have hope that next year will be brighter. I do have hope that I’ll continue to grow in love and learning from everything we’ve been through. I do have hope that Harlynn will bring big things to be in 2014.

Layla’s Story

Layla was delivered 15 days after Harlynn. I didn’t know Justin and Angela then, but they have since become a very special part of my life, and of Harlynn’s Heart. Today, October 25th, marks six months since they had to say goodbye to their precious Layla. I wanted to share their story, and allow them to celebrate her life as they mark this momentous day since her loss. ~ Val

Our beautiful daughter, Layla Jane, was born April 25th at 4:51 pm at 27 weeks old. She was already looking down on us from heaven on the day of her birth however. But this is only the beginning of our story, not an ending as some would choose to believe.

I had a wonderful pregnancy without complication. When we learned we were having a girl at our 20 week ultrasound my heart soared…a daughter! Although my husband, Justin, had been crossing his fingers for a son his heart melted the moment they told us everything frilly was in our future. We left the clinic beaming from ear to ear. This was to be the first grandchild for my parents, and our niece’s first girl cousin on my husband’s side. Needless to say the excitement was palpable for both of our families. I excitedly spent the next 7 weeks unendingly shopping online, pinteresting nursery ideas, and crafting up ways to make an affordable but yet amazing bedroom to bring our baby home to. I poured myself into the excitement of creating her very own place where we would spend so much time together.

I fell more and more in love with my baby girl as each day passed. I quickly got to know her little personality through her unending movements. One of the most amazing experiences of pregnancy came the day I noticed how absolutely still she became while I played the piano, and how loudly she protested when I stopped with a series of swift kicks. So tiny, but yet she could hear and enjoy the melody. Similarly I learned that she loved all music, and dancing, and mommy’s singing, and when daddy talked.

We also embarked on a journey to pick out a name to call her. A name fitting of this amazing little person growing inside of me. We had wanted to pay tribute to my own mother with our first daughter, but neither of us liked the idea of her name being an exact replica. My mother’s name is Linda Jean, and when we found the name Layla (which has a very similar meaning to Linda), Jane naturally fell into place for a comparable, but not exact name. It was important that although we wanted her to carry the legacy of the great woman who brought me into this world, our daughter knew she was also unique. We as her family would always be a part of her, but she was matchlessly her own self as well. I felt strongly that her name symbolized this. We were secretive and decided not to tell anyone her name until the day we could introduce her to the world. My stomach literally did somersaults of excitement when I thought of the day I would get to see my own mother hold her and explain why we chose her name. Layla Jane. I was so proud of the name we had chosen, I could only imagine what a beautiful and wonderful girl she would be. Her name was important and special to me. I could not wait for the moment I would get to hold her and whisper it in her ear.

It wasn’t long though until I was reminded that at times even our own future is out of our control and there are moments where all you have left to cling to is God. I was 26 weeks, 6 days along on April 24th. I hadn’t felt my little peanut move for over a day, and lying in bed that morning I resolved to finally call the clinic. Although they say you can have quiet days up to 28 weeks, Layla hadn’t stopped moving since 17 weeks. For 10 weeks our wild little girl did flips, cartwheels, and other acrobatic feats without ending. For there to be silence for so long was unnerving. I think I knew then, deep down, our lives were about to change. After speaking with the nurse on the phone they asked me to come in for an NST just to check things out, although they were sure everything was fine.

Justin was recovering from a horrible case of the stomach flu still that day, but got himself dressed to drive me in. Together we walked through the snow falling silently on the parking lot, hopeful they would be able to soon put our uneasiness to rest. The nurse who checked my vitals was kind and assured me that she herself went through NST tests with her last pregnancy, and every time it was always fine in the end…they just needed a little waking up. My blood pressure was normal, but my heartbeat was at a racing 100 bpm. Even with a pounding heart, I felt calm. I figured that this would soon be over and I would be scrambling to make up my time at work through the rest of the week.

We were escorted to the NST room, and I proceeded to get as comfortable as I could in the big reclining chair. Our RN came in and kindly chatted with us about the weather while she prepared, and finally told us she was just going to listen for a little bit. We fell quiet, and I watched the NST chart as we listened to my heartbeat continue to race. She switched sides, but we still didn’t hear the quick paced wump-wump of Layla’s heart. The nurse was silent as she worked in complete concentration moving the sensor over every part of my belly. After about 15 minutes she left to get a handheld monitor to see if she could pick it up, and asked to have an ultrasound set up for us just in case. Gel, monitor…silence. Tears welled up, but I told myself I was being silly and assured myself mentally that the instruments just weren’t working properly. I forced the tears back down with embarrassment.

From there we were ushered across the hall to the dark ultrasound room. I felt relieved, we would get to see her physically now, we would get to watch her moving around and record the heartbeat and this would all be over and behind us. Only a few short minutes later we were watching the silent ultrasound on the screen. The tech checked for the heartbeat, and in slow motion I saw the line move from left to right and stay flat. Only silence filled the room. Still, I forced the tears away. I absolutely knew what it meant, but since nobody had said it out loud I still harbored hope that what I was thinking was irrational…everything would be fine. The ultrasound tech told us calmly she was going to get my doctor and would be back as quickly as she could. A very surreal moment happened then and I can only believe it was God trying to prepare me for what came next. As she left the room I closed my eyes and clearly saw the face of a baby burned into my eyelids, and I watched as it faded away slowly. I opened my eyes and squeezed them shut again to try and gain it back, but it was gone. No matter how hard I tried to see it again, the face was gone. I knew that was her face. I knew that I knew what it meant. This is the point when panic began to rise.

The moment I saw the doctor’s face the tears came again and this time I did not fight them. They came as she struggled to keep her own composure and told us there was no heartbeat, and they didn’t know why. The tears came in a flood.  I could hear my husband sobbing beside me but I couldn’t look at him. I could only stare blankly at the still dark picture on the screen still showing her profile. I was screaming inside at God that he couldn’t do this to me. There was only silence in answer. I knew the doctor was speaking, I knew my husband was weeping, I was aware of the world moving all around me, but all I heard was the silence…all I saw was my heart slowly and painfully breaking on that screen. I felt a part of me die with her that day.

The moment was, and is still, very dreamlike, as if I was watching it from another person’s perspective. My doctor asked me if I had any questions and it seemed like an eternity passed as I stared at her face trying to form words. We were told that we could go to the hospital to be induced whenever we felt we were ready. But what mother is ever ready to go through that? Throughout the next few hours I floated between searing pain and numbness. I showered as if it was any other day. I called my sister and told her the news and silently listened to her cry over the phone. I sat in Layla’s nursery I had worked so hard on and wept. My husband lovingly held me close as he himself tried to not fall apart. I told him I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t ready. But we both knew it wasn’t something we could put off.  Soon, without knowing how we got there, I was sitting in a hospital room in a chair on his lap waiting to be told what to do. Secretly in my delirium I was silently praying and begging for a miracle. I anxiously waited to feel her kick again and to be able to let the nurses know this was all just a big misunderstanding and I would be on my way.

The next 2 days was a period of time in my life that couldn’t go quickly enough, but yet flew by much too fast. I was induced at 2:45 pm that afternoon. Although my original plan for birth was to do it as natural as possible, I immediately asked for pain medications as I wanted to be as numb as possible for the entire experience. I was started on IV pain medication to begin. I laid on the bed staring at the ceiling as my husband sat in the chair next to me. More silence. In the beginning I had told my nurse that I did not want any family allowed to visit me. A few hours in however I had changed my mind. It had been important to have those first hours alone with my husband, but I also knew we needed support. My parents, sisters, and brother in law all came to visit that evening.

Towards the end of their visit I began to vomit. I vomited almost every hour from that point on, my blood pressure slowly went up with each vital check, and I was running a fever. By 3:00 am the IV meds no longer were numbing the contractions, I was vomiting about every 20 minutes, my head was pounding, and I was desperately asking when I could have an epidural. Although the pain was not unendurable, it was a constant reminder of what was happening to me. It was a constant reminder of the impossible task I had in front of me. At 3:30 am the doctor finally approved an epidural, and I was looking forward to having a chance to sleep for a bit. From there, most of it was a blur. I recall sobbing in the early hours hearing other babies crying as they took their first breaths down the hallway. Justin once again held me close as I told him through tears that I would give anything to hear my little girl cry. All he could choke out was “I know, I know. Me too. I know.”

My family was in the next morning and spent the day with me, distracting us both from ourselves, our thoughts, and our tears. My husband’s family arrived from out of town shortly before I delivered. I didn’t see them before Layla was born. After 26 long hours of laboring, it was time. The epidural had numbed my contractions and paralyzed my legs, but it did not diminish any sensation of the delivery itself. I felt every intense contraction down low, and I yelled out in pain with each push. Looking back now though I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am truly glad I was able to feel her body as she came into the world. I am thankful that I still was able to experience this part of becoming a mother.

Immediately I was sobbing as my beautiful baby was placed in my arms. She was so tiny, but so perfect in every way. She unmistakably had my nose, and so much hair on her head! Her little black hair even stuck out at a 90 degree angle from her head in a crazy cowlick just like her daddy’s! Her perfect lips were the color of a rose…such beautiful red lips. Her tiny ears, fingers, toes were all immaculately formed. Everything about her was how I had imagined it would be. And she lay there in perfect stillness. Later, my husband shared with me that he had kept waiting for her to move, and I confessed that I too had been holding my breath and pleading God for some miraculous feat. But there was no answer to my prayers, only more silence.

Both of our families had the opportunity to meet our lovely Layla that evening. I asked my mom to come in alone first before everyone else and she met her first granddaughter with tearful love. It wasn’t anything close to what I had envisioned that moment being like, but it was beautiful regardless. Slowly everyone else came in to see her. She was held in love by all of her grandparent, aunts and uncles. We all cried together at the broken beauty that hung in the air.

One of the most remarkable parts of that evening was meeting a very special person named Michelle. As a photographer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, she had been called by my nurses to come and take pictures for us, which we were on the fence about doing but agreed to anyways. Michelle arrived and ever so quietly joined in the crowded hospital room to share her love with us. I didn’t know what to do, I had never had a baby before, let alone a stillborn one. She helped guide us through how to hold her for the photos, she helped undress Layla when we told her we didn’t like the giant onsie she was wearing, and she brought tiny knit hats and gave us one that fit her perfectly. She even showed me a sneak peak on her camera of Layla being held in her daddy’s hands that I latched on to and has since become my single most favorite photo. She genuinely made us feel cared for when asking “how are mom and dad doing?” That was the first time we had heard someone call us “mom and dad” and it was inconsequentially significant. Michelle entered that broken room to share in our heartache without expectation, and I cannot tell her thank you enough times to feel that she understands how profound my gratitude is. I didn’t realize the depth of healing that came with realizing I will now always have the physical ability to see my little girl. I will never have to fear forgetting her face.

I still ache desperately inside to kiss her, to hold her, to comfort her, to teach her all about life and love her only as a mother can. I still feel the silence overcome me at times when I am alone.  My life changed before I knew what was unfolding on that snowy morning; taking me on the most difficult journey I have yet been asked to endure in my lifetime. In the time that has passed since Layla was born I have struggled immensely in my faith and walk with God. To say this has been a test of faith would be a gross understatement. It has been an absolute shattering and slow reconstruction piece by piece.

But slowly, each day, I find little things that Layla is teaching me about life, love, and faith despite her absence here with us and I find bits of my heart start beating again. She is teaching me to accept that the silence isn’t God turning his back on me, but it is him weeping with us. Because of Layla, deep and meaningful friendships have blossomed where they may not have ever before. She has reminded me that each person struggles with their own battles and you never know what pain they may be going through, so to always love as God does. My eyes have been opened to the beautiful people that surround me who have conquered the impossible of their own. Both Justin and I hope that because of her we will be better parents to her younger siblings someday than we would have been before simply because we will not take the small things for granted.

Although Layla’s body is gone, I pray each and every day that her legacy lives on. I hold close to the promise that God has a plan for each and every one of his children, and her story isn’t over yet. Our story has just begun.

All pictures shared by and with permission from Angela Escher.

The Story of Ean

Mary and Bob were parents Val met during her stay at Faith’s Lodge. Please read about their journey with little Ean, and how they chose to bond with Ean, while knowing and preparing for the fact he would not live.

Our life was blissful and perfect.  High school sweethearts married for 15 years with 3 beautiful and healthy children ages 14, 11, 2 and expecting our 4^th  (due in early December of 2012), life was grand and we were so very blessed.

You know that your lives will change forever as soon as you learn there’s a little one on the way.  You begin planning, dreaming, and hoping for the life ahead to share together.  You hope and pray you are carrying a healthy child and can’t even think about, what if you’re not?  It’s too hard to even imagine and the thought is quickly pushed out of your mind.

On July 23^rd, 2012 our world shattered into a million pieces.  Our sweet blissful life that we knew real well had been abruptly turned upside down.

It was learned from our routine ultrasound at 20 weeks that our unborn baby boy had major heart problems.  Upon further testing it was revealed that we were carrying and caring for quite an extraordinary little man who would be named Ean.

He was diagnosed with a chromosomal abnormality that can cause many different health problems.  For Ean, it had affected his heart.  It was also learned that his heart problems would be fatal.  There were irreparable problems, no fixes to be tried, no procedures to be had.  We also became aware that everyday we had with Ean was a cherished gift with statistics stacked against us even carrying him to term, let alone to be born alive.

The news was nothing anybody could have ever prepared us for.  We didn’t know what we were planning for, a birth or a funeral?  Birth and funeral, two words that should never be mentioned in the same sentence!  There were many dark days that followed.  We were thrown into such a scary and unknown world.  Unsure of how we would make it through, or ‘if’ we would make it through.

For the next several months we had hard plans to make and tough decisions to work through.  There were several scenario’s presented as to how Ean’s life with us might unfold.  Each scenario a bit different then the other but all having a heartbreaking outcome.  We knew Ean would not be here with us long.  We needed to be prepared the best we could to help take care of our son.

Often times we struggled.  It was very difficult to keep going on when something so wrong was happening.  We felt so helpless and out of control.  It was a challenge to try and keep up with our 3 children and their busy lives while trying to take care of Ean and ourselves.  Many times we just wanted to throw in the towel.  We knew good and well that wasn’t an option but it was so tempting and sounded so much easier.

With the tender care, love, prayers, and support from family, friends, doctors and their staff, we were guided through this incredible journey of a lifetime.  Never rushing us through while helping us to continue to make treasured memories with Ean and our family.

Time was our gift.  We had valued time to make decisions without the fear of regrets later on.  Time gave us many opportunities and we did our best to take advantage.  We were able to muster up the nerve to ask Ean’s Uncle (my brother) if he could make his casket.  He embraced the request and did so with honor.  He built the most beautiful resting bed we could ever have imagined.  We asked our dearest neighbor (who is a seamstress) if she could turn my wedding gown into Ean’s eternal outfit.  She accepted before I could even finish my sentence.  My niece was already working on crocheting his blanket and my mom knitting his cozy sweater.  We made visits to several different cemeteries before painfully picking out the perfect place.  We had to consult hospice to have on stand by in order to help us care for Ean if we were lucky enough to bring him home.  We arranged the funeral service and picked out sweet songs to be sung to him.  We gathered our birth team that would be able to help us handle life and death.  All these tasks so difficult to ask and do all the while feeling Ean’s soft, and delicate life inside.  We felt on so many occasions we were betraying him.  How could we do these things while he’s still alive?  How could anybody do these things while pregnant.  It made no sense what so ever.  For our Ean, our extraordinary little boy, this is what we needed to do.  Our great love for him made it possible for us to keep going.  We were parenting him in such a unique way.

It was hard to see the days end and our due date get closer.  We knew what that meant.  It was like the sand in the hour glass, time was running out.  If only I could have carried him forever.  If that was an option I would have done it without a second thought.  Oh, I wished that was an option.

Sadly, a month before our due date, Ean’s life journey would no longer be a secret.  It was revealed.  Sometime in the early hours on November 9^th Ean peacefully passed away.  He was later born at 8:18pm that evening.  Our hearts so broken, our hopes so crushed.  We wanted more time.  Just a little more time.  We learned death can be painfully beautiful through birth.  An angel born into the young arms of my niece and immediately loved by so many.  What a blessing that time was.  He was such a perfect precious little baby.  Weighing 3lbs 2oz and 14 1/2 inches long.  Beautiful full head of soft black wavy hair.  Chubby cheeks just like his big brother.  Long eye lashes,  sweet perfect lips, 10 fingers and 10 little toes.  What a joy it was to get to meet him but so very sad too.  Hello meant goodbye.  We kept hoping he’d wake the longer we held him.  Waiting for a gasp,  a breath of life.  That never came.  It was hard to believe so perfect on the outside, his little heart just couldn’t keep up.  He was getting tired and he gave us his all.  He needed rest and quietly he found it.  The next several days we held, loved, snuggled, brought home, shared, sang to, celebrated, cried over, and gave rest to our little boy.  Many, many memories made with him that we will treasure for a life time.

Life has not been easy since we lost him.  We weren’t given any directions, or plans as to how to maneuver through our grief.  In the beginning it was a muddled mess.  Life was so difficult and we were spent.  It was hard to just to get out of bed each morning let alone tend to our children.  They still needed us and needed even more.  They lost their baby brother.  Oh, how we ache for them, ache for us.  On many occasions I just wanted to grieve.  I just wanted to have uninterrupted time to just grieve Ean.  We didn’t have an opportunity go off by ourselves and be alone.  We had a house hold to run.

By the grace of God we’ve overcome many obstacles.  We learned little by little how to fit Ean into our lives.  It was so hard as we kept focusing on not having him here with us.  This was useless thinking.  Him not being here, physically, would never change no matter how hard we cried, how hard we prayed, or how how hard be begged.  So we needed to change our strategy of how to cope.  We started coming up with ideas as to how we could bring him closer to us.  This meant different things.  We started talking to him out loud at times we felt we could do so.  Moments alone while devoting time just for him.  Whether on our drive to and from work, out for a walk, mowing the lawn, watering the flowers, doing the dishes, or doing laundry.  We found time to sneak away, just the two of us for five days of “Ean time”.  We got active and started running.  Bob and I did our first 10K run back in July in honor of Ean.  It felt so good to do.  He was with us every step of the way pushing us to do our best.  We found Ean fits perfectly into our world and we’ve never felt closer to him then we do now.  This has made a world of difference.  He’s our motivation behind so much that we do now.  Life has so much more meaning and everything we do we try our best to honor our son and our family.  Obstacles still jump in the way but we feel a bit better equipped at how to manage them then we did after the loss was so fresh.

Though our arms are empty and our hearts still ache, our grief journey will never end.  Our love for Ean will never end.  He continues to touch us and tell us he’s here.  Some day’s he’s quiet and other days he’s loud but no matter what he’s always here.

While beginning to prepare for Ean we had no idea how we were going to get through.  We often reflect and are still unsure how we managed.  We can’t believe that it was us that took care of that special little boy in such a special way.  We are so glad it was us and are so blessed and honored to be his parents.  He’s our son, our beautiful son looking down from Heaven blessing us with his love…always.

 Our journey with you was one of many blessings
We were honored to carry you to Jesus
Everyday you are gone brings us closer to you

P.S.  Ean’s name sake comes from his siblings.  His oldest sister is (E)mily.  His second oldest sister is (A)bigail and his big brother is (N)olan.  They will live on to honor Ean’s memory and will forever have an eternal bond.

(All pictures submitted and used by permission from Mary)