We decided not to have a viewing or anything like that since we had had an autopsy. It still stung, but it was instrumental in healing. To know that despite what was surely new territory for this young group of friends, they were thinking of me and doing their best, was like gauze on my wound. To walk in to a festive atmosphere that was carefully adorned with love was exactly what I needed.
#Always look on the bright side of life windows#
Our Bible Study group had gathered at our home to decorate the interior with balloons and a huge sign that spanned the windows saying, "We love you Chelsea". When we got home, I was wrapped in love, almost literally. But now that we were on our way home, sans baby, I am sure neither of us much needed to spell out the irony.
We never envisioned ourselves driving home from the hospital in the first place, due to planning a home birth. I imagine it was without much conversation. The pain from my incision helped distract me, as I could barely climb into our SUV without crying out. Ty helped me into the car, and I swallowed my tears of mortification. My face flushed pink, which is unusual for me, and I felt hotly embarrassed to be leaving the hospital with only a dumb stuffed teddy bear in my lap. Finally, when I could linger no longer, I resigned myself to the customary wheelchair ride out, cringing and avoiding stares as we rolled past the lobby. I pilfered sanitary pads and those fishnet undies anything else I thought I wouldn't get in trouble for taking. I dallied in the bathroom, fussing over washing up. He was already stressed out and vexed that we'd been in the hospital as long as we had, and would have dragged me home if he could have carried my still-bloated frame. I procrastinated as best I could without aggravating my husband. It meant acknowledging this really happened. Leaving the hospital meant getting on with my life. (Heh, sounds like I'm trying to make an alliteration.) I had to go home that day, and while getting out of the hospital should have been a cheering thought, I was filled with dread. On the Thursday after losing my son, I nearly gnawed my knuckles to shreds. I still reflect on my childhood as wonderful, and I am grateful for the disruption in the "perfection", because I know I would not be as strong without it. But God, as usual, knew what He was doing, and walked me through each turbulence. There were circumstances that would have shaken the core of a weaker child, and destroyed her self-esteem and confidence for life.
They came with their set of problems that disrupted the comfortable household lifestyle considerably for the next nine years of my life. When I was nine, we adopted family of four children. We were "middle-class" and I was homeschooled by my stay-at-home mother. I reach out for God, and eventually, in His subtle nature and in the slightest of whispers, He answers and calms me. It's unfair of me, in a way, to rob my friends and family of the opportunity to comfort, but truly, I always find it myself. I know what it feels like to be without the words to comfort, and I hate to impose that on anyone. I think deep-down that I'm loathe to bring people - even close friends - down to my level of despair. But there's something about a crowd of people that dries my tears and nudges me towards a smile, no matter how in-genuine it may feel. I don't do it on purpose though.I try to be honest in all aspects of my life. I perform marvelously in front of people. And thinking back to my stunned pain, compared to the secret breathtaking regret I try to smile through today, I never thought I would get through the day without borrowing a tissue.Īctually, in all honesty, I'm not a crier. It's true, someday, it won't hurt as much. In the words of Anne Blythe ( Anne of Green Gables, when her firstborn daughter Joyce died) "It's knowing that someday this won't hurt as much that is the hardest". It takes a lot of strength - and overcoming reluctance - for me to sit, and think back to 2006 and remember. Has it really been almost a year since I last posted? I apologize.