This is my candle that I lit for the Wave of Light in honor of Noah's precious life along with remembering so many other babies our arms ache to hold and who are so deeply loved & desperately missed!!
This candle is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always still a small light of hope. Praise God!
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Yesterday evening, we participated in the Sweet Pea Project's 2nd annual balloon release. We were apart of the 1st release last year as well. It's a mix of feelings, feeling a sense of peace at being surrounded by so many who are just like us, for once we are the norm & not the exception, but yet feeling sadness that there are so many other parents who are missing their precious children as well. We were able to write Noah notes on seed paper, so when the notes fall back to earth, they will bloom flowers in his memory. I have to say I was moved at seeing other families who had friends & extended family there supporting them as well..... siblings, parents, grandparents, etc..., how blessed they were to have the added support in remembering their babies!
It was so wonderful hearing Noah's full name read aloud as we released his 7 balloons, one from Kevin, myself and his 5 siblings. But oh how I wished we didn't have to be a part of the baby loss world, where we find healing in someone simply saying his name outloud & recognizing his short but significant earthly life.
Our 7 balloons heading to Noah
Our balloons joining the many others
The following is an article that was recently published that has really blessed so many of us BLM's. Oh how I can relate to every. last. word!!!!
Did you know that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month? I'll bet not. Despite the infant mortality crisis that's been at the forefront of Milwaukee's public health news for months, the only people who have more than a cursory comprehension of what it means to lose a baby are those who've lived it.
Infant loss is nature's cruelest practical joke. It's investing all of the required time and effort into pregnancy, only to be robbed of the result. It's cradling a body that grew within your own and trying to reconcile the cold, lifeless form in your arms with your memory of the baby who turned double flips in your womb.
It's worrying that you'll forget what your child looked like and snapping an album's worth of photos that no one will ever ask to see. It's sobbing so hard you can't breathe and wondering if it's possible to cry yourself to death.
Infant loss is handing off a Moses basket to the nurse who's drawn the unfortunate duty of delivering your pride and joy to the morgue and walking out of a hospital with empty arms.
It's boxing up brand new baby clothes and buying a 24-inch casket. It's sifting through sympathy cards, willing your foolish body to stop lactating, clutching your baby's blanket to your chest in hopes of soothing the piercing ache in your heart.
It's resisting the urge to smack the clueless individuals who compare your situation to the death of their dog or who tell you you'll have another baby, as if children are somehow replaceable.
Infant loss is explaining to your 7-year-old that sometimes babies die and being stumped into silence when he asks you why. It's watching other families live out your happy ending and fighting a fresh round of grief with every milestone you miss.
It's being shut out of play groups for perpetuity. It's skipping social events with expectant and newly minted mothers because, as a walking worst-case scenario, you don't want to put a damper on the party.
It's listening to other women gripe about motherhood and realizing that you no longer relate to their petty parental complaints because, frankly, when you've buried a baby, a sleepless night with a vomiting toddler sounds something like a gift.
Infant loss is pruning from your life the friends and relatives who ignore or minimize your loss. It's recognizing that, while they may not mean to be hurtful, the fact that they don't know any better doesn't make their utter lack of empathy one whit easier to bear.
My baby girl would have been 5 years old this month. I don't know what she'd look like, what her favorite food would be. I've never had the privilege of tucking her into bed, taking her to the zoo or kissing her boo-boos. I will never watch her graduate or walk down the aisle.
Infant loss is more than an empty cradle. It's a life sentence.
A fellow BLM shared the following on her blog, oh-how-true! Thank you for voicing this Molly for all of us!
Do Unto Others
"You don't get over it, you just get through it. You don't get by it, because you can't get around it. It doesn't 'get better'; it just gets different. Everyday... Grief puts on a new face...."