moments

A long time ago, I learned that you can live without a person...I guess that comes from the reality of war and watching others have to do exactly that in the military. 

Carry on, even when they probably feel like dying. 

Even so, each day has been a struggle. A struggle to get out of bed, to be motivated about anything, to gradually work ourselves back into society.

I guess what gets me is that I know I can live without Will...

I don't want to~but I will...

I'm just not prepared to live an entire lifetime without him...

So just like one of Tim's deployments, this time without him is broken down into days. 

Weeks and months are unfathomable. To think that far ahead is overwhelming and unimaginable. So Tim and I go day by day. This week there have been bad days, but there have also been tolerable days. We are finding our new routine. For Tim it is work, for me...it is healing and surrounding myself with friends and family.

The cards and support have been pouring in. This helps Tim and I tremendously to see how many lives Will reached without even leaving the NICU. 

What we hear most is how many people prayed for a miracle, that they didn't understand why God would take such a beautiful baby from us, and that many prayed harder for Will than anything else in a long time...You and me both.

We all seem let down that there wasn't a complete miracle...that Will didn't just pop out with lungs and shock all those who gave him a grim prognosis...then it occurred to me.

What if the 52 hours we got with Will was the miracle?

As his mother, I'll be selfish in saying aloud this is not what I prayed for...but I also have to change my thinking, because way back when they didn't even know if he would make it long after the delivery. 

I was prepared for them to bring him to me in recovery saying there was nothing they could do.

But instead, we got to see him for two more days...

that is more than some parents get.

And when he passed, Tim and I were there, holding him and comforting him...

and that is more than many parents get to do.

So, one day at a time...one moment at a time. 

We know there will good and bad of both for awhile...

Two weeks ago today we had the best moment of our lives. I'll focus on that.

But I have also come to accept that there will continue to be times when I just sit and cry.

And then moments where I am able to move forward.

But I just miss my baby, that is all there is to it.

Grief.

When the alarm went off this morning, before I even opened my eyes...I remembered. 

And that sucked.

To start a day with such an intense sadness is new to me. Yesterday, Tim went to work again and we began our "new life" with a "new routine." It didn't go so well. And I really don't expect it to for awhile either. 

While we were driving this weekend, lost in our own thoughts, I blurted out,

"It feels like we were almost winning the game, then we got dealt a card that said "Return to Start..."

It truly feels like we are starting over.

And then there is this feeling like we are suffocating from sheer grief...we just miss him so much that it feels like we can't breathe. And then other moments we are okay.

A roller coaster.

We stepped off one at the hospital and onto another the day Will died.

Tim read in some grievance book that described it as this...

"One is not suicidal, but you just feel like dying..."  Yup. That pretty much sums it up for me.

And as I cry and try to think back over everything that has happened since we moved here, I realized that I have mourned my baby not once, but twice. The first time, at 18 weeks, when the doctors said Will would miscarry at any time. We went through a grief process...and then it never happened. As the weeks went on, my hope built, especially in the hospital. I started to believe that the longer he went, the better chance we had. And when I saw Will, I really believed we were going to be blessed and he would pull through. 

Which now makes this grief even worse. Because for a few moments we could hold him, kiss him, talk to him, and watch him as he moved and kicked and was full of life. 

And then all of a sudden he wasn't.

And now I just don't understand why all this happened the way it did...And in my head, I look up to the heavens and scream...

"Just what do you want me to do with this, God?!?! 

What do you want me to do with this grief, this whole experience?"

It feels like a deep cut. On the outside, I'm sure with time people won't see the damage this cut has caused. I will always feel it.

However, the scar on my stomach will always be there, proof that he was here. 

And then there is this blog. Started to be a family update, which it will continue to be. But instead of documenting the progress of a baby, it will be documenting the process of our family's grief. From ultimate loss, sadness, and anger,...to hopefully acceptance, and eventually...maybe...the partial healing and renewed hope only a new life could bring. 

But we will never become fully healed from this grief. 

When Will died, a piece of Tim and I went with him. 

And even though I know I should be looking up, as our quote says at the top of this page...

I can't help but be looking back.

More pictures

Here are a few more pictures of Will.
These were taken by a professional photographer from Whispers, a service offered by the NICU, which is free to parents who lose a child.

These photos are now priceless to us...

Celebration of Will

Saturday was a beautiful day. 

Sad, but beautiful.

Our house was filled with family and friends, all brought together by one little life. Truly amazing. And then there were all the new friends who have come into our lives solely because of Will. For this we are grateful.

Thank you to everyone who was able to come and recognize his short life...and to all the others who were here in thought and spirit. We are thankful for your continued prayers, cards, and emails.

If there is one blessing to come out of this heartache, it is that Will has brought so many people together out of hope and love. 

And it is because of that love, that Tim and I are finding it so difficult to accept that we now have to live without him. 

To look at the new tree planted in our front yard and see it grow through the seasons, instead of our son.

To recognize this new life of being parents without a child.

And it will only be love that will eventually conquer all and help to carry us through this.

One week

It seems that my life has been filled with countdowns of sorts for the last few months...now we have begun a different kind of counting~days we have had to live without our baby.

This week has been a blur of tears, preparing for today, and getting settled back into the house. I can't help but think that never in a million years would I have guessed the first gathering in my new house would be celebrating the short life of Will. That is hardest. We had such big dreams for this house and our new lives here.

I'm trying to get used to this new life; waking up in the middle of the night in tears, wandering around the house attempting to do something useful...learning to breathe again. Leaving the house is crappy. I wish that I could wear a t-shirt that says, "Don't ask me how my day is going, I just lost my baby." But instead I just attempt to smile and say that I am fine to the stranger at the store. 

I hate lying...but know that I will be doing it for a long time.

All week I've wanted to write, so many thoughts are going through my head, but I just can't make sense of anything yet. I'm still trying to see the silver cloud lining through the tears and heartache. I know the only thing that will help is time.

For weeks all I could do was pray for Will and a miracle that his lungs were developing. That he would come home with us.

What do I pray for nowadays? Not sure...

That someday we'll be happy again. 

That maybe one night soon I will have a dream and will see the baby I can't stop thinking about when I am awake...

Our last day...

We're still trying to grasp what exactly happened in the past few days. All I know is that my c-section was scheduled for today, and now everything is already all said and done...it all happened way too quickly.

Our last day together; Saturday started out great. I took my first shower since the surgery, it was the best shower ever...I felt pretty good, and as I got dressed and ready to head down to see Will, Tim said that he had a strange feeling that something was wrong. If only I would have known...but I never saw it coming, at least not that day.

We headed down and were immediately concerned. The nurse was giving Will all sorts of stuff and then we met with the doctor. I wrote about this in one of my other postings about signing papers that said we didn't want him resesitated if his heart stopped. After meeting with him, we took some pictures (so, so glad that I did this) and decided to head back up to the room to grab some lunch...if only we could have known, I know we wouldn't have left his side.

We got up to my room and attempted to eat. We were so sad. As we laid in bed together we both started praying by ourselves. I prayed that if Will wasn't going to make it, that God would take him soon and not draw this out...and if he was going to be okay, then he would get better quickly. It wasn't even 5 minutes later, that Will's doctor called from the NICU to get us back down there. As Tim wheeled me, I found he had prayed the same thing...

Once to the NICU, the doctor explained that Will's oxgyen level was going down, and his body was not able to get rid of the carbon dioxide collecting in his body. His kidneys were starting to shut down and he had quit peeing. We could tell a huge difference from the day before, his little chest was barely moving and he was now back up to 100% oxygen and the jet vent (the machine trying to help out his lungs) was set at its highest point. His honeymoon period was over and it was clear to everyone that this precious baby just didn't have the lungs to survive. But they wanted to run one more test...and so we waited.

They asked if we wanted him baptized. Of course we did. It then occurred to me what was happening. That moment was so real. A person showed up within 10 minutes and performed the ceremony. There was something so special about that moment, Tim & I holding hands peering down into his bed, watching our son. After it was finished, I felt a sense of peace.

Then the doctor came back with his latest test results: not good news at all. Everything we feared was confirmed. Tim and I were in shock. He looked so perfect still. We sat there totally confused and completely crushed. The doctor looked at us and started to cry, explaining that we had 3 choices: leave him hooked up to everything until his heart stopped, which would drag out his suffering; or leave the room while they removed him from the machines for him to pass more quickly, or lastly, they unhook him from the machines and bring him to us in a private room where he could pass in his parents arms. The doctor explained that many people could not handle the last option, as watching their child die was too hard. 

For Tim and I there was never a question in our minds. The doctor was upfront in telling us that Will had a 0% chance of survival at this point.

As we talked about this stuff, my eyes were focused on his vitals screen. Tim was gripping my hand crying and doing the talking with the doctor. But I just watched his oxygen level drop before my eyes...62, 61, 60, 59...It was supposed to be past 80, and now it was going down so fast I felt like I was watching a kitchen timer run out...I felt panicked. Rushed.

I don't remember walking into the private room or leaving his bedside. The next thing I knew our baby was brought to us in a blanket we had brought from home by a crying doctor and nurse, saying that he would probably only make it 5-10 minutes...

We held onto him for dear life...crying...talking to him...kissing and loving on him. He looked so peaceful. Every now and then he would take a breath, startling me, because that was his only movement. As the minutes went on I became panicky, he just kept hanging on, and as his mother I didn't want him to suffer. Inside I was screaming at God in my thoughts, I was so angry that this was happening, angry that I had to sit here and watch my baby die in our arms when he was so beautiful...angry that every time the doctor checked his heart, he was still hanging on. 

I sobbed to Tim..."Did we do the right thing?! I'm so scared we didn't do the right thing."

In my heart, I knew we had. Then Tim said something that brought me instant peace and I know Will felt it too...

"Its okay buddy, you go when you are ready..."

Will had never done anything the doctors said he would do. He never miscarried between 18 & 20 weeks, never crushed his cord, never died in the moments right after birth. He always hung on...Why should his last moments be any different? 

We continued to talk to him, tell him how much we loved him, how beautiful he was, and pray with him. Slowly, he passed in our arms. In his own time...he held on for 45 minutes. So peaceful and so quiet. 

The doctor came in and checked for a heartbeat. All was silent...it was about 6:15.

The rest of the evening, we just held him. Memorizing his hands, his face, his cute little feet. We wanted to stop time. Our parents arrived to hold him for the last time. The NICU staff took pictures, made molds of his feet & hands, and made other momentos, which are now priceless. As it got later, Tim and I turned off some of the lights and sat silently. Tim holding me, me holding onto Will. And we just sat there as a family for the last time, in a dim and quiet room, wishing that time could just stand still.

But time in that room went so quickly, and soon it was time to hand him to the nurse. We had been in that room for over 6 hours and it felt like minutes. It was that moment that was harder than all the rest. Handing over his tiny body, knowing that we would never see him or hold him again in this life...our hearts have been breaking ever since.

Will is a complete miracle and blessing. I use to think that after everything: the 8 weeks in the hospital, the shots in my belly twice a day, finger pokes, gestational diabetes...that I would become bitter if he didn't make it. But if going through all that enabled us to spend those 52 hours with him, instead of just a few moments, then I know it was completely worth it.

God has a plan. We don't know what it is, but we find peace in knowing that Will is now completely healed and watching over us. That still doesn't make it hurt any less, each day we struggle with missing our son. But he will forever be our perfect baby...waiting to be held by us again one day.

Celebrating Will's Life

Thank you to everyone for their continued prayers and support. The comments left by so many on this blog keep Tim and I from completely falling apart, your words mean so much to us. We know that only time can help begin to heal our pain but in the meantime, we are coming to terms with our loss and want to remember everything about him. Since coming home yesterday we have been busy trying to best decide how to memorialize our son. 

We have decided we want to celebrate the miraculous 52 hours Will was with us by having an open house on Saturday, July 26th beginning at 3 p.m. and will continue into the evening to assure that everyone is able to come (including all of our new friends at the hospital!) Please feel free to stop by during this time as we truly rejoice in the miracle he was and continues to be for us. If you need our address or directions to our home, please feel free to contact me via email at: jzoepke@yahoo.com

Since many have been inquiring on ways to help, we set up a fund in Will's name that will be used to cover a number of things we would like to do to help preserve his memory. We will be using any donations to help us cover things like his medical costs, cremation services, and a memorial tree which will be planted in our front yard. In addition, we would also like to make a donation to the NICU at the hospital. Tim & I are at a loss for words to describe just how incredible the staff was. They provided us with so many keepsakes, photos, and moldings of his little feet, hands, and face. We feel it would be an honor to help families like ours that lose a child. We're not sure exactly what we would like to do, but will search our hearts to find something fitting of Will. 

If you would like to make a donation to this fund, checks may be made out to:

William James Fund c/o Tim Murray

Please mail this to our home address, as our local bank would not allow us to have people send it directly to their branch due to various concerns.

Again, Tim & I cannot express how grateful we are for every one's thoughts & support. 

We truly feel your prayers...