no wonder we miss her.

i counted today that we were in the NICU with Olive every single day, all day, for 120 days after she was born. One of those days I was in Chiang Rai packing up our things while Rusty was with Olive in Bangkok. Before that I carried her inside me for 200 days...No wonder life feels strange without her.

Someone sent us this video about the life of another baby Elliot, born with trisomy 18 who died after 99 days of life here on earth. click HERE to watch the short video that Elliot's father made.

"An underdeveloped lung. A heart with a hole in it. And DNA which placed 
faulty information into every cell in your body could not stop God from 
revealing himself through a child who never uttered a word. Not a pulpit,
not a slick presentation, not a best-selling book, but a six pound boy 
with trisomy 18. God found great pleasure to find a lowly thing in the eyes
of the world and show truth." -Elliot's father

gifts from two very special groups of people.

A few nights ago we had dinner with Dr. White (Olive's neonatologist) and his family. Dr. White and his wife attend a bible study one night a week with a group of adults who have special needs. This particular group of people has been praying for Olive since she was in Thailand. They had heard that Olive, like them, was going to have special needs and disabilities and they prayed for her every week and sincerely cared about her.

After she died they had a balloon send off in her honor with pink and white balloons. They also wanted to make sure we got this cross in a beautiful box and a card with their names on it. We were so touched when we heard about this group of people, and hope that we will get a chance to meet them and let them know how much their love for Olive meant to us.

The other letters below are from another first grade class in Texas. I thought they were so ridiculously cute with the spelling and pictures that I couldn't keep them all to myself. You can click on any of the photos to make them bigger and easier to read.

Visiting the NICU.

We went to the NICU in South Bend today to visit the nurses and bring them some goodies. Before leaving I wasn't sure if I would feel up to actually going inside and told Rusty, dad, and mom that I might just wait in the car. The drive to Memorial Hospital brought back so many memories of the weeks and days before Olive died, and lots of tears.

I think my biggest fear was thinking that I would have an overwhelming urge to go to the room where Olive stayed and to see another baby in her place.

Upon arriving I decided to go in, and in the end was thankful I did. I also decided not to go into the room Olive stayed in...it all just felt too raw.

A few of the nurses we had gotten close to were working and we were able to spend some time talking with them, and thanked them for the ways they had cared for Olive with such love. We thanked Annie (Olive's primary nurse) for coming in to work last minute on the night Olive was dying. She took such good care of Olive. The night Olive died, even after her passing, Annie continued talking sweetly to her as she made molds of her little hands. Annie has a brother with cerebral palsy and one thing I always appreciated was how she never gave me false hope. I would sometimes ask her about her brother and get so excited to hear how well he was doing.  Annie always reminded me that I can't expect Olive's story to be the same as his, and that each story is unique. As much as I wanted that false reassurance,  another part of me was grateful for how carefully she was trying to protect us..mostly from ourselves.

One thing Olive wasn't lacking in her short little life was love...not only from us and our friends and family, but also from the nurses in both Thailand and the States who cared for her each day. The love and care they have shown us since her passing through e-mails, letters, phone calls, and skype sessions has meant more than they realize.

On a side note, we started grief counseling this week. I think this will be an important step in preparing to return to Thailand, and will help us sort through some of our personal baggage. A lot of the baggage I am carrying with me is still related to Olive's premature birth and the guilt surrounding that. The last months have also affected my spiritual life as well.  I've never walked through a period of time when God has felt more silent or when I have struggled so much with the worth of my prayers...wondering if He has been hearing them.

I'm not asking for easy answers. I know God is still there...somewhere. And I am resting in the comfort that He is now caring for Olive, and that one day I will get to see her there in Heaven. I am just completely confused as to why the journey had to be so bumpy, and why Olive had to get almost every possible complication in the book. Why she had to suffer so much along the way.

This morning a women told me, "Time will heal, I promise." Part of me hopes it won't. When you lose someone that you love so deeply, there is something comforting about the pain you feel when your heart is ripped apart. The pain you are left with makes it all feel more like reality that they were really here. That that they really existed...and that it wasn't just a dream.

pure sweetness.

My sister Melody called a few nights ago and told me that she had watched the video of Olive with her son Tyler (who is 5 years old). They were about a minute in, when she noticed Tyler was crying. He gave her a hug and kiss and said that he wanted "to give Olive a kiss, ... but it's too late... because she died." They talked about Olive being in Heaven, and Melody told Tyler that Olive is probably watching him and that she could hear him say that, so she knows he wanted to give her a kiss. 


He cried and said that he was sad she died. He wondered if Olive would feel happy to know that. Melody told him that it will make Olive feel happy to know how much he loves her. 


Then he looked up, and put his hand out, as if talking to her, and cried, saying that he loves her, blew her kisses and said, "goodbye." He said, "Olive died. If Aunt Lynette makes another baby, it just won't be the same. It just won't be Olive." He talked about looking at her in the casket, showing with his hands how big he thought she was (about 12 inches long), and cried saying how cute and little she was. 


poor little love. 

a few things i like.

On more of a random note, i just watched two movies lately that I love and thought if anyone was looking for something to rent that you might want to go for the film  Simon Birch or the documentary Young at Heart.  You can find either of them at almost any movie store. 

I could write a little about them, but I'd rather just tell you that you won't be disappointed by either.

Also, I recently discovered this website: etsy.com that I love. It's artists selling hand-made products online. I've been a bit obsessed with the Olive section lately, but there is lots out there. 

thoughts.

Something I've been thinking about every day since losing Olive was something Pastor Koeman said at the memorial service, "I think if we could see Olive now, we wouldn't wish her back." Most of the time all I want is to hold her again, to kiss her, and rock her. But knowing that instead of being on a ventilator, waiting on more surgeries, fighting off a dangerous infection, getting one more hole drilled into her head...knowing she is resting comfortably in heaven finally free of any pain or discomfort, that comforts me. It doesn't take away the loss, but it helps me in my lowest moments.

On the way to Olive's funeral, Rusty's parents carpooled from Lynden, WA to the Seattle airport with a couple they had gone to college with. This couple was returning home after attending the funeral of their 14 year old grand-neice. Ron and Colleen (Rusty's parents) shared with them a bit of Olive's story and health complications.

After talking about Olive's brain hemorrhage and the doctor's concern about her future, their friend  shared with Ron and Colleen about her niece who is 23 years old, who was also premature with complications causing extensive brain damage. Her niece has never walked, talked, or fed herself. The number of  surgeries and procedures she has had to undergo over the years is extensive. This last year she had another surgery to release some of the tendons in her body that have become so tight due to the severe cerebral palsy she lives with.

Everything this women said about her niece were things the doctors had predicted for Olive. I didn't always believe she would have everything they predicted, but also had a hard time telling the difference between hope and living in denial.

Why did  Olive die so young and this  23 year old keep living? Both of their lives were valuable to God. Maybe its more simple than I'm making it. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that Olive's purpose here on earth was meant to be intense and short. I don't doubt for a second  the ways this 23 year old has changed the life of her family and her community...even without words. But the physical pain she has had to endure over these last 23 years is great.

One of my biggest fears was always that I would die before Olive. I couldn't bear the thought of her alone in a nursing home...wondering who would love for her and care for her like I could. That fear gripped my heart more than anything else.  Maybe God heard that prayer that night I cried myself to sleep worrying. My hope was that He would answer my prayer by healing her little body, but He answered it in another way, a more painful way.

Another thing I have found comforting is that the people I have met who have lost a baby never "get over it." Part of me wonders if in a few months from now friends and strangers will wonder when I will ever "get over it" or "move on" (no one has done or said anything to make me feel like that thus far...it is my own worry). Rusty's sister who worked as a grief counselor for Hospice told me the other night that months 4-5 tend to be the hardest after losing someone. It's around that time that the rest of the world has moved on, and start hoping that you will too. The cards stop coming and people assume that you finally have been able to catch your breath. Someone recently sent me the book, "Tear Soup" in the mail and of all the books people have given me, it was this one that I've found to be most helpful. It talks about taking the time you need to grieve, and the expectations people around you may have...and then those friends who choose to remain with you for the journey.

It seems that almost every couple we've met since losing Olive who has lost a child still isn't over it.
When I look at Rusty's mom, who lost her firstborn son Shawn (born full-term and stillborn) who still sometimes weeps when she talks about the day she lost him 39 years ago it comforts me into knowing I never have to "get over it."

precious.

Rusty's Auntie Marge is a first grade teacher in Dallas, TX. This last week we received a book in the mail of letters from from her first grade class who has been praying for Olive since she was born. On the first  page of the book was a letter from Auntie Marge that read...

"My class of first graders have prayed fervently and faithfully for both of you and Olive Hope. They proudly wore their Olive Hope bracelets. Oh, how they loved seeing pictures of her from you blog! They marveled how tiny she was in the first month. They oohed and aahed at her cute little face and giggled when they saw that little face all scrunched up. 

They were very sad to hear that Olive died. As we talked about it this week, I was amazed at some of their insights. The faith of a child is simple, straight forward. As I sat with them feeling devastated, they beautifully voiced profound thoughts."

Here are some of the notes from children in her class...

This was a card our niece Taryn made for us yesterday...

And this is a drawing from a stranger to me who is friends of Libby. She is an artist living in Michigan...

So many of you have been so thoughtful with the cards you have been sending and e-mails. There is no way I can write about all of them, but i hope that in a few months you will hear back from me. Feeling overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers and the love from close friends and families surrounding us.

Grief Dance-by Heather Spohr

This is a poem written by a mother who lost her 17 month daughter last year due to pneumonia. Her daughter Maddie was also a premie born at 28 weeks.

There is a lot of pressure that comes with grieving.
Every day, we get watched, observed, sized up.
People are constantly looking to us to set the tone.
We can hear them holding their breath,
waiting for us to smile, or laugh, or cry.

We are also holding our breath
waiting to see how people will react to us.
If we laugh, will people think we’re being disrespectful to our daughter?
Because sometimes we laugh.

If we cry, will we make people feel awkward?
Because we cry, a lot.
If we smile, will people think we’re okay?
Because we’re not okay.
We’re not better, or fixed, or over it.

It’s this constant up and down
like a thermometer…rising and falling.

But most of all, we put pressure on ourselves.
We get tired of crying, but we feel guilty if we don’t.
We miss hearing her voice
but just the sound of it can throw us into utter despair.

Our friends invite us to things.
We want to be with them.
But sometimes it’s just too much.
We hope they keep inviting.
We hope one day it won’t be too much.

Grief is a dance we don’t know the steps to
but we shuffle along, trying not to mess up.

why so open?

Often I've had people ask me how I've had time to blog over the last four months...or questions as to why I've chosen to be so open about the mess we have been/are walking through.

For me it has been my way to process. Writing has helped me clear my thoughts-- to work through the confusion between my heart and head.

Other times I felt too tired to pray, and I knew that if I put up a post that many of you would be praying. There were days when I felt like God wasn't answering my prayers and hoped that maybe he would answer the prayers of some of you.

Before Olive was born the only people reading the blog were close friends and family. After learning more people were reading along I remember hesitating to write some things so publicly...and some of those things I chose not to write on the blog, but instead in private e-mails. After a while though, I realized that people who know me well will love me no matter what I write, and if others don't understand...it's okay.

One thing we haven't felt during this journey is lonely. So many of you have been praying, watching, listening, and giving in all different ways...and now grieving with us. We have also met many strangers who have walked down painful roads themselves--who lost a baby, had a premature baby with complications, or who have a child with disabilities.  It seems that as they have read the blog and learned about Olive's journey it has brought up fresh memories for them.

It has even seemed to surface the experience of losing of  loved ones for many of you...parents, siblings, and friends. I know there is a difference between losing a parent from a child, but i think the pain of loss has many similarities.

This last Sunday at church someone came up to me with tears in her eyes and told me that her father died seven years ago. She has craved having him close again in a tangible way, but he has never showed up in her dreams all these years...until last week. She said that grieving the loss of little Olive brought back so much pain in the memories of losing her father and for the first time she dreamt he was close to her. She said the dream felt so real. He pressed his cheek onto hers and she could feel his skin...the acne scars and the warmth of his cheek. Even though our losses are different, there was a connection.

And that same connection I have felt with many of you. People have shared stories from their own lives and pasts that we otherwise would have never heard.

So I guess I just wanted to thank-you for walking this journey with us, and those of you who will continue to.

a quote i came across.

"You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp." 
— Anne Lamott