Monday, March 28, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Lamentations 3:17-26
I have forgotten what happiness is;
I tell myself my future is lost,
all that I hoped for from the Lord.
The thought of my homeless poverty
is wormwood and gall;
Remembering it over and over
leaves my soul downcast within me.
But I will call this to mind,
as my reason to have hope:
The favors of the Lord are not exhausted,
his mercies are not spent;
They are renewed each morning,
so great is his faithfulness.
My portion is the Lord says my soul;
therefore I will hope in Him.
Good is the Lord to one who waits for Him,
to the soul that seeks Him;
It is good to hope in silence
for the saving help of the Lord."
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Arrangements
The viewing at the hospital went as well as could be expected, which is to say it was an extremely bittersweet experience. All the staff were very busy at the time, so we were shuffled around quite a lot before we ever made any headway, which ordinarily wouldn't have been such a strain, but my incision was still rather fresh and walking was a chore. Also, I think Dave and I are well equipped enough to handle our own grief without every counselor and social worker in the world trying to tell us at length how to get in touch with our feelings. It was hard enough to maintain our composure without having to talk to strangers about the gritty details.
The actual viewing, when we got to it, was hard. I knew it would be, but I wasn't prepared for just how small and perfect he was. I cried for the whole half hour, though Dave took it somewhat better. It's not that I can't accept that things happened the way they did, but there's something terribly sad about holding it in your hands and looking it in the face. Just thinking about it still makes me cry. I'm going to do my best not to lose it in front of the family at the funeral next week, but that's probably a lost cause already.
The funeral directors are asking us to provide clothes within the next few days. We bought the smallest onesie we could find, but it's still too big. My mom is croqueting a little blanket for him, and Dave's mom is bringing a tiny rosary. The funeral should be on Saturday, March 19, after which he'll be sent to Macon to be buried. We're in the process of trying to get our move arranged for the second time, so whenever it is that we finally hit the road and pass through that town again, there will apparently be a full Latin requiem Mass for him in the church where we were married. I know little David doesn't need it, but we probably do.
The actual viewing, when we got to it, was hard. I knew it would be, but I wasn't prepared for just how small and perfect he was. I cried for the whole half hour, though Dave took it somewhat better. It's not that I can't accept that things happened the way they did, but there's something terribly sad about holding it in your hands and looking it in the face. Just thinking about it still makes me cry. I'm going to do my best not to lose it in front of the family at the funeral next week, but that's probably a lost cause already.
The funeral directors are asking us to provide clothes within the next few days. We bought the smallest onesie we could find, but it's still too big. My mom is croqueting a little blanket for him, and Dave's mom is bringing a tiny rosary. The funeral should be on Saturday, March 19, after which he'll be sent to Macon to be buried. We're in the process of trying to get our move arranged for the second time, so whenever it is that we finally hit the road and pass through that town again, there will apparently be a full Latin requiem Mass for him in the church where we were married. I know little David doesn't need it, but we probably do.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
A Lifetime in Two Days
Little David Edward was born just before 10 PM on March 6, and passed away two days later on the evening of March 8 due to complications from pulmonary hemorrhage. The doctors at UCSF called me during his last minutes and assured me than he was receiving the best attention possible. It was hard being bedridden and several cities away while it was happening, but at least I knew someone was holding him.
The silver lining in all this is that we were able to have him baptized during his brief life in the big world. It may not sound like much, but at this point it really makes all the difference to us.
David and I are making the trip up to San Francisco tomorrow to see and sign for his body. I expect that to be the hardest part of this whole ordeal. I barely knew what to expect even under the best circumstances. I was never able to hold him or even have a good look at him. I heard him try to cry once in the operating room as they took him to the nursery while I was being stapled back together. All I saw of him while he was alive was a picture on a nurse's iPhone, and his little nose poking out of the blankets of a portable incubator as they were rushing him away to an ambulance. The poor little guy was better than three months premature and weighed barely more than a pound. I don't expect to get a lot of closure out of getting to hold him now that he's dead, and it will probably break my heart all over again to see just how frail he was, but there really is no avoiding it.
I was released from my own hospital room today once my staples were removed. I'm still not very mobile, and at the moment not very coherent thanks to all the oxycodone in my system. Mentally, intellectually and spiritually, we've already accepted what has happened and found our peace with it. Emotionally, it will probably be a very long road.
The silver lining in all this is that we were able to have him baptized during his brief life in the big world. It may not sound like much, but at this point it really makes all the difference to us.
David and I are making the trip up to San Francisco tomorrow to see and sign for his body. I expect that to be the hardest part of this whole ordeal. I barely knew what to expect even under the best circumstances. I was never able to hold him or even have a good look at him. I heard him try to cry once in the operating room as they took him to the nursery while I was being stapled back together. All I saw of him while he was alive was a picture on a nurse's iPhone, and his little nose poking out of the blankets of a portable incubator as they were rushing him away to an ambulance. The poor little guy was better than three months premature and weighed barely more than a pound. I don't expect to get a lot of closure out of getting to hold him now that he's dead, and it will probably break my heart all over again to see just how frail he was, but there really is no avoiding it.
I was released from my own hospital room today once my staples were removed. I'm still not very mobile, and at the moment not very coherent thanks to all the oxycodone in my system. Mentally, intellectually and spiritually, we've already accepted what has happened and found our peace with it. Emotionally, it will probably be a very long road.
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