Savoring the Tough Stuff

Can or should the tough stuff be savored? What advantage does it give you, if any? I don't have all the answers and never will, but I can share what I think it can do for me.

Four years: it's amazing to me how some of those memories are still so stark and real in my mind as I look back. I can remember very well what I was doing four years ago today. It was a Saturday and it was D's Christmas party at work. It was a very nice meal with lots of Amish in attendance, but also a few good friends. After lunch, the guys went to shoot clay pigeons and the girls played games. A few of us girls had decided we needed a bathroom run and had come back to our place where all of the girls were to kind and gracious to mention that a certain article of clothing had been left behind in the bathroom on the floor. Doesn't your brain remember the funniest things? Hanging up was a new dress that I was planning to wear the next day at church, a maternity dress, so while I like new dresses there was a certain amount of trepidation to making the switch over to maternity clothes.  I really don't remember what we did in the evening, probably discussed once again how life was going to change if our little girl really had Down Syndrome.

And then, the next morning came and I am not going to share many of those details again, I think I have before. But they are still real to me. I can still feel exactly how I felt, still remember thinking that I was sure it was nothing and they were going to send me home and I was going to be embarrassed. And later wishing they had just told me it was nothing and I had been able to go home embarrassed. I remember being tormented at the idea of weeks of bed rest and wishing it could just be over and when it was over feeling so guilty about my lack of willingness initially. I also remember how fun it was to be able to order my food, whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and have it delivered right to my bed. That was amazing and the food was pretty good too.

January 13 was more of a blur because I didn't feel good, but I think I can still feel that ache in my bones, the way I hurt all over, the way I wanted to go home so badly, but it was hard to convince the doctor to let me when I looked and felt so awful. And I remember holding sweet Nicole in my arms, her little body already a little discolored in death and feeling that loss.  I remember, maybe more from the picture, our kind doctor resting his hand on my knee with a sadness in his eyes. I remember how D's brother and sister and his cousin and wife came in that night yet, late though it was. I remember how another friend came to watch the kids and had quickly whipped up a card to send along in. And all the visitors the next day despite the snow. I remember how everyone held my little girl. That was amazing to me because I don't know that I would have wanted to.

And the burial. I don't know that I will ever be able to erase that memory of the dirt hitting the little casket. Anyway, I have probably repeated myself over and over these last four years, but I remember the kindness and care and the hundreds of cards that came in (advantage of being a small town doctor's nurse in a world of Mennonites). And yes, I remember the first Sunday back at church and how totally awful it was and how I resolved to do things differently if the tables were ever turned. Sundays were just horrible for me for the next long while: the tears would come, there were so many children, and I had no energy or ambition to reach out to people. It was not the other people's fault.

So what has this remembering and savoring done for me? I like to think it has made me a more sensitive person. I can begin to understand what others go through when they lose a baby, either in miscarriage or as a stillborn. I can see the need to reach out when someone has lost their baby and let them know you care. And I have learned that it is best not to say, I meant to send you a card, but never got around to it. That doesn't do much for the grieving mom.

I think there is one other thing that savoring the tough stuff can do: it gives you memories. Those sad memories are some of the only memories I have of my little girl. Are they fun memories? No, not at all, but they are memories all the same, memories that I want to hold on to and not lose because they are all I have left.

And so as I near Nicole's fourth birthday, I just wonder: what would she be like? Would she be the chatty Kathy that her sister is? Would she be the laid back, seemingly more patient personality that her brother is so far exhibiting? Would she be a good mix or completely different? Would she have had a lot of health problems? Would she be ready to go to Sunday School or would she be too shy and timid?

I'll never know, but  I will continue to wonder and I will continue to look at the two little girls in church and imagine my little girl there as well. And I look forward to the day when I can see her again.

Until then, I will "Hold tight to the sound of the music of living, happy songs from the laughter of children at play. Hold them near, while they're here and don't wait for tomorrow to look back and to wish for today."  And that is what I would challenge each of you to do as well.