It’s late but I wanted to write a post today. Today makes 6 months since that horrible day in the hospital. It’s hard to believe, really. Every now and then, I’ll just sit back and try and run through that day’s events in my mind, and they are really all a blur. I remember being at home, knowing that something wasn’t quite right…driving Sarah up to Walnut Creek, getting some tests done, and then that moment when the doctor pulled the stool over and sat down next to us and let us know the reality of our situation.
“I’m going to recommend that you end the pregnancy.” Although, she probably used a more technical term like “terminate” or something.
And that was it. Joy turned to sadness. Excitement turned to disbelief. This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen to real people, does it? Surely not us? Surely not with twins? Surely not…
The part of the day that is the foggiest for me is the drive I made from the hospital back to Livermore that night. I left Sarah at the hospital to go home and get some things that we’d be needing…part of me can’t really imagine why I left my wife after we had just been given such wretched news…but part of me remembers a feeling of just needing to get out of there, that if I got on the road and drove fast…maybe it would all go away. Maybe if I left the hospital, went home to where things were “normal” – maybe when I came back we’d have different news. I remember listening to Linkin Park in the car. I remember running into the house and throwing a bunch of stuff into my backpack. And then driving back. But it’s like I was in between worlds – in between realities.
And now it’s been 6 months. And instead of having two beautiful twin baby boys, we have a beautiful wooden memory box. Sarah made up for my laziness in finding a memory box by finding someone online who custom made the box for us based on dimensions we gave him. Then he mailed it to an artist on Etsy that Sarah had found, and she added their names and in the image of the tree by woodburning the design onto the box, and then she mailed it to us. We got it a few days ago.
It’s beautiful. It really is. But what a shitty thing to need. What a shitty thing to have. A beautiful memory box for dead babies.
Tree of Life
It’s interesting. One of the images that Sarah and I have been drawn to over our 6 month grief journey is the tree of life. Sarah has a necklace that she ordered (another find off of Etsy), which is a beautiful tree. Then there was the painting I got Sarah for Christmas. There have been a few other things, and now the woodburned tree image on our memory box. At first, I guess it feels odd to associate the tree of life with death; but then again, I guess it makes sense. At least for me, that was part of the significance of Easter for me this year. That death isn’t the last word. That hope and love and life defeat death. That life can come out of death.
I don’t entirely know what that means for me. That life can come out of death. But I have to believe that.
It’s been 6 months and I know I’m still grieving, but it definitely feels different than it did 6 months ago.
Yet it’s still real – it’s still felt.
Instead of my boys, I have a tax refund for dead babies.
Instead of my boys, I have a box of memories.
Not the way it should have been – but the way it is.
A death of lives.
Life out of death.
Ivy says
Wow, Adam. Words can’t even begin to describe that image on the box or the contents that fill it. Still praying for you both!
Allen Ewing-Merrill says
God’s peace to you, Adam. God’s deep and abiding peace…
tripp says
yall stay in my prayers.
Shawn Collins says
Adam, you made a comment in another post about this blog being a place where people share stories (not so much where they find answers). Your reflection on life coming from death is also my story. I love my three living daughters dearly, but each was born after a miscarriage (2 miscarriages, 2 girls, miscarriage, girl). So in a very real sense, their lives came out of the death of their siblings. I do not refuse to celebrate their lives. I am deeply grateful that they have been born. And I will never, ever say that their births mean the other losses were for the best. But I am trying to understand how to hold those two truths in tension. And also to place that tension in the broader narrative of Easter. In the baptism liturgy for each of my girls, I’ve put text that says “Jesus Christ came into the world and gave his life for you, little one, although you don’t know it yet.” It’s been important, like you mentioned with the Easter celebration, that as we place our children in God’s hands, to emphasize that broader truth – their lives exist because of Christ’s death.
Abigail Benjamin says
Wow! Really deep. Really beautiful.
I think the Tree of Life makes so much sense.
I like to think of my children as the “fruit” of my marriage. Your guys, Micah and Judah, were so precious and so little and so loved. I’m sorry that you had such a tiny window to care for them on this earth.
Abigail Benjamin says
Please tell Sarah that I will be praying for her during this hard Mother’s Day weekend.
april says
Adam, it has been several years… not sure why I looked you up tonight, but am so devastated to hear about your boys.
Adam says
Thanks April. I think about you and Nuc often – hope you are doing well. Thanks for the note – it’s been quite the journey for us, that’s for sure.
Jennifer says
Years ago after googling “spirituality” (along with some other combination of words I don’t remember), I stumbled upon your pomomusings site and was utterly charmed by the story of your and Sarah’s engagement, as well as your commitment to ministering your faith. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed your postings and Sarah’s sermons. I checked back in recently to see how you were doing and was saddened to hear about the loss of your boys. I join the many who are praying for you, Sarah, Micah, and Judah. You have helped me spiritually through your grace and openness. God bless you and your family.
Carrie Mook Bridgman says
Adam and Sarah,
Yes, you are parents, and members of a club that is still larger than we wish–those who have lost children. I’m just finding your blog. I will keep you both in my prayers through Father’s Day and beyond. Let Jesus hold you as he holds your sons.
I once baptized a baby who was stillborn. We adjusted the words of the vows to be a placing of the little boy in Jesus’ hands, rather than the parents’ promise to bring him up in the Christian faith. It was beautiful, and heartbreaking,and TRUE.
Carrie
Cheryl says
Adam and Sarah, Just wanted you to know I had been thinking about you over the last couple months. Keeping you in my prayers. Hope you had a good visit with your parents recently. Take care and know that we are praying for you always.
Shell says
I was researching something else and ran across your posting. I was compelled to send this note of condolence. I am sure it was and is and will always be a difficult time and I shall say a prayer for your comfort.