For the Love of Baseball
Dear Andy:
I love baseball. The players, the uniforms, the rivalries, the smell of the grass, the sights and sounds of the ballpark, the history and magic of it – I love it. It’s my favorite. It’s in my blood. I’ve played it, analyzed it, lamented it, and loved it. But I’ve never once dreaded it, until February. I hoped and prayed for one more season with Grandpa Carl – just one more Opening Day. And then just one more spring training game. But it didn’t happen.
He grew up listening to St. Louis Cardinals games on the radio. When he was fourteen, he went on a 4-H field trip to see them play. He saw Stan Musial play. In the 1940’s. SAW. STAN THE MAN. WITH HIS OWN EYEBALLS IN REAL LIFE. He listened to and watched more games than I can wrap my brain around – eight decades’ worth. And since before I can remember, I would curl up beside him and watch him watching baseball. Sometimes Cardinals games, sometimes whatever happened to be on. Just baseball.
And then, despite my Cards upbringing, I fell hard for that rookie kid Chipper Jones playing 3rd for the Braves. Grandpa didn’t care. Chipper was good – going to be one of the best. We just watched more baseball.
From a distance, we would chat about games, players, trades, stats, streaks, and slumps. Together, we celebrated the beginning of new seasons, paid homage to mid-season home run kings, and watched history unfold in October. We watched his Cardinals make a slew of postseason appearances, while I bemoaned the ‘rebuilding’ of my own beloved Bravos and reminisced on my spoiled childhood of Chipper, Maddux, Smoltzie, Glavine, Javy, and Andruw, among others. And we beamed with pride when our favorite managers – Tony La Russa and Bobby Cox – were inducted into the Hall of Fame together in 2014.
But everything I learned from him about baseball was really about life.
Grandpa was cool as a cucumber, every game we watched. I, on the other hand, tended to be a little, um, emotionally involved in every. single. play. If I complained about the Braves getting off to a slow start the first week or so of the season, he was quick to remind me that there were still about 150 games left to play. One bad game wasn’t going to ruin the whole season. Kind of like when he and I sat together and cried and ate giant Alabama strawberries the afternoon of your accident. And when I spent a couple weeks with him and Grandma as I gathered about my wits the summer my divorce became final. Those games were over, chalked up as losses, but the season was far from over – anything could happen.
I hate trades. Every time I get attached to a player, he gets traded off. Baseball is not what it was when we were kids – pitchers threw complete games like no big deal, guys like Ripken played for games on end, and players wore the same team’s jersey their whole careers. Those days are becoming fewer and farther between. But no matter who got traded where, Grandpa was first and foremost a Cardinals fan, and whoever wore that uniform was one of his boys. He had confidence in the front office and his loyalty never wavered. Sometimes people are on our team for life, sometimes for a season, and sometimes they’re just there to fill in until someone better comes along. Just like in baseball, the rarest and most precious are the ones that stick it out for life. And God knows who we need on our team and when.
Even though he rooted for the Cards, Grandpa never hesitated to appreciate good baseball – regardless of team. He understood the beauty of a crisp, clean, 6-4-3 double play and the delight of a well-executed suicide squeeze and was quick to give credit where credit was due. Good baseball is good baseball. Imagine if we all treated each other like that, if we all looked for and acknowledged the good in each other. Good human-ing is good human-ing (yes, I just made a noun a verb), regardless of whose team we’re on (because really we’re all on the same team).
I had hoped for one more Opening Day. But as players began reporting and his health took a sharp decline, I prayed for just one more week – enough time to make it until the first spring training game. But our final season together had passed. Grandpa died on a Wednesday, and I listened to the Braves’ first spring training game on my way home from school the following Tuesday. Even though there’s not supposed to be any crying in baseball, I did anyway. It was the first time in the week since he passed that I really felt his absence and mourned him. I cried the whole game. And when the Cardinals open the 2016 season against the Pirates on Sunday, I will probably cry some more, just because it won’t be the same without him.
Yogi Berra once said, “Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” As this season unfolds, I will think of Grandpa, the memories we made together, and the love that he always, always had for me and for baseball. I’m thankful for the opportunity to be a fan of the greatest game in the world, and to have learned to love it from one of its best fans. My heart beats to the tomahawk chop, but my blood will always be a little bit of Cardinal red.
Give everyone a hug for me.
All my love,
Jenny
Ready for some baseball, Opening Day 2013
Sick
Dear Andy:
“I cannot go to school today
said little Peggy Ann McKay.
I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash, and purple bumps…”
– from “Sick” by Shel Silverstein
OMG we loved that poem – had the whole thing memorized. Who am I kidding? We pretty much knew everything he wrote by heart. But seriously though, I don’t feel good. Earlier this week my ears felt all crackly-poppy but I chalked it up to a huge temperature swing (30° jump one day, and a 40° drop the next) and let it go. And then I woke up yesterday with a sore throat that wouldn’t go away, and by the end of the day I felt like I’d been run over by a mid-size sedan. So I’ve spent most of the past 24 hours in bed, aside from a trip to the doctor to find out I have the flu and that I’ll probably feel worse before I feel better. SO GLAD I GOT STABBED WITH A NEEDLE TO PREVENT THE FLU IN THE FIRST PLACE (it apparently covered all but the strain I managed to contract from one or more of my little cherubs – who I’m not quite fond of at the moment).
I’ve slept for 14+ hours, Facebooked (which is boring when everyone else is at work), read through Buzzfeed twice, pinned a bunch of stuff, checked my email 7 times, synced my FitBit, and beat whatever challenge TwoDots had this week. So now what? This is the part of being sick that I hate – I. Am. So. Bored. and I feel like a lazy blob of a human for not doing anything because my body feels too heavy to get up and move (even though common sense tells me the best thing I can do right now is rest).
I miss having you around when I get sick. We always had each other’s back. And it wasn’t a call-me-if-you-need-me kind of thing, it was a drop-everything-and-do-whatever-is-necessary-to-make-you-feel-better deal. As much as you may have acted like you weren’t the caring, nurturing type, you were never more compassionate and concerned than when I was sick.
Remember the day you took off work to change over the title on your new truck and get insurance on it? I was so sick and you came over to see how I was feeling, what diagnosis/meds the doctor gave me (and then you mulled it over for a second and decided that you approved – like you were going to make me go get a second opinion or something if you had disagreed). You also made sure I took my meds when I was supposed to (I slept all day and was oblivious to the time), got me Jello (and made it for me), and checked in every few hours to see how I was feeling and make me get a drink.
I don’t know that I ever thanked you for that. So, thanks. It really meant a lot, and obviously I still haven’t forgotten it. You didn’t have to rearrange your day and inconvenience yourself to make sure I stayed comfortable, but you did. A friendship like that is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and I am so blessed that not only were you my friend, I got to call you brother, too. Thanks for looking out for me, supporting me, and always challenging me to be better (at whatever we happened to be competing in at the moment). Thanks for being my ‘big’ (younger) brother. Thanks for showing me what phileo love is really all about:
“Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble. Likewise, two people lying close together can keep each other warm. But how can one be warm alone? A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer.” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 NLT)
Thanks for being my little brother. Now go make me some soup. The stuff is in the fridge. I’m going to sleep some more.
Hugs to Jessie and Cupcake, and give Grandpa a high-five.
All my love,
Jenny
Somewhere in Dreamland
Dear Andy:
I had a dream about you a few nights ago. It’s only the second time (that I’m aware of) since the accident. Seven years, and only two dreams. It was so strange – I was dreaming and then you showed up in it, which is when it suddenly seemed so very real (isn’t it weird how real dreams can feel sometimes?) – because all of a sudden it clicked that, wait, this is impossible. But the rules of logic don’t apply in dreams, and so it kept going:
Soooo… I was at home. ‘Home’ as in the house on Miner City, where we grew up. This seems to be the place labeled in my reservoir of memories as ‘home’ – most of the time when I dream about home, it’s there. Anyway, I was outside working in the garden (which I really do have a garden this year and I’ll tell you all about it later.) and this truck pulls in the driveway. It’s an old, blue S-10 looking kind of truck and seems oddly familiar. Then you climb out, waving and smiling, and I drop what I’m doing, in shock that you are standing in front of me. I kept saying, “How are you here? You’re not supposed to be here. It’s not really you.” And I was thinking, This has got to be the most sick and twisted joke anyone has ever thought up.
You just chuckled and said, “I’m standing here, aren’t I? Of course it’s me. I had some time to stop by and I missed you. I thought you’d be excited to see me. Aren’t you going to give me a hug?” So you wrapped me up in one of those big bear hugs and I just gushed about how much I missed you and how could I not be excited to see you because I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you again and there you were – right in front of me. I looked for your bruises and scars and asked you about the accident and you just shrugged your shoulders and said not to worry about it; everything was okay – everything. was. fine. And, for a few moments, it wasn’t a joke – you really were there, and we chatted about what I had been doing lately, and it was like all order had been restored in my life. We started to go inside so you could see Mom and Grandma Evelyn, but that was when I woke up.
Oh, to have this kind of dream more often. I woke up feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest with happiness. Like waking-up-on-Christmas-morning happy, times a hundred – a peaceful, somewhat victorious blissfulness I can’t recall feeling very often. Not at all because I’m unhappy, but because it felt like somehow we had cheated the confines of life and death, for however brief a time. It took me a second to realize it was just a dream because it had seemed so real, at which point I tried to hurry back to sleep and keep the dream going, but you were nowhere to be found.
I spent the whole day thinking about that hug, though, and it was great. I loved your hugs – you just kind of swallowed me up because you were so much bigger than me. There’s no changing it now, but I wish I would have hugged you even more often, because I won’t get the chance to again (in real life, anyway). You’re not down the street, or a cross-country road trip, or even an intercontinental flight away. At least any of those I could plan a trip from one of us to the other, no matter the cost. Or Skype. Or Facetime. Or Snapchat. Heck, just an old-fashioned phone call or text message would make my day. Which is why I write these letters, I guess – at least I can still talk to you, even if you can’t respond.
Do you remember that cartoon short we watched when we were kids – ‘Somewhere in Dreamland’? It was about a brother and sister who dreamed about a land with ice cream flowers and popcorn fields (two of our favorite things!) and it had this song in it:
“I’ll see you somewhere in Dreamland,
Somewhere in Dreamland tonight.
Over a bridge made of moonbeams
We’ll find the clouds are silver-lined.
Each little star is a castle
Shining a welcome so bright.
Dreams will come true for me and you
Somewhere in Dreamland tonight.”
Well, little brother, I’ll see you somewhere in Dreamland, and I’m waiting for another hug.
All my love,
Jenny
p.s. – while I’m waiting, give Jessie and Cupcake one of those hugs, too, and give Grandpa a high-five.
47 Things I Will Never Forget About Him
Dear Andy:
Grandpa Orren died. A month ago. He just wasn’t the same after his wreck last year. I don’t know what else to say about it, other than it is yet another new normal that I really don’t like, and I really don’t want to adjust to it because, well, it sucks. It’s also very difficult to put into words just how big of a role he played in our lives, but I’m going to try. Here we go:
1. His birthday was April 24, which also happens to be the same as – gasp! – Chipper Jones! *swoon* That’s a lot of awesomeness for a single date on the calendar.
2. He built quite a few houses from start to finish, and was involved in remodeling every house I ever lived in.
3. When we were little, he built two basketball goals outside – one regulation height on a topped-off tree, and the other just right for 3- to 5-year-old me and you. He would shoot hoops some evenings, and sometimes he would put me on his shoulders so I could try, too.
4. That topped-off tree also had a 4×4 across the top that he hung swings on for us.
5. He had this old Lionel train set in the basement that I was absolutely ENAMORED with – the diesel locomotive and passenger cars and the steam engine – and I was so mad when he sold it.
6. I’m not sure who love tomatoes more – him or you.
7. His favorite color was green, and he painted everything that color, when given the opportunity.
8. He didn’t like chicken (weirdo).
9. He had a higher metabolism than anyone I have ever seen. Seriously, he ate ALL THE TIME and NEVER gained weight. I wish I could eat that much ice cream and bacon without consequence…
10. No matter how sick he felt, he would still eat bacon.
11. Bacon was one of, like, maybe, 5 things he knew how to cook.
12. One of those 5 things was his vegetable soup: tomatoes, potatoes, and cabbage. Forever my favorite.
13. And when grandma was in the hospital and I tried to cook for him and hounded him about what he eating, he assured me that he LOVED eating eggs and bacon for every single meal and he was just fine, thank you very much.
14. He was the most stubborn, hard-headed, strong-willed person I’ve known (well, it’s a toss-up between him and you).
15. He knew EVERY road in Vigo County and if you gave him an address or intersection, he could tell you what was there, what was nearby, and what used to be there.
16. We spent many summer evenings with him pitching to us in the back yard.
17. And when mom didn’t get off work in time, he and grandma took us to our games – and they sat right in front of the fence in their lawn chairs every single game.
18. He bought me my first car (and yours, and Zach’s).
19. For being so miserly, he was generous to a fault.
20. Not once did he complain about the amount of groceries it took to keep us fed (at least not that I recall), and weekly excursions to Terre Haute were the BEST.
21. He would drive us (a whole 3 blocks) to school (especially when the weather was bad) and pick us up every afternoon.
22. I’m not sure if he was more obsessed with vehicles, mowing the grass, watching the news, or reading the paper.
23. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be obsessed with Roger Miller. Oh, how his face lit up when I played him a recording of my 4th graders singing ‘Old Toy Trains’ at our Christmas program a couple years ago. It was one of my proudest moments because my kids sounded amazing and he looked so impressed.
24. Remember how he would cycle through our names before getting the one he wanted when we were in trouble? lol
25. He loved you, you know – despite your mutual stubbornness, he loved you. After your accident, I couldn’t leave the house without him saying, “Drive careful now, girl. BE. CAREFUL!”
26. When we had that winter storm my senior year of college and got a ton of snow on top of like a quarter-inch of ice, he drove all the way to West T to dig out and un-thaw my car so I could still come home that weekend.
27. And even though I had a job on campus and during the summer, he still gave me gas money every weekend.
28. Do you remember him taking us down to the hospital when Jessie was born? I do. I don’t remember visiting her there, and I don’t remember the first time I held her, but I remember him and us and the hospital.
29. When me and Kyle were separated, he came over and mowed my yard, much to my chagrin – and he would not be talked out of it. He was 81 at the time…
30. He was the hardest-working person I’ve ever known.
31. When he was in the hospital, he made sure every nurse and doctor knew who I was and all the reasons why he was so proud of me (hashtag embarrassing).
32. He taught me how to drive.
33. I loved filling out NCAA brackets with him in March.
34. I also loved cheering for the Pacers and Colts with him.
35. He would darn his socks and patch his jeans until the couldn’t be darned or patched any more.
36. He always had his billfold, watch, pocket knife, a pencil, and a folding rule with him. And a hat.
37. Got mail? God forbid you mangle it open with your finger – let him use his pocket knife to neatly cut it open. Or, even better (if luck would allow), he would hand you his knife to do it yourself.
38. His phone etiquette… If you called him, he answered with a resounding, “Yeah?” but as soon as he considered the conversation over, he hung up. Hope you were done talking lol.
39. I was the only one he would let sit on the arm of HIS chair with him. And it was my favorite spot curl up in a ball to nap when he was’t sitting in it.
40. High-fives were our signature good-bye.
41. I don’t know where he got his horseshoe playing skills, but dang.
42. He ‘hated’ animals, but he would struggle over whether Brandy would like the peanut butter- flavored or meat-basted dog biscuits better. Yup.
43. Do you have any idea how many times he saved our butts because he brought us our forgotten homework or instruments?
44. Remember the year him and Grandma got us our SNES with Donkey Kong Country? Stupid question, because I STILL PLAY THAT THING. Best game system ever.
45. He could make or fix ANYTHING. Seriously. Well, as long as it didn’t involve cooking.
46. He was madly in love with Grandma and told me the story of how they met and how much he loved her every chance he got. They were married for 59 years.
47. No matter what he was doing, it was never more important than anything we needed from him.
…
Sigh. I know nobody lives forever, but regardless of how old or how much of a life someone like him has lived, it still hurts. This whole being a grown-up thing is for the birds. I’ll just go back to being a kid, thanks. Because not only is Grandpa there – you are, too. And even though life had its fair share of twists and turns back then, it was still awesome and I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything.
It hurts right now, but Psalm 30:5 (The Message) says, “The nights of crying your eyes out give way to days of laughter.” I am so thankful that I have 30 years of memories to cherish and, eventually again, bring me laughter, especially when there are so many who, for whatever reason, have not had the privilege of being so close to their grandparents. And what’s more, I realize now just how blessed I am to have received his can-do attitude – you can do anything, if you’re willing to put in the time and effort it takes to do the work. What a legacy.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing in this whole world like the love of a grandfather.
Hugs to Jessie and Cupcake. And give Grandpa a high five.
All my love,
Jenny
I Don’t Have a Cute, Catchy Title for This. Sorry.
Dear Andy:
Today, October 15, is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and I am the face of miscarriage – I lost my first child at 11 weeks of gestation.
I have struggled with how to talk about this. I have no idea how to do it without making it sound like I’m throwing a pity party or want a bunch of sympathy, or making it sound uncomfortable or awkward (talking about losing babies is a horrible topic. always). You can talk to a hundred women who have suffered through a miscarriage, and our experiences will all be different. I have friends who have suffered through ectopic pregnancies, first trimester spontaneous abortions (the lovely medical term for miscarriage), and even one who has endured the loss of twins midway through her pregnancy. It doesn’t discriminate between rich or poor, young or old, black or white – it can happen to anyone, even if you do everything ‘right.’ This is my story. And I never got the chance to have this conversation with you, so I’m going to do it now (sorry it’s so long). This is what miscarriage was like for me.
On July 22, 2011, we found out I was pregnant. I scheduled an OB appointment as soon as possible, given our family history with Jessie’s HPE. I had been taking folic acid and prenatal vitamins because we had been trying for almost a year and I was doing everything within my control to prevent any problems.
My first prenatal appointment was August 4 (quite early in the pregnancy, as I was only 6 weeks along). Everything went well, and we got a picture of our little blob as well as a projected due date of March 30, 2012. Yep, March 30 – the day that I lost you was going to become the day that I finally got to hold my own child in my arms. Talk about mixed emotions! I was so happy about this sweet baby, yet so sad that you were not there to share in the joy – you always talked about how you would be the coolest uncle ever.
We did all the things that expecting parents do: We started stocking up on a few essentials like onesies, boppy pillows, and, of course, bedtime stories (I’d been stockpiling children’s books for quite some time, and this just gave me motivation to get even more – Cupcake was going to have a library that put our childhood reading selections to shame). We thought about how to reorganize the house to transform the spare bedroom (‘your room’ – even that was an emotional experience, knowing that someone else would be calling that room their own). We also began brainstorming names. Your name was going to be in there somewhere if Cupcake was a boy, so we played around with different names to pair with Andrew. My initial boys’ list was: Jasper, Garrison, Elliott, Emmett, Caleb, Noah, Wyatt, Gage, and Isaac. For a girl I had: Meredith, Daphne, Claire, Abigail, Bianca, Adelaide, Anne, Corinne, Laura, and Madeline.
Early on, my hormone levels began decreasing instead of increasing and I was put on Crinone, a progesterone medication, to try to get my levels to go up. I had appointments at least once a week as a precaution until I made it out of the first trimester. I definitely felt pregnant – I had never been so tired in my life! I almost fell asleep in the middle of one of my first grade classes – right in the middle of teaching (I probably shouldn’t admit that, but I did – if I wasn’t at work, I was at home asleep)! I also cried over stupid, ridiculous stuff; one night I was fixing supper and crying because I really wanted a chicken sandwich from McDonalds but didn’t want to drive to get one and didn’t want Kyle to get me one. Sierra Mist was also my BFF – I wasn’t really nauseous; it was just the only thing I wanted to drink. McD’s sweet tea was absolutely disgusting to me for the first time in my life. And around week 9 or 10, I had to do the old hair-tie-around-the-button trick to make my pants feel comfortable – I was already starting to get a bit of a baby bump. It was so exciting!
My doctor said that week 12 was kind of the ‘safety zone’ and that once we heard a heartbeat, there was only a 10% chance of miscarriage. I first heard the heartbeat on August 19, and it was MAGICAL. We were slowly getting out of the woods and everything was going to be fine! I even have a sonogram picture with that tiny heartbeat scrolled across the bottom.
Unfortunately, things quickly went downhill. I began spotting heavily during week 11, 5 days shy of our week 12 safety zone. They say spotting is normal in the first trimester (and it wasn’t the first time this had happened), so I really wasn’t prepared for what I hoped and prayed was a routine trip to find out the baby was fine, just normal prego stuff, to instead be the day I found out that beautiful heartbeat I just heard at my appointment the week before was now undetectable.
Like buying a brand-new car and getting it totaled by an idiot who t-bones you right after you drive off the lot.
Like building the home of your dreams and having it burn to the ground the day after you move everything in and now you’re left with nothing.
Like everything in Alanis Morissette’s song, “Ironic.”
Yeah. Except I’m not exactly sure how those really compare, because I’ve never had any of those things happen. But I will tell you this – it hurt worse than losing you. And it hurts to say that, because losing you was the most excruciating thing I have ever experienced in my life. Losing you was emotionally painful, and yes, I lost sleep, couldn’t eat, had nightmares, all that stuff that comes with the shock and trauma of losing ‘your person’ (for all the Grey’s fans out there) in a sudden accident. Losing cupcake was different.
There was definitely emotional pain – all this excitement that just kept building and the hope that after just one more week things would be fine, had instantly become shattered dreams. Despite all my efforts to save my child, I felt like I had failed. Nothing I did had worked. And it was so hard to process the loss a person I never got to see.
There was mental pain – What if I had chosen a different doctor? Had I really done everything I could? Was I a carrier for HPE and had I done this to my child? Why did I have to be the 1 in 10? There was a heartbeat, and everything was supposed to be fine after that.
There was physical pain – that night after the appointment, my cramps kept getting worse, and I realized that I was having tiny little labor pains as my body was trying to remove this now foreign object from its system. How’s that for wretched and horrible (because that’s how I felt that night). I’ll spare the rest of the details. I want so badly to give them, just so you know exactly what it was like, but I won’t. I didn’t have to have a D and C (which is apparently a good thing, but at the same time, since I passed the baby naturally, there was no way to do any tests to find out if there was something wrong with Cupcake that caused the miscarriage). However, they drew 9 vials of blood, which was a horrible ordeal for me because I can’t stand having blood drawn (another one of those things that moms buckle down and do because they love their children…). And along with all the other post-miscarriage stuff I had going on, I also had to take doxycycline to prevent infection – this is the worst antibiotic I have ever taken. No matter whether I took it with or without food, any time of day, I was doubled over with stomach cramps that felt like someone was slicing my guts open, which is apparently a common side effect… A few weeks later, I had to have a histosonograph (sp?) to make sure there was nothing physically wrong with me that would have caused a miscarriage. There are some places saline solution should never be injected – that’s all I’ll say about that.
I laid on the porch in my pajamas for a week and cried. I cried because my baby was gone and I would never get to cradle them in my arms, kiss their skinned knee, or help them with homework. I also cried because all I wanted to do was talk to you and hear you tell me it was going to be okay, but you weren’t there to do that.
All the test results came back clear. Sometimes, these things just happen. That really didn’t give me any comfort or closure. The doctor is supposed to have a reason for this medical stuff – not tell me “I don’t know.” It was so excruciating knowing that I had done EVERYTHING right, and things still went wrong – for no apparent reason.
People gave advice – name your baby. My baby is named Cupcake. I don’t have to give it a ‘real’ name. Yes, my child was just as real to me as if I had held it in my arms, but I am still holding out hope that someday I will have a Jasper Andrew or Daphne Claire. I don’t need to give it a ‘name.’ That’s cool if it helps some people, but it didn’t really help me.
A couple months after I lost Cupcake, shortly before Thanksgiving, an immediate family member told me that I needed get over myself because I wasn’t the only one hurting from my loss – they hurt and felt the loss just as much as I did. I may or may not have completely lost my temper over that comment.
What has really hurt, though, is that I got divorced a couple months ago, and very well-meaning people trying to give words of comfort are kind of accidentally overcompensating because I don’t think they really know what to say and have said things like, “Well, maybe it’s good that you didn’t have kids.” or “See, look, it’s a good thing you lost the baby – divorce is really hard on kids, you know.” I smile and give a polite response but deep down it really, really, really hurts. I think about all those morning and evenings I took the progesterone and choked down all those nasty prenatal pills. I think about all the sonogram photos of my precious Cupcake. I think about what I went through the night I lost the baby, how sick the doxycycline made me every time I took it, and how humiliating the bloodwork and follow-up tests were. I also think about our own experiences as children of divorce – I hated dad for a decade because I was stupid enough to choose sides and I watched you become an alcoholic before the age of 21, which eventually brought your death. I am the last person who needs to be told how hard divorce is for children. I KNOW.
The pain I endured in losing my child was NOT good. My experience as a child of divorce was NOT good. Losing you was NOT good.
I was starting to let those ‘comforts’ anger me, wondering how in the world any of that could possibly be considered good, and so I began praying and seeking God about it. I had come to peace with the fact that although losing Cupcake was not what I wanted, it was perhaps in mine and/or Cupcake’s best interests – there are many other things that could have happened: What if something would have happened to me later in the pregnancy or during delivery that would have left my baby motherless? What if my baby did have HPE and was instead ushered oh-so-quickly into the arms of Jesus to spend time with Uncle Andy and Aunt Jessie instead of suffering with seizures, NG tubes, shunt surgeries, and countless medications and hospital visits? None of those would have been good either – in fact, more people would have suffered.
All I know is this: I don’t believe that miscarrying my child was a good thing, any way you try to slice it. I just don’t. Just like I don’t believe losing Jessie, or mom and dad’s divorce, or losing you, or my divorce, was a good thing. The death of a young person for any reason is never a good thing – ideally, people should live long, fulfilling lives. Divorce is never good – marriage is intended to be a lifelong commitment. Those are bad things – painful experiences that we can never change but must learn to accept. However, I do believe that my experiences and what I have learned from those events can be used for good. I can find comfort and peace knowing that God has never left me as I faced each of those trials, and I believe that someday, somehow, God will allow me to use those experiences for His glory. Whether they allow me to bring comfort to someone else facing the same struggle, or simply draw me closer to Him, that is the good in those situations.
Romans 5:3-5 (NLT) says, “We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope WILL NOT [emphasis added] lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because He has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with His love.”
2 years later, my arms still ache with emptiness, but my heart rejoices that my sweet Cupcake is safe with you in the arms of Jesus, and you have the niece or nephew you so eagerly anticipated while you were here.
5 years later, I still so badly want to have our daily conversations about nothing in particular, but I rejoice that this life is but a vapor and we will soon carry on those conversations for eternity, like we never missed a day.
20 years later, I still regret the decade of my youth that I denied myself and dad and my grandparents, but I rejoice every single moment in God’s power to heal broken relationships and in His grace to give us the ability to forgive and reconcile those past hurts – today, they are the three people I lean on the most.
24 years later, I still wish I had gotten to grow up with a sister, but I rejoice that God gave me the two best brothers anyone could ever hope or dream for and I cherish each and every single memory I have made with you, Zach, and Jessie.
No, losing Cupcake was not a good thing. And please don’t try to tell me that. The good thing is that, in all of the trials I have faced, I have learned that God will never leave me or forsake me, and the same is true for losing Cupcake. I can’t do anything to get my child back while I am here on this earth, but God will not leave me helpless to suffer blindly through my hurt. And eventually, I will see my sweet baby. Just not now.
“Blessed is the one that perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him.” (James 1:12, NIV)
My crown is waiting, and so is my Cupcake.
All my love,
Jenny
Miscarriage affects an estimated 1 in 4 pregnancies. I am the face of that 1 in 4.
Accidents Happen
Dear Andy:
Today marks 5 years since the accident. As I laid in bed yesterday, it was so hard to keep my mind from thinking about that night and the days that led up to it – if only there was some way I could have changed the outcome. But there isn’t. It doesn’t matter how guilty, ashamed, or angry I feel, I could not have saved you. There, I said it. And I hope you realize just how far that means I’ve come.
The accident happened early Sunday morning, March 30, 2008. The last time I saw you was Wednesday, 4 days prior…
And to think I got aggravated with you that Wednesday – we had fried egg sandwiches for supper, and you fixed yours after I’d put everything away. But did you bother to clean up? No, and I made sure to let you know it. If I’d known it was the last time we’d cook and share a meal together, we would have cooked every bit of food in the pantry and dirtied every dish and utensil in the cabinets. And I would have dealt with the mess later. I’m sorry I didn’t truly savor every moment we had together. But the accident still would have happened.
And then I was too busy to see you because I was being vain and shopping for a new outfit for the ladies’ retreat Thursday. Like I said, we hung out every day, so who really cares about one day? Besides, Lord knows I needed new clothes. Yeah, right. I am so embarrassed and ashamed by this that I just don’t even know what to say – and the top really wasn’t that cute, which makes it even worse. I’m sorry I took for granted the fact that you were always there. But the accident still would have happened.
And then I went out of town. It was my first time at the ladies’ retreat for church and it just got better as the weekend progressed. At the end of service Saturday night, I prayed for God to do whatever it took to see my family saved. Then I went on my merry way enjoying the retreat, and 6 hours later, you died. Talk about eating your words. It was so hard to regret not being home that weekend, and even harder to not regret that prayer. I really did mean it, but I didn’t know it would cost you your life. If only I had stayed home, maybe you wouldn’t have died alone in the pouring rain. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me most. But regardless of whether I was home or thousands of miles away, the accident still would have happened.
And then Saturday night, I passed on my very last chance to tell you I loved you. Yeah, sister of the year right here, I know. After Saturday night’s service, I was on the phone with Kyle. He mentioned that he was with you at home and I asked him to hand you the phone. But before he did, I said never mind because I’d just see you tomorrow. It wasn’t a big deal. Oh, but it was a big deal. I should have made him give you the phone and then spent the rest of the night telling you over and over again how much I loved you. I’m sorry I gave up my last opportunity to tell you I love you because I was worried about you thinking I was being silly for telling you that since I’d be home the next afternoon. But the accident still would have happened.
And after the accident? I was angry, too. Angry that you drank so much. Angrier that you drove after said drinking. Angry that no one took your keys. Angry that you even bought that stupid truck in the first place. Angry that you were driving so fast. Angry that you didn’t wear your seat belt. Angry that you were an absolute idiot that night and made some really bad choices. Angry that I had to figure out how to live without you…
But you know what? I’ve been working on all that guilt, shame and anger, and I’ve finally just about got it all straightened around. Yes, I still have days where those emotions get to me, but now I can put them in their place.
About that Wednesday – I regret snapping at you over a pointless tub of butter and a half dozen eggs, but that wasn’t the last thing I said to you that night. As you left and we discussed weekend plans, I gave you a hug and told you I loved you because I knew I wouldn’t talk to you before Sunday. There is absolutely no guilt in that.
Thursday? OK, let’s be honest – one day out of… lets see. You were alive for exactly 8,001 days of my life, so, yeah. 1 out of 8,001. We crammed 80 years’ worth of memories into those other 8,000. That’s something to be proud of, not ashamed.
That weekend? Because being at home would have been so much better than being in a place where I could be bathed in prayer when I needed it most. False. I prayed a prayer I was supposed to pray, and God proved His faithfulness by putting me in the best possible place I could have been at the time – surrounded by His daughters and countless prayer warriors.
That phone call? Um, flash back to Wednesday night and our very last conversation. The last thing I said to you was, “I love you.” The last thing you said to me was, “I love you, too.” And we said it on a regular basis, so it’s not like you didn’t know I loved you. Plus, think of the infinite possibilities of what our last words could have been. Turns out we nailed it.
And about all that anger. Well, it’s pointless. If you or anyone else would have known what was going to happen, you would still be here. Accidents happen – sometimes sheerly by accident, sometimes as unintended consequences of poor choices. I can’t be angry over that. It was an ACCIDENT. Plus, look at all the stuff I can do without you:
I can cook anything I want.
I can hunt – and actually kill something.
I can teach kiddos who treat their siblings the way we treated each other.
I can travel all those places we always said we were going to go.
And – check this out – I can run like Forrest Gump (This pic is actually from today).
Today, the 5-year anniversary of the worst day of my life, I ran my very first 5k. I have spent the past 5 years living without you, but today marks a new beginning. I’m ready for life without you, so I decided to take the Word literally and run an actual race to celebrate.
Hebrews 12:1 (NLT) says, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.”
You finished your race, but I’m still running mine. And it’s time for me to get busy again.
Hugs to Jessie and Cupcake.
All my love,
Jenny
p.s. – Tell Cupcake happy first birthday.
Experience: That Most Brutal of Teachers
Dear Andy:
I’m sorry it’s been a few weeks since I last wrote you. Life has been crazy. Grandma is sick, and she’s not going to get better. She spent a week in the hospital in January and then again last month. We finally got a diagnosis of amyloidosis, which is some rare condition where your body produces a protein that it can’t process, so the stuff just builds up in vital organs. In grandma’s case, that would be her kidneys. The doctor said today that they’re functioning at about 10% and she’s in stage 5 renal failure. It’s not cancer but they’re going to treat it with chemo (which she started this week). It’s 30% successful at keeping her condition from getting worse. So… 2013 has been an unplanned barrage of hospital and specialist visits, with a crash course in dialysis starting now. Fun times.
I feel like a rubber band trying to hold everything together. Keeping track of which appointment is when, researching the info the doctors give us, relaying info to everybody, making sure grandma and grandpa understand what is going on, trying to be at all the appointments, picking up prescriptions… It’s like it never ends.
It feels like all eyes are on me to be the dependable one to keep everything together. Which is just part of it, I guess, but overwhelming nonetheless. To make things worse, you’ll never guess what I did when we were sitting in the ER at the beginning of Grandma’s most recent hospital stay: I almost called you. While we’re waiting for a room to open up so they can admit her, I thought to myself, I need to let Andy know that we’re here, picked up my phone and unlocked it before it clicked in my brain that you wouldn’t be on the other end if I had hit ‘send.’
In the past 5 years, I have not done that one single time. Have I wanted to call you? Yes. But have I ever picked up the phone and started to do it? No. Maybe it was because I was so tired. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was because you were my rock when I needed help being strong for everyone else. My heart sank when it hit me that I was going to have to go this one alone.
Sometimes I think about the accident and wonder if it would have been any easier to lose you if I’d had time to say goodbye, like if you had ended up in the hospital or you’d had some terminal illness instead. But all I knew was how it felt to have you snatched away in an instant. Based on experience that I have recently gained, however, I can tell you it would not have been easier. I am so thankful for all the time we’ve had with grandma, but for someone to show you the hourglass and make you watch the sand run out still hurts just as much. It’s like taking all the mind-searing pain from the moment of finding out that you were gone and applying it over several months. And I have no control over the outcome of either scenario.
C.S. Lewis once said, “Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.” I have learned that spending every day watching the end come slowly hurts just as much as having something suddenly ripped from your hands. It is definitely a brutal teacher, and I would rather have gone my whole life without knowing either experience.
But that isn’t God’s plan. And even though it hurts, I know that His plan is perfect and that He doesn’t let us face any of our trials alone. The road ahead looks rocky, but I’m finding overwhelming peace in this version of Isaiah 41:10,13 – “Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I, your God, have a firm grip on you & I’m not letting go.”
I may not have you by my side for this battle, but I’ll make it through. The One Who sticks closer than a brother is with me, and He will help me.
I miss you a lot. Tell Jessie and Cupcake I miss them, too.
All my love,
Jenny
Dear Andy: 