That morning after our family left the hospital it was just Kevin and I.  I had to get dressed.  I put on the same clothes I had entered the hospital in, but now there was much more room.  My belly had collapsed so quickly.  The nurses processed our discharge, but it seemed so easy that I stopped at the front desk to ensure we were okay to leave.  The nurse knew who we were, and quietly told us we were okay to leave, with pity in her eyes.  I walked towards the elevator and there was a statue with a mom holding a baby.  I just stared at it - heartbroken.  I had arrived 27 hours earlier with contractions, knowing that things were not great, but never believing that I would walk out of the hospital with empty arms and an empty belly.  Koen was gone.  Already at the funeral home.  How did we get here?  Rain was pouring from the skies as we exited the hospital doors.  The heavens were crying with us.  

We went home and all sat around our dining room table to eat fast food.  How weird that seems now, but our bodies needed food.  I took a shower and then went to Koen's room.  His crib was filled with clean clothes that I had just washed.  I wanted him to be buried in something that mommy and daddy had bought for him.  I wanted him to be dressed in the soft cotton snugglies that I had been daydreaming about cuddling him in.  I picked out a sleeper, a little hat that I had bought for him, and the coziest knitted blanket that I loved to snuggle Hackett in when he was a baby.  How quickly the decisions had to be made.  I was not prepared to choose clothes to bury my child in.  Just days before I was working on removing stains from the baby clothes Hackett had worn.  I planned for Koen to live and wear these clothes.  

Kevin and I went to the funeral home.  I had just delivered a baby, but now I was walking, showering, and going to pick out a casket.  The funeral home took good care of us, but the man who helped with our preparations was attempting to make small talk.  We just stared at him blankly.  We were in shock.  We had just set a funeral date for our son.  We now needed to find a pastor from our church to officiate.  It was all moving so fast, but we didn't have the option to slow it down.  This was now our reality.  

Last Saturday I went into Koen's bedroom, not something I do often, but I had put Hackett's winter comforter in there and needed to get it back out.  I walked in the room, stopped, looked at the tiniest pair of socks, and collapsed into the rocking chair.  I sat holding those little socks and the onsie that said "Little Brother".  I had purchased it just hours after finding out that Koen was a boy.  The only item missing in that sweet little outfit was the hat.  The grey and white striped hat was placed on Koen's sweet little head and buried with him.  I looked over at the CD player and pushed play.  I already had a pile of lullaby CDs in Koen's room.  When I was still pregnant I would sit in the rocking chair, rub my belly, sing, and talk to Koen.  I had time last year during my pregnancy and I was given the gift of time with Koen.  I am so thankful that I stopped and savored that time with him ... my only time with him.  Last week as I sat and rocked I looked at the dust that has piled on the CD player and other things in Koen's room.  The dust has settled, time has passed, and life has changed.

There are constant reminders.  Every time I walk in my bedroom I glance into Koen's empty room.  As we drove to a birthday party for Hackett this weekend we drove by the cemetery and I watched as both Kevin and my head turned and gazed at Koen's resting place for as long as we could.  This week yet another large hospital bill arrived.  Oh how that hurts my heart that not only have we had to pay a large price emotionally, but financially as well.  We left the hospital with empty arms.  I pray that someday I will have the strength to raise funds to help ease families financial burden when they face loss.

I went to church today for the first time since I had Koen.  I can't explain why I have stayed away, even though my faith has remained strong, church just seemed overwhelming emotionally to me.  I tried to turn my emotions off as we entered the sanctuary and I made it through the first song without tears.  Then I glanced to my right and saw a couple holding a tiny baby boy and no praise lyrics left my mouth for the rest of the service.  Another reminder of our loss.  I was unable to sing as tears poured down my face.  When Praise and Worship finished they had a large group of people come on stage as they talked about missions work being down at our church.  That couple to our right and their baby boy went up on stage too.  I just s.  The guest pastor continued on with the missions message.  I struggled trying to connect, but it began to hit me that maybe this is my mission.  At the end of the service they called two families up on stage.  One of the families was that same couple with that same baby boy.  They were in need of financial support as they were preparing to go into the missions filed (overseas somewhere - I missed the details as I stared at the baby).  Their prayer request was that their 10-week-old baby, the same age Koen would have been, would be used as a vehicle to share God.  Maybe this is my mission and my Koen is being used as that vehicle to share God ...

A friend sent me a message this week, sadly one of her family members lost their baby at 22 weeks.  She wanted to know what to do for this family.  Koen has taught me so many lessons in his brief life.  How to help those that are grieving, raw, and broken is just one of those things.  
Many of us, myself included prior to Koen, don't know what to do or say when tragedy strikes someone we love.  My hope is that me sharing will help to benefit some else in the future.  On this day of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance it just seems fitting.  Please know that none of this is judgement on any of my family or friends.  I know they love and support us, but many have felt lost with how to approach us or what to do.  Know that I love and appreciate each and every one of you!


I gave birth to Koen on a Monday.  That very day some dear friends brought a beautiful pot of spring flowers to the hospital.  That was the same pot that sat on Koen's grave all summer.  Tuesday we went home in a daze with our immediate family surrounding us.  Messages were pouring in.  I put on a brave face and dealt with the business at hand, but in my quiet moments I was so grief stricken that it made it difficult to speak.  This sort of pain makes it difficult to pick up the phone or reach out.  This does not mean that I didn't want to hear that love from so many, but that physically I could not seek it out.  What I truly needed was for people to bombard me with love and allow me to decide whether to answer.  Even their missed call on my phone would let me know that I was loved and thought of.  What I truly needed was to tell the story and answer questions IF I wanted - but I was still processing and not ready to tell the story over and over.  What I truly needed was to have someone listen to me cry and just silently be there.  Not to offer advice or try to say something magical to take my pain away.  I believe with my whole being that Koen is in the arms of Jesus, but I do not believe Jesus needed another angel so he chose to take my baby.  Our human nature is to fill the silence with something, anything, we want to fix the hurt.  But this kind of pain cannot be fixed.  Support, be there, but be silent.  

On Wednesday I just laid in bed crying and staring out the window.  My mom was sitting by my bedside and the doorbell rang.  Flowers.  The first were from dear friends from college that I have not seen since I was pregnant with Hackett.  My quiet tears turned to sobs.  My baby and my loss were being acknowledged.  Others continued to honor Koen's existence as the doorbell rang over and over and over again that day.  Acknowledge their loss with any small token or gesture.  We received so many beautiful things - a tree to plant, wind chimes, decorations for Koen's grave site, Christmas ornaments, an envelope of hand prints of my dear friends who were thousands of miles away but wanted to send hugs, and so many beautiful flowers.  It does not matter what you choose, but rather the acknowledgement of their precious little baby.

Cards.  They tend to seem old fashioned, but I needed to know that the mailbox was going to produce a gift of love every day.  They mean so much.  Again, not your wise words, but your love and the acknowledgement.  What is the best thing to say?  The best things to say are:  I love you; I am praying for you; and there are no words.  There are no words.  There are no words that you can give to take the pain away and I have no words to say back to explain the situation.  One dear friend has broke the bank at Hallmark these past few months.  She has also not been afraid to be my "stalker", constantly checking on me via text.  I needed that and I needed her.  The love and support is so heavy in the beginning.  In the first week after hearing how many people were concerned about me that I never met, while so very touching, made me feel like "that girl".  No one ever wants to be "that girl", when your story is so heartbreaking that it impacts those who do not know you.  The plus side of being "that girl" is the extreme outpouring that you so desperately need.  Then the outpouring begins to dwindle.  The first day I went to the mailbox and didn't have a card was hard.  It was a message to me that the world was continuing to move on, as it should, but for me time was standing still.  So hard to watch the world move on and you are frozen in grief.  Someone told me a story that a friend from college had sent another family a card every week for a year.  What a gift.  


When we see family no one wants to say anything for fear of upsetting us or reminding us.  We haven't forgotten.  I never forget.  I remember even more fiercely at family gatherings, because it reminds that Koen is the one family member missing.  Take the time to ask them how they are doing.  Really ask.  They may not want to talk and be okay with that.  Just you asking will acknowledge what they are already feeling.  It will remind them that they are not the only ones feeling the loss and absence.   


Make sure you reach out.  I had some loved ones who did not, and while I understand that the reason was most likely that it was too hard, it still hurts.  I have had others from my past reach out with a vengeance.  Friendships have been renewed, and what a gift that has been.  God knew I needed these dear friends to walk by my side and they are.  Quick texts or Facebook messages are such a blessing.  Just be there.


Be there, reach out, reach out often, acknowledge their little ones life, love, pray, don't try to fix them, and make sure they know that you have not forgotten.


So many of you have been Jesus in the flesh walking alongside me.  I am eternally grateful.  Thank you.

Emotionally I have had a tough string of days.  I have sat down to write in hope to help process.  When I write, I cry, and at other times I seem to stifle the tears.  There seems to be no "good" time to cry.  I am working so hard to carry on.  From the days following Koen's birth I made the decision to not have Hackett live under this dark cloud with me.  I don't want to look back and feel like I have lost time with Hackett.  I have already lost a lifetime with Koen,  My days now consist of being with Hackett or being in my classroom.  I put Hackett to bed and correct papers.  Rinse and repeat.  Kevin has been on shift now for over a month and the last two weekends has been working 12's, which is only adding to the chaos.  There seems to be little time to process, little time to feel, and little time to grieve lately.  I need that time.  I can't keep everything all wrapped up and pretty without that time.  Tears flow down my cheeks at random moments, and within seconds and I am wiping them away to answer one of Hackett's many questions in my normal mommy voice.  I am nearing my breaking point.  Juggling these balls in the air would be difficult under normal circumstances, but adding in the grief and the fear of the future is wearing me out.  I am thankful that I have stepped back and assessed all that is swirling around me, in hopes to carve out time.  The time I so desperately need.

Initially when I sat down to write today the only thoughts that surfaced were how much I ache and miss my Koen.  So often this week I had thoughts and visions of holding him.  Walking around, carrying him, singing to him, and kissing his sweet little head.  Then the realization that it is only a dream shatters my heart.  Even my arms are aching for him.