I Can't Even Imagine

by Kellie Soper

"I can't even imagine..."

I've heard this hundreds of times from people. Before Lily's diagnosis, I even muttered these words myself. These words are often following an I'm sorry with a sympathetic head tilt. Maybe it's because there's usually a silent void following an I'm sorry because I don't always know how to respond. I can't reply "it's okay" because it's not okay. And "thank you" just sounds weird. So there's this weird silence after I'm sorry and I've learned it's often followed by an "I can't even imagine." 

*Let it be known - it's okay to just say "I'm sorry" and sit in the silence with someone.* 

I have heard this from everyone - from strangers, close friends, even family. I have heard it so often it makes me cringe and it makes me retreat further and further away from people. It has turned close friends into acquaintances.

I get it. I really do. I used to be one of those people who had no idea what to say. I used to be one of those people on the other side feeling so much sympathy for someone who lost their child, but at the same time thanking God that it wasn't me. Thanking God that "I couldn't even imagine" because it was not my broken heart but someone else's.

But to be honest, it puts up a road block between you and me. Because the truth is, if you can't imagine what it's like to walk in my shoes, you can no longer truly know who I am. I'm not the person I once was and I will never be that person again. I am a grieving mom who is living the unimaginable. So if you can't allow yourself to be vulnerable enough to "imagine my pain", then we must sever our ties and go our separate ways.

I remember vividly when I was so tired of hearing "I can't even imagine". I was actually still pregnant with Lily. She was so strong and I could feel her moving constantly. Someone said the obligatory I'm sorry and then the awkward silence led to "I can't even imagine what this must be like!" I wanted to scream, "Yes you can! You have kids! You CAN imagine!" But instead, as Lily kicked me in my rib, all I could muster through my tears and wavering voice was, "Me either. I can't imagine this either." It was true. It didn't matter how many times a doctor explained the diagnosis. It didn't matter what the likely outcome was going to be. It didn't matter what I had read or googled because in that moment, I couldn't imagine my life without her either. 

Because the truth is, especially if you have children of your own, you can imagine my pain. You can look into the eyes of your child/ren and imagine them being taken from you. In that moment, you can put yourself in my shoes. You can imagine never seeing their beautiful eyes open. You can imagine missing every. Single. Milestone. You can imagine the hole in your heart from grieving your child. And most likely, the tears will begin to sting and you will need to catch your breath. It will feel like a giant boulder has been placed on your chest. You won't have the strength or even the desire to move it. It will make you rethink gossiping with anyone about"how long it's been" or "shouldn't she be better now?" You may rethink wondering why I'm not handling my grief as well as you may like me to. Because even though you can't seem to imagine it, the truth is you can. 

I still find myself uttering these words..."I can't believe she's gone. I can't believe I have to trudge through the rest of this life without her." Because honestly, I still can't imagine it and I have been living this unimaginable life for nearly two years.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Father's Day

by Kellie Soper 

The most memorable part of my wedding day was the moment I walked up the aisle towards my soon-to-be husband. I had been anxious all morning, but seconds before I walked down the aisle I was filled to the brim with peace. I took my dad's arm and he kissed my cheek. We walked down the aisle to one of my favorite songs. As we got closer to Jason, I noticed he had a huge smile and tears streaming down his face. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

We planned and planned for months, but nothing prepared me for that moment. Nothing prepared me to see the emotion of that day on his face. In that moment, and so many that have followed, I continue to learn how sensitive and sweet he truly is. And almost four and a half years later, one child here and two in Heaven, it was very telling of the journey we were about to embark upon.

I saw that smile with tears streaming down his cheeks again when our son was born. And just over two years later I saw him cry again.Only this time there was no smile. This time, with a sick and somber face he asked the question I was too scared to, "Is there something wrong with our baby?" Then the answer, and suddenly seeing him bury his face in his hands and weep for our unborn daughter. 

Every dream and hope we had for her stolen from us in that moment. He will never get to take her to daddy/daughter dances. Never coach her in softball or watch her twirl. She will never ride on his shoulders or squeeze his face with her hands. He will never walk her down the aisle to meet her husband.

I grieve and ache for my daughter, but when I think about what my husband has lost too, it's almost too much to bear.

Shortly after Lily's diagnosis, we met with our pastor. He offered his prayers, the support of our church, and two pieces of wisdom I will never forget. 

The first: He told us that we need to remember that we will each grieve differently and that is okay. He said the most important thing is to be aware that we will go through this differently. 

The second: He looked directly at my husband and told him, "You need to talk about this."

We don't talk about child loss nearly as much as we should and we certainly don't talk about the dads much. So often the attention and focus is on the moms, after all we are the ones who carry our babies and for the most part, we may be the ones who visually show our grief.

The dads generally go back to work sooner. They may need to shut off their emotions in order to get through the day. They may put up a strong front to be able to take care of their wife. I'm even guessing people rarely ask them how they are really doing. More often than not, they hear people asking about the moms. I imagine they don't feel like they even have permission to grieve for their child.

The grief of missing Lily didn't really hit me until several months after she died. When the pain meds were gone the fogged finally lifted, and the shock wore off. The waves were washing over me and I could hardly catch my breath. 

And I was mad at my husband. 

  

Because he wasn't going through it like I was. He seemed fine. He could function. He could go to work. He had normal conversations. I was lying in bed one night while Jason was reading and I just started crying and I couldn't stop. Jason leaned over and held me and these four words he whispered was all I needed to hear, " I miss her too." 

We grieve differently.

I am a writer. I write my pain. I write it down and share it with the world in hopes that it reaches the right people for the right reasons. I get it out of me. Sometimes it pretty and sometimes it's not. I close myself off from the world who doesn't understand me or even tries to. I cry. A lot. 

For Jason, the grief builds and builds. It starts out slow and steady and he can handle it for awhile. And when it gets to be too much, he breaks. He cries. And then he talks. Sometimes to me and sometimes to one of the few people he lets in.

We are getting better at it...if that's possible to "get better" at grief. I can see now when it's getting to be too much for him and a wave is about to hit. Sometimes I know it means we need some "just us" time and sometimes I know he needs to talk to a dude. 

But this is just my husband's story, how he is living this life without his daughter. There are many, many other dads out there who are missing one of their children, or several of their children, or ALL of their children. 

And they are hurting. Whether they tell you or not. Whether they show it or not. They are hurting. Underneath that strong and brave exterior is a man who just wants to hold his baby again. And play catch with his son. Or give his daughter butterfly kisses.   

But instead, his arms are empty. His eyes may be dry, but his heart is weeping.

Remember him and remember all the dads who we cannot see grieving.

This Father's Day, all of us at All That Love Can Do wish peace and healing to all the brave daddies who did all they could for their children. You are our heroes!

Please come to our Facebook Page to share the name of the father you're honoring today, and, if you'd like, a photo of him with his special baby in heaven <3. 

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Day of Despair

by Kellie Soper

Some call it their "D-Day". The day they learned of their child's fate. The day they learned that every hope and dream they had for their child was shattered. The day they may have been told their child was "incompatible with life".Or the day someone referred to their child as an "option" and no longer a person. The day they received the diagnosis that shattered their world as they once knew it.

Our D-Day was two years ago. At times it feels like yesterday, but mostly it feels like an eternity since that day. I honestly can barely remember what life was like before that day two years ago. 

But I can remember very clearly every single moment of that day. Every insignificant detail, every feeling that I felt.

It started out as a great day. My son Ted had been sick all week and he was finally feeling better. Our dear friends' daughter was just born the day before. Our other dear friends were getting married the next day. Sandwiched in between was our "routine" anatomy scan. I was so excited to see our baby again. I had no feelings, no intuitions that anything was wrong. In fact, I felt wonderful...on top of my world just before it crumbled below me.

Jason had the afternoon off so we were going to have a late lunch date after. On the way to our appointment, we were trying to decide where we wanted to eat and talking about how much fun our friends' wedding would be the next day. We were in much need of a date night.

I thought our "routine" anatomy scan was going normal. I couldn't remember the "order" of Ted's ultrasound to know if this was the same or not. It didn't phase me at all that we hadn't seen our child's profile. We saw ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. Two lungs and two kidneys. And we saw our baby's heart...four chambers, beating perfectly and beating strong. In a few minutes, I would learn for the first time that a perfect and strong beating heart wouldn't be enough.

Then the doctor came in and shared with us a word that I barely knew and immediately became my greatest fear realized. I learned what the word anencephaly would mean for my family. I learned that every hope and dream I had for my child was stolen from me.

And then I learned the real meaning of despair. It's the complete loss or absence of hope. 

That's where I was two years ago...completely hopeless, utter despair. I thought I knew heartache before. I thought I knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Really, I didn't know at all...not until this moment, two years ago. 

True despair. 

We drove home in silence. The only sounds were our tears and trying to catch our breath. We laid on our bed together and just cried. I told Jason I was so sorry this was happening to him. It made him cry even more. 

After awhile he left to call his parents and pick up Ted at our friends' house. I can only imagine how hard it was for him to go pick him up and tell our friends by himself. 

I just laid there sobbing and praying. Over and over, I begged God to not make me do this. I begged Him and begged Him to take her then. I didn't think I could endure the next five months. 

Two years later and I can't even begin to explain to you the guilt I carry for ever thinking that, let alone screaming it out loud. But that's where despair leads you. That's what the absence of hope looks like. 

Even after her birth, even after the day I held her for the last time, even after my last kiss on her cheek and seeing her in this life forever...even after all of those moments, I can honestly say, nothing compares to the despair of her diagnosis.

It was the worst day of my life. 

I cried every single day for weeks. 

Slowly, somehow, by the grace of God and prayers, every day, little by little, I was able to pick myself up a little bit. We talked to our priest. We met with another family who had faced the same diagnosis and survived. We had unbelievable support from family and friends. We learned the very definition of community.

As the months passed, the despair still lingered, but it was overpowered by grace. The grace of God wins every time when you choose life. After the hardest two years of my life, I believe that whole-heartedly. It was never strength, it was always grace.

Grace reminded me that my daughter was a precious gift no matter what. She deserved every chance of life possible. She is not a definition, she is not an option, she is not despair. She is a person. She is my daughter. 

While these past two years have been harder than I imagined, I have no regrets and I would not change anything. I would have given anything to save her, but I would never trade her for another. She is unrepeatable and irreplaceable. She is my precious daughter.

I have learned more and grown more in these past two years than all my years combined. I have learned some hard lessons about how people close to you deal with your grief. I have learned that my family is more amazing than I ever dreamed they could be. I have learned that the world keeps moving despite your constant pain. I have learned my husband is the most compassionate and sensitive man I have ever known and my love for him today far exceeds the day we were married. I have learned how cruel this world really is and I am grateful Lily does not have to experience it. I have learned to never take a single day for granted. I wake up every single morning thanking God for another day with my family all the while longing for glimpses of Lily. 

More than anything else, I have learned that Lily is worth every second of heartache I will face for the rest of my life. I love that she is my daughter. 

Holding her in my arms helped me let go of the despair. Kissing her cheeks filled my heart with so much love it could burst. Memorizing her perfect hands and feet carries me through each day. Remembering how much love and peace filled the room when she was born makes it all worth it.

I am not the same person I was two years ago, I'm not even close. But the truth is, I don't want to be that person again because that would mean I missed out on experiencing a love that was so perfect and so pure. All she knew was love. I would have missed out on knowing Lily and loving Lily and that alone is worth a life time of heartache.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

The 2015 Twelve Days of Christmas

The 2015 Twelve Days of Christmas have come to an end. We hope you've found comfort from reading the stories of other families, reassurance in knowing you're not alone, tips for facing this holiday season, and ideas for honoring your child.

Most of all, we hope you know that what you do this year is completely up to you. No one but you gets to decide what's the "right" way to have Christmas/the holidays. Follow your heart and do what you need. 

Our heartfelt thanks to the writers for sharing,

 and to the organizations who helped provide
special things for our giveaways.

In case you missed any of the 12 Days, here is the entire collection in one place

Day One: Jessi Snapp

Day Two: Cheli Blasco  - including a tutorial for Holiday Stars

Day Three: Alex Hopper

Day Four: Emily Long

Day Five: Larissa Genat

Tutorial: Christmas Tree Shadow Box, by Jenna Gassew

Day Six: Samantha Chevez

Day Seven: laurelbox

Day Eight: Kellie Soper

Day Nine: MaryJo Carlson  

Tutorial: Holiday Remembrance Dishes

Day Ten: Kim Jackson - including tutorial for Initial Art

Day Eleven: Maureen Schaefer 

Day Twelve: Chloë Sóleyjarmóðir

Featuring giveaways from:

Luminous Light Studio - Invisible Mothers - The Stitch Starter - laurelbox - KM Designs

On a Butterfly's Wings - Two Little Monkeys - Aaron's Angel Arms - The Sacred Seashore

On behalf of everyone at All That Love Can Do, 

we wish you peace and healing this holiday season.

*If you'd like to connect with other loss families for the holiday season, 
join the private group, HERE. 

12 DOC: Day Eight: Kellie Soper

*This post is part of our Twelve Days of Christmas series. You can read more here.*

Almost Perfect Christmas

by Kellie Soper

I love Christmas. Actually I love Christmas Eve. My family does Christmas BIG. They do everything big because there are a lot of us.  

Growing up we spent Christmas Eve at my grandparents. It started out as a quiet evening at home for my mom's first Christmas. My grandparents had seven more kids in twelve years, and it grew quickly. Boyfriends and girlfriends became husbands and wives and then the grandkids quickly grew with their husbands and wives and then the great-grandchildren (thirty-eight and counting)! Now it's so big that we actually have to rent a hall. No one has a house big enough for this party! Quiet Christmas Eve turned into dozens and dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins singing carols, opening presents, family pictures, a Nativity play, games, Santa visiting, food, spirits, and whatever else we can fit in to the night before people head off to Midnight Mass.

I love it.

This celebration taught me early on that Christmas wasn't about presents. It was about presence. Sure, I was excited for gifts and my one uncle loved to rile up the kids with a "We Want Presents" chant. But it was never just about that. It was always about love and family and Jesus.

I only missed it once the year my husband and I were married. We had taken so much time off for our wedding and other family weddings that we could not make it home. I was so sad to miss it and my husband was too. We knew as soon as our son was born we wanted to spend all of our Christmases in Iowa. It would become a priority so our children could feel the joy of family, the love of Jesus, and the magic of Christmas with a big family.

But then May 30th, 2014 happened and everything I once knew changed forever. That was the day we received our fatal diagnosis for our precious daughter. She was not expected to live long after she was born, if she survived at all. Her due date was in October, but she was not born until November 12, just two weeks before Thanksgiving. Our holidays would never be the same again.

We still went to Iowa for Christmas, just six weeks after she was born sleeping, but we missed the big Christmas Eve. I just couldn't spend her first Christmas Eve with my whole, big, wonderful family if Lily wasn't with me. I guess I wanted both of us to miss her first Christmas.

I still want my children to experience that big, wonderful, family Christmas of mine, but right now we are just not ready for that and that's okay. This is our second Christmas since Lily was born sleeping just over a year ago. I think everyone assumes it gets easier your second time through everything, and for some maybe it is, but not for us and definitely not for us this year. 

A newborn sleeps through Christmas. Their only memory is the pictures we take and the stories we tell. But a one year old? They start to see the magic. Their eyes light up when they see Christmas lights. They either smile, or scream and cry, at Santa. They get to dress up as little angels for the Nativity play and show off their adorable Christmas jammies at the end of the night. They let their big brother open all of their gifts and they fall asleep in your lap because they are just too exhausted from all the fun they had with their dozens and dozens of cousins. So as much as my heart was aching that she missed her newborn Christmas, it aches all the more for her one year old Christmas.

But we still rejoice in the season and spirit of Christmas because I know Lily would want us to. We just don't do it the way I always envisioned because honestly, from here on out, nothing is as I envisioned it.

Our second Christmas missing her will probably look a lot like our first Christmas missing her. Only this year, I expect to feel it all a lot more. I'm out of the fog, passed the shock, and I'm aware every day of my new reality. We may or may not go to Iowa. We may or may not go to Christmas parties. We may or may not feel like celebrating or singing at Mass. I just don't know and that's okay.

But, this is what I do know. We will be together as a family. We will decorate a big tree again and a small one just for Lily.

We will hang our stockings with ALL of our names. We will decorate her grave with Advent and Christmas decor. We will laugh together and we will cry together. We will remember our precious daughter. We will smile through tears when our son says, "Merry Christmas Lily!" 

And we will miss her, with every sweet memory we make with her brother, we will long for another moment with Lily.

Last year I said this and it still rings true today and always will for us:

"All in all, it was almost perfect...as close as perfect gets when you are missing your daughter. I don't think we will ever have a perfect Christmas again, but I'll take a few more "almost perfect" ones..."

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Happy Birthday, Lily

by Kellie Soper

The words are not coming very easy right now. I have so much to share, but I honestly don't even know where to begin. I've been sitting here staring at this computer for hours and I just don't have the words. So one year later, I'm sharing what was read at Lily's funeral. The first part a dear friend shared with me when I was pregnant with Lily. The second part I wrote about what loving Lily means to me.

Happy birthday beautiful girl. I love and miss you more than you will ever know. Shower us with love and kisses today. I love you Lily girl.

To Love a Person - Adapted from Kathleen Dean Moore

What does it mean to love a person? 


To love - a person - means at least this:


One. To want to be near her, physically.


Number two. To want to know everything about her - her story, her moods, what she looks like by moonlight.


Number three. To rejoice in the fact of her.


Number four. To fear her loss, and grieve for her inquiries.


Five. To protect her - fiercely, mindlessly, futilely, and maybe tragically, but to be helpless to do otherwise.


Six. To be transformed in her presence - lifted, lighter on your feet, transparent, open to everything beautiful and new.


Number seven. To want to be joined with her, taken in by her, lost in her.


Number eight. To want the best for her.


Number nine. Desperately.

Loving isn’t just a state of being, it’s a way of acting in the world. Love isn’t a sort of bliss, it’s a kind of work, sometimes hard, spirit-testing work. To love a person is to accept the responsibility to act lovingly toward her, to make her needs my own needs. Responsibility grows from love. It’s the natural shape of caring.


Number ten.

To love a person is to accept moral responsibility for her well-being.

What does it mean to love Lily?

It means everything on this list and so much more.

It means knowing that labor will hurt and you go through with it anyway even though you don't get to keep your reward.

It means knowing that your heart will be broken for the rest of your life, but holding her for even five minutes makes up for it.

It means watching her lift her big brother off your belly with her amazingly strong kicks.

It means you will be filled with awe, wonder and sorrow as you watch your belly dance before you go to sleep every night.

It means you might not get any sleep at night because Lily wants to dance all night long and that's totally okay with you.

It means you never knew you could love someone so much before you even meet them.

It means your heart will be so full when you see her with her brother's chipmunk cheeks.

It means if you had to...you would do it all over again because those brief minutes held more love than a whole lifetime does for some.

It means you didn't know it was possible for your heart to grow in so much love for your husband through honoring your daughter.

It means memorizing every single sweet and perfect detail so you can meet her in your dreams.

It means you will fight and defend her right to life until your very last breath.

It means that you mourn for your son who doesn't have his best friend to grow up with, but also rejoice in knowing the special connection he will have with her in Heaven.

And most importantly, it means you will never be the same person again, for we are the mother and father of a saint, and we walk with one foot on earth and one foot in Heaven, until we meet our beautiful girl again.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.