Happy Birthday, Eden Olivia

by Megan Coker

So much can happen in a year.

It seems like such a short time ago that you were born into our arms and breathed so deeply, curled your hand around my finger, and left us while lying in your Daddy’s arms. I realize now that carrying you to birth meant switching the weight of making every memory possible with you to the weight of the grief that is making memories that are missing you. And while grief makes the day seem long, it feels like the whole last year has been a blur. How did we get here?

You inspired me. To take the pictures and to write the words. To be a better friend and to defend myself. To be content with a quiet life and to step outside my comfort zone when it’s needed. To be a better wife to your daddy and to let him be a better husband to me. You are my daughter and you taught me more than I ever dreamt about all the things I wanted to teach you myself.

 I miss you, baby bird. It has been three months longer without you in my life than I carried you. How does a person love someone so much after such a brief time? Parenthood is the most instant type of love and I don’t know who I was before you came along. All I know is I’ll never be that person again. I miss you because you made me.

There’s a hole in my life today where you should be- corners of the living room that should house your toys and play yard, a wall in the pink bedroom in the house we moved to where your crib would have fit perfectly, silence where there should be cries and giggles, the empty grocery cart seat I have as I breeze pass every other mother in the world shopping at the exact moment I am, the high chair we don’t ask for when we go out for dinner, the ache in my arms as I wonder how to celebrate this type of first birthday. Your absence is everywhere.

But then, so is your presence. I find you even in the rare moments I’m not looking. Your scent still washes over me unexpectedly in places your body never went, and your face is the centerpiece of my sweetest dreams. I have never had so many friendly birds visit in my yard and I have never heard the name “Eden” in the company of strangers so much. Your body died but your spirit is still alive and even when I don’t notice, you’re there. I wish you could physically hug me and I could see you with my eyes, but I am learning to lean less on the physical proof that you were here and focus on the spiritual proof that you are. I’m thankful for the promise that one day those different types of proof will be one and the same. I’ll hold you again and tell you all the times I just knew it was you, my love.

I always thought that getting to this point would automatically make me equipped to say, “my baby died” and not cry so hard or have panic attacks. I thought one year would give me the time I needed to really know deep grief and then I could move out of the deep end and only wade occasionally. I thought that since it’s expected by everyone else that I act right after only a few months, surely a little more time would be all I need. But here I am one year later and it feels so much like I’m in the movie Groundhog Day. I don’t feel new or “better”. I knew that there is no getting better because I’m not sick, but I didn’t know that every day would just feel the same as it did a year ago. My anxious heart leading up to today felt the same as it did when I was preparing to deliver you. Have I made no progress in healing?

That can’t be right, though. Where there was once a pretty bow wrapped around my writing, there is honesty and rawness. I feel more real about things I never wanted to know, let alone write about. And where family once meant blood, I know that family now means the people you choose. And man, this past year I’ve built up one hell of a family. I have been loved well by people who were once strangers and I have learned to love them well too. I learned what self-care is and I got some help for depression when it came to a point that I could not help myself. I know you’d be proud of me. I’m proud of me... But still, every morning I wake up wondering how in the world I’m going to breathe without you.

One year.

An identity theft.

Two more babies- Errol and Mason.

Three severed relationships.

Four trips to the hospital to photograph your friends.

Five different medications until I found something to work.

Six months old the day after Christmas.

Seven new friends like sisters.

Eight holidays we should have dressed you up for.

Nine times Daddy and I couldn’t be together on your monthly birthday.

Ten times I had to figure out how to answer the question “any kids?”

Eleven times, a full day of your candle being lit.

Twelve months, my little baby girl would have been a whole year old today.

I’m not in the same place I was when you left. But I don’t feel any different either. My love for you has not faded or shifted or calmed. It is still fierce and it still burns- like a seat belt clip on my skin when we come back to the south to visit your grave. It runs through me like fire and it takes me breath away to say your name. I am still in love with being your Mama and I always will be so very grateful that you’re mine. I wish today were different and so I am mourning. But because I love you the same as I would if you were here, I am celebrating too.

I would trade every good thing to have you in my arms. There’s no doubt. But since I cannot, I am so thankful for every mercy we have in this life of grief so far. You have made us so proud- your story is one that people stop and listen to when we tell it. Your story is an opportunity to raise CDH awareness and share the gospel and point them to Jesus. You’re happy, healthy, and in Heaven. What more could a parent ask for when it comes to the well being of her child?

I love you, my sweet. I miss you.

Xoxo, Mama

~ ~ ~

To celebrate Eden’s Birth and Glory Day today, we are asking friends to commit intentional acts of kindness for others in her name, leaving notes or cards telling others about her. She brought the best and most kind people into our lives and we’ll spend the rest of our time while we wait putting that love back into the world. We invite you to join us in this as well.

~ ~ ~

Megan Coker carried Eden Olivia to birth in June 2015 after receiving a diagnosis of a severe Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in the Bilateral form. Eden lived for 40 minutes. Megan is Ryan’s wife and together they follow his Army career. She has found a way to honor Eden’s short life in capturing the beautiful moments of others through starting her photography business, Eden’s Garden Images. Each day has its new challenges for both Megan and Ryan but they are learning to lean on each other through it and work steadily on strengthening their marriage. Megan finds healing through writing about Eden and remembering their beautiful time together.

After the Diagnosis: A Love Letter

To The Mother Who’s Learned Her Baby Won’t Live
(Advice From Carry-to-Birth Families)

There are few days as vivid as the day a doctor tells you that your baby will likely not live outside your body. The colors of the room, the smell of the hospital soap on your hands when you bring them to your face, the sound of a phone ringing down the hall, the crack in his voice when he says, “I’m so sorry”, the way every specialist in the room has a face that just blurs through your tears.

In a perfect world, these would be our worst days… just the agony we feel when the probable outcome- a prognosis of death- has been put on the table.

But this world is not perfect and so, for many of us, our worst days do find themselves taking place simultaneously with our best days- the days our very loved but sick children are born.

As women who have been in your shoes, and as a part of the majority whose babies with fatal diagnosis do leave us, we want to share our hearts with you.

First of all, we are sorry.

We don’t want you to be here.
We don’t want anyone to ever have to walk the path of child loss, and we pray for an end to all terminal birth defects.

But since you are here, we are with you. Our hearts break with you. We will love and cherish your child with you.

We will walk beside you in your anticipatory grief. We will rejoice with you when your baby arrives in your arms. We will mourn with you when you have to say goodbye.

And we will be here in the sacred dance of pain and joy that follows. We are a community of sister-mamas that have nothing but open arms for you as you walk this unimaginable path. That’s all that love can do- love for our babies creates this tight knit group of people that can relate and love on each other.

•Take one moment at a time. Try to feel and treasure the kicks and movements when your baby is in the comfort of the womb. Don't be afraid to plan for the possibility of your baby coming home ... even though my son didn't make it home, having baby things in the house after he passed was actually comforting. – Aileen

•Make memories with your baby. Some ideas are to keep a journal of your pregnancy, see a favorite sports team together, or take maternity photos. When I met my daughter, I remember thinking that every second of heartbreak over her condition was worth bringing her into the world, and I continue to be amazed by the way that she continues to inspire and change lives. - Kristina

•If you want to pray for the best, pray, have others pray over you. It's okay not to tell strangers your little ones diagnosis and just find joy in being the regular pregnant lady. It's okay to have a shower and let friends love you. Your spouse may have a different approach, that's okay. I was told to terminate and that NO ONE EVER carries to term with this diagnosis, not true because I did. It’s okay to be scared. It's okay to hold your baby after they've passed and its okay to stop holding them soon after. You will find the strength to do what's right for your situation in the moment. Talk to the Lord, and meditate on the scriptures that speak to you. Listen to worship music. Finally, see a counselor type now and through the first year after. –Bethany

•No child is defined by his or her diagnosis. Make memories of your journey while you carry your child. – Jenna

•Be hopeful for a "miracle ", but also be prepared for a miracle of different sorts. Make a list of the all the things you want to have; to do; to sing/read, and all the ways you want to connect. Then, do them (alive or having had passed). Buy duplicates of everything. Let people help you. – Kristin

•Enjoy every minute you have with your little one. Even if they are gone you will never get this opportunity again. Hold them, cuddle them, kiss them, dress them how you feel like. Your little one is more than their diagnosis. – Brittany

•Hope is what gets me through this time. But I also have to be realistic. -Emily

•Some may think a miracle didn’t happen for my family, but it did. My son was and is the miracle. Because even in death his life continues to manifest such power and such hope. The lives he has touched, the impact he has left — it is all pretty miraculous to me. How one tiny little baby, who never took a breath, could reach the hearts of others and speak to them in a hundred different ways is nothing short of a miracle. Not exactly the miracle everyone had in mind. But I now know there are different kinds of miracles. Little ones that present themselves in unexpected ways. We just have to be able to see them through the disappointment of not getting the miracle we wanted more. I had to rid myself of the false idea that miracles only come in grand gestures of divine intervention. Because sometimes miracles dwell even where there are crushed hopes and dreams, and those are the ones that are so incredibly hard to see. - Jessi

•One of the "gifts" of receiving our diagnosis when we do is to be able to make memories with our child and to savor every moment. I know that looks so different for so many. For me it was cherishing her kicks, making her lots of hats and picking out special outfits and blankets. It was learning to be 100% present in the moment because I had no idea if we had a tomorrow. My diagnosis day is still the hardest and worst day of my life, I am still grateful for it because it gave me 5 1/2 months to cherish moments I might have looked over. – Kellie

•You are amazing for walking this path. Truly courageous. Cry when you need, and remember your baby is here with you now. It's not over yet. Focus on loving your baby with all your efforts. In the end, you'll know you did everything a mama can do. And I promise, saying hello will be the best day of your life. - RaeAnne

•In the midst of it, you can choose to find the minutes of beauty, while simultaneously cursing the injustice. – Sarah

•You are brave. You are doing a brave thing. When people tell you that, they mean it. It takes courage… and well, you have it. Give yourself the most grace, and extend it to everyone around you. They won’t understand unless they’ve been here. It’s good that they don’t know. Just smile and nod and then do whatever feels right for you, moment by moment. – Megan

We want you to feel loved and supported. We want you to vent to us, to share your joy with us, to laugh and cry and smile and frown with us because we will do it with you too.

Perhaps you are feeling overwhelmed mostly at this moment. Here is a link to many wonderful resources for you- just the tip of the iceberg. If there is something specific you are looking for and can’t find it, we will be happy to help.

Welcome, Mama. We are the mothers who have gone before you and will go after you. May you feel the warmth of our arms wrapped around you. You are not alone.

We are so sorry that you’re here… but we will love, honor, and remember your precious child with you.

Please join us in the private group for mothers who continue pregnancy after a fatal diagnosis. We are here for you <3

My New Friend, Mad

by Megan Cocker

It has been seven months since we held a sweet baby in our arms as she died. 
We’re creeping up quickly on Diagnosis Day.
I had a miscarriage this month. 
Someone has stolen my daughter’s identity through her remembrance photographs. 
This week, I’m awaiting a call from yet another friend to drive to her and hold her hand as she says goodbye to a second child.

Yeah, January has been hell. I think everyone can agree with me on that.

But, for some reason, people expect me to be acting/feeling/thinking differently than just plain furious.

It didn’t take this long for outsiders to impose their expectations, but it’s just now starting to get on my nerves. Everything is starting to get on my nerves. Some accused me of being angry and bitter around the birth and death and burial of my daughter and then again just three months after when expressing disappointment in people who were supposed to be supportive… I’m glad those who thought I was angry then cannot see me now. 

Now, I do feel angry. I am experiencing a little bitterness.

I fought anger so much in the anticipatory grief and in the days when I had to bury my child and in the times when I felt I needed to serve others and when we packed up and moved again and when I had to watch another friend say goodbye to her baby too and when I didn’t get to dress Eden up for Halloween and when Thanksgiving should have been her five month birthday and when Christmas came and there were no baby presents beneath the tree. 

I fought it so hard. Actively rebuking anger, deciding I didn’t have time for anger,foolishly thinking that anger is wrong. 

What I didn’t know and what no one told me is that if you keep skipping the angry feelings, they will come back tenfold. And so now here I am with a year’s worth of anger piling on top of this month’s grief… and it’s a crime to choke the next person that looks at me funny.

Having a coffee date with a friend right before New Year’s Day when I found out I was pregnant again, I confessed to her that I felt resentment creeping in. You know what she told me?  She told me to LET IT.  Finally, someone said to me that not only is it OK to feel angry, but it’s necessary. She told me how important it is to feel what I need to feel, and allow myself to be vulnerable and honest about who I am, where I am, and what is going on in my heart.

And so when my husband took my hand in the emergency room bed and asked how I was feeling about losing our second child… for the first time since my daughter’s diagnosis, I told him I was mad. And he said, “me, too.”

After that, I have been able to say how mad I am at this whole past year. I have been honest with myself and anyone who would listen in this past month. 

When my blog about the woman who faked that the girl in Eden’s pictures was her own baby went viral, I let her know that I’m mad at her.

When I had so many people comment and tell me, “please don’t let anger consume you”, I got mad at them too. 

When friends have expressed how much they wish their babies would stop growing and “just stay little forever”, I got mad at them. (Listen, you DO NOT want your children to stop growing.)

When they complained about how hard life is with babies, I got mad at them.

When they said, “life was meaningless before these kids,” I got mad at them too. 

Obviously, parents of living children can’t win with me lately..

When it rained for five days straight I got mad.
When the sun came out I got mad.
When Ryan tried to read my mind I got mad.
When Ryan didn’t read my mind I got mad.
When the radio played happy songs I got mad.
When the radio played sad songs I got mad.

Oh, it has consumed me all right.

And all of it has prepared me to admit to God that I’m mad at him. For others, it may look like a curse and a scream and that’s okay. But for me, it has been a quiet admission, and that is okay too. I have been like a student emailing a ruthless professor about a problem- “Just checking in to let You know that I’m still mad. Is that okay?”

And every day, I feel the mercy and receive the email back, “That’s okay. Take your time”.

I have confidence in the stage of grief I’m finally experiencing, but for some reason I still feel the need to justify it to everyone else. It’s in my nature- “this is how I feel if you can accept that, if not I’ll be happy to change for you”.

I’ve noticed that bereaved parents are some of the biggest perpetrators of “You’re feeling sorry for yourself at this point” and “Don’t become THAT woman.”

Moms that that have “completed” the grief “cycle” a few times and find themselves not crying anymore believe that since they are 15 years out from their loss, *time must heal all wounds* and so people who lose their children should feel “better” over time… and if they don’t, they’re not working towards “healing” (ugh, why is grief treated like a sickness?). For me, I do believe in healing my heart. And I believe it requires taking my time to feel whatever I want or need to feel. If twenty years from now I’m still angry, I dare someone to try and check me on it. I can almost guarantee that there will be many times in my life that I go back to being angry.

Its bad enough to know that as I type this there will be outsiders who think “she’s being THAT person”, even worse when people who have some idea of how I’m feeling go on and think that too.

I’m just having these normal emotions and normal feelings and expressing them in normal ways but everyone only wants to hear the good, the joyous, and the peaceful.

I’ve gotten “don’t wear that anger label” a few times when expressing my grief in groups of other loss parents. So, I’ve decided that I will not put on a label or a hat of anger. I have never been one to allow myself to be defined by any bad feeling, anyway.

So instead, I’ll introduce my anger as my friend. I’ll call her “Mad”.

She is a redhead and she smokes a lot of cigarettes. She likes to cuss and flips the bird instead of waving. Mad is a little selfish, as she requires a lot of my focus.

I tried to push her away again this time, but like a pile of rocks, she won’t budge until I work through her many layers.

Don’t be confused… when Mad is around, I’m still genuinely happy. 

I’m not a huge complainer just because things suck and I’m still pouring praise out of my heart for 
all the blessings I have. 

I’ve also been choosing immediate and intentional forgiveness* inside my anger, and that is one reason I can embrace this stage of grief without letting it take me over. If you learn to accept apologies you won’t receive and not allow the incidents that injure you to dominate your heart, you are free to then find peace with your own Mad. “Just deal with Megan and her Mad today”, as I like to tell myself. She needs more attention than the things that make me mad.

* I wanted to elaborate. Many people believe that in order to forgive you must forget and say that everything is okay. And that just isn’t the truth. No definition of forgiveness requires us to forget that we are hurt and reconcile and drop our heartbreak forever. Forgiveness is for us, so that the “what” or “who” that hurt us and “why” does not consume our minds and then we can focus on just the truth that we are hurting. *

Contrary to popular belief, you can still be blessed when your Mad comes. You can still have a joyful heart. I know I do. Yes, I have been hanging out with Mad a lot lately. But she and I agree that life is still good. 

I was so upset when Mad finally arrived at my doorstep. 

I felt like I lost a fight with myself. I felt like I let my little innocent baby girl that never felt anger down. But that’s not true. 

There is ultimately balance. 

I finally allowed Mad to come inside and open a new door of honesty in my heart. 

I’m not done with Mad. I’ve got some confronting to do in time with myself, with God, with people who hurt me. Mad is important to this process. If Mad weren’t here, I would keep repressing and delaying all the pain I’ve been unknowingly drowning in that she came just to help me get out of. 

She’s only visiting. She isn’t going to live here, because sometimes she will become too much to handle. But she will be welcomed back in anytime in healthy doses.

Listen, take the time to be angry when you feel you need to.

Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks of your Mad (trust me, they almost ALWAYS think she’s ugly and full of hate and spite). Let me be the one to tell you if you don’t let her in when she knocks, she’ll bust the doorframe down later.  

And if anyone tries to check you on your Mad, if anyone even for a second implies that you aren’t entitled to have your Mad pay a visit… call me and mine- she can be real bitch if needed.

~ ~ ~

Megan Coker carried Eden Olivia to birth in June 2015 after receiving a diagnosis of a severe Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in the Bilateral form. Eden lived for 40 minutes. Megan is Ryan’s wife and together they follow his Army career. She has found a way to honor Eden’s short life in capturing the beautiful moments of others through starting her photography business, Eden’s Garden Images. Each day has its new challenges for both Megan and Ryan but they are learning to lean on each other through it and work steadily on strengthening their marriage. Megan finds healing through writing about Eden and remembering their beautiful time togethe

To Give Thanks

by Megan Coker

I am so broken. I am the most broken I have ever been.

On Thanksgiving this year, I should be celebrating five full months of watching my
beautiful baby girl grow. I should be photographing her progress since June,
dressing her up in a gown with a turkey sewn on, and passing on the wine so I may
focus on losing the baby weight I would want to be rid of so badly.

Instead, I will be celebrating five full months of knowing she is at peace and healthy
in Heaven. I will drive to the mountain to photograph the snow on the ground and
wait for my Momma to send me a picture of her grave. My husband will have duty,
and I will welcome any wine that may find my glass. Do I really wish to lose the last
bit of weight she gave me?

Oh God, I am broken over all of this.

I find myself asking constantly: what can I do to find thankfulness in this? How is life
good? Where is the beauty in my pain? Please, joy, reveal yourself.
It is hard for me to smile and nod and wave and quietly be the woman I am
supposed to be this holiday. It is hard for me to accept my life this year. It is grief
that swallows my heart and anger that consumes my brain.

Question. What is there to be grateful for?

It is so hard a puzzle to piece together. For one to make a connection and keep
choosing that connection of thankfulness in mourning- it is a feat near impossible. If
you are grieving, don’t let anyone make you feel like it should be easy to find it and
choose it. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you are less than if you cannot, if you
will not. You can’t be forced to feel what you don’t or forced to not feel what you do.
I need to feel hope. I will, personally, seek appreciation. My heart craves it.

But how will I find it? Shall I reference Confucius? Aristotle? Shall I go back to my
philosophical learning of what it means to be a human being and to be happy?
Where is my self-realization? Is it an answer found in theory or in practice? Can
someone tell it to me? No. I must discover it for myself for it to be true.

I did not anticipate having such a hard time with this. I don’t know why, because for
all of my (few) adult years, I have been prone to the Winter SAD. I have always had
to fight off depression and actively work to be “in the spirit” during the holidays. I
love Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the time during which they fall is usually a
season during which I am naturally down.

I guess this year it all has snuck up on me so quickly. I’ve been so preoccupied with
just surviving I didn’t think about surviving through first holidays too. “I’ll cross that
bridge when I get there” has been my attitude about most things not directly in front
of me since Eden’s diagnosis. If it is not the battle I face today, it is not my biggest
concern (Is that the right way, Lord? Each day has enough worry of it’s own?).

But here it is…the battle facing me this week. A day I’ve always celebrated the
thanks I give year-round for all my blessings, now the first Thanksgiving I’ll live
through in the without. What should have been my daughter’s first Thanksgiving,
now another opportunity to straighten her belongings on the mantle and just miss
her.

What is there?

This is a little of what I’ve found. Perhaps it will help you find your answers too.

Answer. That I have her to miss. My love for her. This ache. Motherhood. I gave her
all I could, praying for her very best chance. I am a mother. I am a mother. I. Am. A.
Mother. 

Have you had to give your child back? Have you had to make the hard choices? Are
you carrying a baby you’ll have to say goodbye to? Your only child? Your first child?
Your second? Your fifth? You? You are a mother. You are a mother. Know that.
Believe that with every ounce of your soul. Angela Miller would tell you in her book,
“you’re the best damn mother”. Repeat it often: “Best damn mother. Best damn
mother.” And our babies made us that. And isn’t that all we need to utter a hoarse
thanks between our screams of anguish?

Answer. Marriage. The tested and true kind. The kind that has walked through a
trial. The kind that has seen the “for worse” at the same time as the “for better”.
Marriage with a man meeting me where I am every day, whether it be in my valley
or on my peak. Marriage with a bereaved father, the only man who can possibly
understand how I lost I am without this particular human, the human we made
together. A man that will never ask me to be quiet with this pain, a man that will
never ask me to stifle it or forget. To spend my life with him, to still have him when
we have lost our most precious... that is grace. That is some mercy to be thankful for.

Answer. A picture of us together. I held this child. She was in my arms. Oh, how they
ache for the weight of her, the warmth of her plump skin between them. But yes,
they are blessed for even having touched her. And, look I have proof! Her head
propped up by my left shoulder. Her curls captured perfectly, her chubby cheeks
and button nose. The lines of her lips matching the shape of mine. One simple
picture of my child, enough… But alas, I have more than one. Thanks upon thanks.

Answer. The smell of her. That I may breathe it in when I open a box of her
belongings. That I now know the value of a precious breath, that I know the value of
the ones she fought so hard to take. Gratefulness for the most basic; a gift of
breathing and breathing deeply.

Answer. Community. A group of women I wish I never met, but I am so grateful to
have met. Women just like me. Women missing their own babies. I know in my heart
the names of children I will only meet when I finally see my own girl face to face. I
can’t wait to kiss those children and thank them for sharing their amazing parents
with me. I get to have fellowship here in the meantime. What a sacred gift... I find
myself overwhelmed.

Answer. I am still here. I am alive. I can still see, taste, smell, hear, and feel. I can
experience this pain. Isn’t this the most human experience… grief, that is? Isn’t it
sacred? Oh, how good it is to know, to be changed by this. To be handed the worst
condition the world has to offer and live through it. To seek hope, to find healing,
and to hide under the covers when you cannot. To realize the most important things
in your life, to finally begin to cherish them like you never have before… That is
simply good.

I miss her. Lord, I miss her. My love for her grows and with it my empty ache.
And yet, life is still beautiful. I sit and look at all I have been given, even in this. I am
still being smiled upon.

I cannot bring myself to be thankful for her death. I will probably never be genuinely
grateful that she is not here with me. But I can, somehow, find goodness, grace, and
mercy in this pain. Here is my broken Hallelujah.

Thanks, for Eden.
Thanks, for Ryan.
Thanks, for memories.
Thanks, for senses.
Thanks, for family.
Thanks, for old friends.
Thanks, for new friends.
Thanks, for fellowship.
Thanks, for love.
Thanks, for pain.
Thanks, for breath.
Thanks, for brokenness.
Thanks, for this life.
Thanks, thanks, thanks.

Whether you find immense gratitude or just a quiet moment of peace, my family is
wishing you all a gentle Thanksgiving Day.

~ ~ ~

Megan Coker carried Eden Olivia to birth in June 2015 after receiving a diagnosis of a severe Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in the Bilateral form. Eden lived for 40 minutes. Megan is Ryan’s wife and together they follow his Army career. She has found a way to honor Eden’s short life in capturing the beautiful moments of others through starting her photography business, Eden’s Garden Images. Each day has its new challenges for both Megan and Ryan but they are learning to lean on each other through it and work steadily on strengthening their marriage. Megan finds healing through writing about Eden and remembering their beautiful time together

Worst Welcome Letter Ever

by Megan Coker

Dearest Mama,

I don’t want you here.

I love you, but I don’t want us to have met.

I love you so much and I don’t want you in my club.

You’ll hear it referred to as that often- a club, and the crappiest club ever.

(Child loss, that is.)

And that is exactly what it feels like sometimes… a club that houses the only people who “get” you.

But you are kind and good, just like so many of us. You don’t deserve this any more than any of us do. No one deserves this. So when it comes to this I don’t want to be able to get you and I don’t want you to be able to get me.

You have invited me into a sacred place. You have asked me to witness your hello and your goodbye. You are allowing me to say hello and goodbye to your baby too. You have welcomed me into your life and given me the blessing of your friendship.


I am honored. I will take those priceless photographs. I will hold your hand. I will love your baby and mourn her with you.

But I wish I couldn’t do any of that. I wish you weren’t joining the club.

Since you are, and since I love you… I must welcome you.

This is my first time. But my arms are open.

I will cry with you and yell with you. I will lie quietly in your bed with you. I will take walks for fresh air with you. I will smile with you and laugh with you. I will help you talk about your memories with this daughter. I will never forget her name.

The rest of the world will still see you. You won’t be invisible. They will still love you. They will still love her. This month they’re all raising awareness for us- awareness of too many incomplete earthly families. We’re one in four, you know. That’s a lot. They know that’s a lot. But there isn’t much they can do. So instead they’re all rallying behind us. They’re funding research for our babes. They’re loving on us and being reminded to pray for us. The world is trying. This month, times around our babies’ births and deaths, holidays, and other occasions… they are aware.

But mama, you and me? We will always, always, always be aware.

There will never be a moment that we are not completely aware.

Our club membership card will slap us in the faces as we wake up from the minutes of sleep after exhausting days and nights full of performing our club duties:

-breathing

-eating

-drinking

-functioning

and none of it will bring our children back to our arms.

So all in all, life in the club is not very rewarding.

You can’t get back out of our group. I’m so sorry. Our daughters will never come back to us here. Your girl and my Eden are together and away from us. We might as well be together too until we can meet them both in Heaven. Only other people in our club will understand you best, anyway.

And sometimes, we might not even understand you. Sometimes, we will miss the mark with you. I know it happens to me. It is such a lonely path to take, one that none of us would choose and one that all of us struggle down. So, while we might not always understand, we will always be gentle with your heart.

The dues for membership are way too damn high.

We won’t ask much from you besides that you help us remember and love our babies and extend us the same grace too.

Once in our club, you will experience a change in how you view the outside world. Feelings might include:

-jealousy

-guilt

-annoyance

-anger

-fear

etcetera, etcetera.

Please know that these feelings are normal, no matter how alienated you are made to feel for them.

The lives of the people around you are going to go on. And though you’ll be glad for them, that will be so painful.

You will watch babies be born, engagements, weddings, new achievements all around you and wonder how your life could come to a complete halt while everyone else’s continues down a happy trail.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter will all still happen without our babies here. What a cruel thought: we will endure our children’s milestones without them.

We will endure them together. I’m just sorry that we must.

I want to save you from this. I want to save your baby. But I can’t.

I want to tell you that it will be alright. But it won’t.

I want to tell you that the pain goes away. But from what I can gather, it doesn’t.

All I can tell you is that I will be here. And I know that some days you will not even want me here. That’s okay too. I will always give you as little or as much space as you need in the moment.

With your fellow club members, you can be real. You can tell us of your jealousy, guilt, anger, and fear. We will never judge you for any of it. You will find that we’ve also been jealous, guilty, angry, and afraid.

We are here. We are always aware of you. We know your pain. And we will love you every day of the year.

I hope that you feel the warmth of the arms of every grieving mother. I pray that our support will shine on your face like the sun. You are welcome here. You are safe here.

With Love,

Eden’s Mama

~ ~ ~

Megan carried Eden Olivia to birth in June 2015 after receiving a diagnosis of a severe Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in the Bilateral form. Eden lived for 40 minutes. Megan is Ryan’s wife and together they follow his Army career. She has found a way to honor Eden’s short life in capturing the beautiful moments of others through starting her photography business, Eden’s Garden Images. Each day has its new challenges for both Megan and Ryan but they are learning to lean on each other through it and work steadily on strengthening their marriage. Megan finds healing through writing about Eden and remembering their beautiful time together.

My Baby Died: Please Allow Extra Grace

By Megan Coker

Dear Family and Friends,

Perhaps you are having a difficult time; Someone you know lost a child. You’re not sure what to say or do, and you’re confused as to why the only thing they can focus on is their grief. Your friend seems selfish and absorbed in her pain. This is obviously very hard for you- you should not have to deal with this because she should not have to deal with this. It is tough to see someone you know suffering. I wish there were a handy manual on how to talk to your friend, but there just isn’t… because there’s no manual for what your friend is going through.

But here’s the thing, I am your friend.

I want so badly for you to understand what I’m thinking and feeling, but I also never want you to come close to being able to understand.

The best I can do is tell you what it’s like for me, and then maybe you’ll give me more grace as I learn to live without my baby. 

What is it like for me?I will try to explain.

We were watching “Shweekend” the other night: Shark Weekend. It’s been a while since we had cable channels beyond local news so we missed Shark Week this year. But apparently Discovery Channel capitalizes on only sharks so much that they must designate weekends to programming them as well. That, and “Naked & Afraid”. (We’re not watching that show.) Anyways. We were watching a documentary on a shark named Dynamite and his learning to breach to catch his food. Near the end, he finally catches himself a seal. 

The seal saw it coming but didn’t have enough time to prepare or run away from the devastation that is going to swallow him whole. Dynamite shoots straight up out of the water with the seal clenched between his teeth, then takes him back down under the water where he is eaten and never seen again.

I feel like the seal. Carrying to birth after being given a fatal diagnosis is like watching the shark coming for you but not being able to save yourself.

Thanks to our new channels I can also find myself awake at 1:30 a.m. actually focusing on the infomercial because it is distracting. I don’t want to focus on my grief. Understand that I am not trying to be sad. I am trying to keep sane. So I know I have to be sad. I am sleep deprived thinking about this in circles, and also about ordering a $500 wheelbarrow, just in case.

I am paranoid of what you might think of me. Am I acting appropriately? I worry once a day over what you and our mutual friends talk about when I’m not around. If I don’t show up at the party, will you assume I just can't pick my head up today? If I show up early to the party with casserole in hand and smile on face, will you assume I am “over it”?

I’m not over it. I never will be! This is the new normal me. If you cannot accept that I will never be ok with losing what I’ve lost, that’s all right... but we should not be friends anymore.

You don’t have to say anything special to me: just remember me. The best thing anyone has ever said to me was “I don’t know what to say, but I do want you to know that I’m thinking of you”, right in front of my face, tears in her eyes. You don’t have to know any words. It is comforting to me that you don’t. 

I worry about people who know exactly what to say in the face of tragedy- either they are really good with  words or have seen too much of it. There’s a whole list of things not to say, but there is not a single right thing to say. For me, if you avoid clichés and just sincerely care there is so much solace in just saying you care.

Please stop telling me to let you know if I need anything. I will not pick up the phone to call you over to pick me up off the floor or lie with me in bed. In the weeks following the funeral I will not tell you that we’ve had drive-thru burgers 5 times this week because neither of us have the gusto to cook even macaroni and cheese. If you want to help, if you feel like you need to help, just help.

I had oral surgery at the beginning of this month and though I tried not to let them go out of the way, sweet friends brought over soft dinners so it was the last thing we had to worry about.

Before that a friend in the midst of grief due to her third miscarriage in a row invited me over to just sit- she didn’t force me to talk but she didn’t try to change the subject when I talked either.

It's hard for me when you just lay out an open invitation: “I’m here if you need anything”. I will not go out of my way to tell you what I need. What I need is so inconvenient for me, so I try not to inconvenience anyone else.

I need to lie down and I need to get up. I need to be quiet and I need to scream. If you want to join me, you’re the one with the open invitation.

Please go easy on me: it has been two and a half months and I still hardly want to leave the house. I am in a new place, even further away now from the place my baby is buried. Sometimes I want to come over. Sometimes I want to go to lunch. And sometimes I really do just want to stay in the bedroom with the blinds drawn. I try not to flake out on plans, but I can’t predict what state I will approach them in. It  might be better you view me as a flake.

I cannot be in large groups of mothers. I cannot swallow the blood in my mouth from biting my tongue when we bring up everyone’s child but mine. I cannot sit still when you all begin to complain about parenthood. “You’ll understand one day” and “just you wait” are phrases that make me cringe. 

I would rather be up all night long with a colicky baby and not have a chance to shower for three years and give up brushing my hair and have a messy living room all the time and fight dinner time/bath time/bed time and deal with an embarrassing meltdown in the Walmart than have to suffer another hour without my kid. Those are things you’ll never understand and so I can’t tell you “just wait and see”. I hear you all talk so insensitively about parenthood, then I’m sure when I leave you tell each other you just can't imagine yourself in my shoes.

Everything is mundane. My favorite foods taste like dirt. I am indifferent about things that used to matter and now so hypersensitive about things that didn’t matter before. When I’m not having a meltdown, I am emotionally numb. Not physically though, my body literally just hurts all the time.  I feel as though I’ve had a harder time recuperating from birth, but I know it is just my body trying to carry my heaviest heart. Loss hurts.

I function on autopilot. There is a beginning of a day and an end. I miss a lot of what happens in between, and I just don’t care about most of it.

When you ask me if I’m jealous, it is a loaded question.I’m genuinely happy for you, my pregnant friend, my newly-birthed mother friend, my mom-of-eight friend, and even my happy-without-kids friend. But I am also sad for me. I am envious- watching strangers with babies the age my Eden would be now, seeing posts by other women going about healthy pregnancies and complaining about how long pregnancy is (it's so much shorter than I wish it was)… 

I am sad for what ignorant bliss I didn’t get in pregnancy and what I have had taken from me in motherhood. But know this: I am not bitter. I am so elated to see the miracle of life around me. Just be patient with me when my face looks like I’ve been punched in the gut as I hold and caress your precious, healthy new baby’s face.

I will try not to show this around you, but know that few things make me ragey the way a parenting debate does. I don’t have my child here to argue the best way to feed her or the best place to put her to sleep. I don’t have a trophy to show how well my medicated birth went, that there’s no need for the “natural childbirth” pedestal and it doesn’t make you a better mother. I can’t join these debates because I’m too busy trying to figure out how to parent my daughter that’s in Heaven. You’re all moms just doing the best you can, so why can’t you all just mind your own?

I am angry sometimes. In my midnight fits of hyperventilation I ask a lot of “why’s” and I repeat the “this isn’t fairs”. I’ve turned into a four-year-old. I ask that you can hold my hand and not try to explain that everything happens for a reason and just walk with me through the swamp that my grief is. You can’t possibly produce a good enough reason for why this has happened, and my anger is justified. I haven’t lost faith in God, but I’m upset with Him. That’s allowed. Don’t try to change me where I am nor rush me past a necessary stage of grief by telling me my anger will do no good.

Speaking of stages of grief- they don’t go in order like the diagrams would tell you.  (as a matter of fact, there are no stages of grief at all). In one day I complete the entire cycle, in one week I am stuck in one spot. Sometimes I’m so happy and glad but that does not mean I’m back to being “me”, sometimes I’m so depressed and lost but that does not mean I’ll be the same way tomorrow.

Try to avoid the logic of my age and ability to reproduce. “You’re so young, there will be more”, and “sending baby dust for your rainbows” are not helpful offerings. One day, I’ll be ready to be a mama to Eden’s siblings. But right now, I don’t want *A* baby, I want *MY* baby.

Know that it is much more comforting to me when you don’t turn the conversation to my next children and just focus on the one I lost. Besides, I personally don’t like the term “rainbow baby” very much at all. To me, it implies that Eden was a storm. She isn’t a storm, though grief does feel like a flood. I know that many find comfort in the rainbow as God’s Promise of hope. They call their subsequent babies  rainbows. That’s fine. It works for them. But I wasn’t promised a child after loss, I wasn’t promised a child at all. I know that God’s promises can be and will be fulfilled in my life if there are no more babies for me. Though my next child(ren) may make life easier, they will never make the blow of my loss softer. This is something I know.

I held her as she breathed violently and I kissed her cold body goodbye. No warm child will erase the chill of her on my lips, as equal as my love will be.

It makes me so glad to just hear her name out loud. Even if it’s only to say you thought of her. If we’re focusing on my children, let us focus on the one that existed. I’ll never talk to you about the children you don’t have yet while we are on the floor playing with your twins. I don’t need much, my friend. Just to know that she isn’t forgotten and that you aren’t trying to push her away.

Eden Olivia Coker

I am suffering. I need you to tell me that it’s ok when I bounce back and forth between extreme darkness and radiating light. In one breath I can say four things:

- “I don’t want to kill myself, but sometimes I don’t want to live anymore.”
- “I can not imagine a more purposeful life than just giving one to her.”
- “This is not supposed to be my life.”
- “I am so blessed just to know and feel this extreme love.”

I gave birth! Congratulate me. I’m a new mama!

I lost a baby! Mourn with me. I’m a bereaved parent.

This is hard for me, so I can see how it will be hard for you, too. I will be patient with you, I promise. Don’t be afraid, I am not contagious.

I’m thankful, so thankful that you are here. That you are trying. I love you just for trying. I love you just for attempting. I may not always show my gratefulness in the best ways. But I know that you will try to understand that too.

You’re helping me by choosing to walk through it with me, so I will help you by trying to explain this stuff, by writing out these words to tell you what I am these days, to tell you the one thing I need most: patience.

This is my new life. I will probably be a bad friend for a while. My soul is consumed with this loss of losses. Please, allow me a little extra grace.

Love me in my pain and help me celebrate having something to be in such pain over.

~ ~ ~

Megan carried Eden Olivia to birth in June 2015 after receiving a diagnosis of a severe Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in the Bilateral form. Eden lived for 40 minutes. Megan is Ryan’s wife and together they follow his Army career. She has found a way to honor Eden’s short life in capturing the beautiful moments of others through starting her photography business, Eden’s Garden Images. Each day has its new challenges for both Megan and Ryan but they are learning to lean on each other through it and work steadily on strengthening their marriage. Megan finds healing through writing about Eden and remembering their beautiful time together.