Fear

I’ve avoided writing this post for a long time. For the most part, it is just easier to avoid thinking about, to avoid letting our minds go to the places we are most afraid of. Part of the experience of grief is fear. Fear of obvious things and fear of things that you don’t expect or that most may not guess.

One of the questions we get a lot (and rightly so, as it is the question to ask when a baby is coming) is “Are you excited?” It’s in these moments that we find ourselves having to make an internal decision about how and to what extent to answer the question. That’s something you learn in grieving… when, to whom, and to what extent do you answer everyday questions truthfully. Am I excited? Are we excited? Oh, my. The short and easy answer is yes, because we are. The more honest answer is that there is more anxiety, disorientation, and trauma involved in the next bit of time than anyone may ever understand and, a lot of times, it overtakes the excitement.

We know you know that tomorrow is the day we deliver our baby boy. We know that you have been and want to continue to pray for us, something that we will continue to count as one of the biggest blessings of our lives. It is our most powerful ally in this journey. We also know that during Kamri’s life, the daily updates helped to give context and understanding for what to pray for. So many have voiced that the specifics we shared helped to direct their prayers. So many have shared that the experience of talking to God on such a consistent basis, in such a uniquely intricate manner changed the way they understand God’s deep love for them and desire to be in relationship with His people. It certainly did so for us as well. We have been asked for specifics moving into tomorrow, a framework for how you can pray for us in this next step. I think that, maybe, some context might help to answer that question. The context for which we are walking into tomorrow has many layers, both of joy and sorrow, anticipation and hesitation, peace and terror. It is our hope that in sharing just a few bits of this part of the story, you will better understand where we’ve been and where we are going. As always, we are giving God the glory for the ways He walked with us through that day and has been walking with us ever since.

As much as we’ve shared over the last year about Kamri’s medical journey and our winding road through the grief of losing her, we have never really shared anything about the day she was born. We’ve said in passing that it was simultaneously our most beautiful and horrific day… in the span of a few hours, we experienced the birth of our daughter and the news that she “probably won’t make it”. There is nothing that prepares you for an experience like that.

The excitement and anticipation of the night before, when I was induced. The morning of, visiting with our family as they trickled in throughout the day. The hard decision that a C-Section would be best, as my labor had stalled. The cold, loud, fast-paced nature of the Operating Room as they prepared me, Mitch having to wait outside. The nervous, but excited way we held hands while the operation began. The quiet of the doctors that settled over the room. The quick lift of Kamri’s body over the curtain so we could see her for a brief second before they took her away… did you catch her? I didn’t really see! I guess all babies are gray, they’ll probably go clean her up now and then we’ll get to see her and hold her. The naive, but increasingly curious way Mitch and I looked at each other as the minutes ticked on with no doctors or nurses saying anything or looking at us. The innocent question we whispered to each other quietly, “Shouldn’t we have heard her cry by now?”  Mitch’s attempt to stand up and look over the curtain to catch another glimpse of her, as a doctor pushed him back down into his seat by the shoulder. Being wheeled out into a white room, with a curtain… I thought we were supposed to do skin-to-skin? isn’t that what we learned in birthing class? where is Kamri? what is taking so long? The growing anxiety as minute after minute passed with no information about where our daughter was, why we hadn’t gotten to see her, and when will we be able to hold her.

And then it began to dawn on us… this is not normal, this is not good. We had been given no information because no one had any information yet to give. This was not what anyone was expecting on the afternoon of December 28, 2016. That’s when the tears began. Our parents came back and they were crying and it was confirmed… something is not right. Moving to another room, talking with the doctor, the words “it’s not looking good”. That’s when our world caved in and we looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. What are you saying? I can’t understand what you are saying to me. 

From there, the evening passed moment by moment. I don’t know if those moments were minutes or hours. We saw Kamri for the first time, touched her skin, tears pouring down our faces. Finally telling our family her name. The team rushing to get her ready for the helicopter ride to CHOP. Mitch signed the papers as her father allowing them to take her. The decision that Mitch needed to leave me at Chester County and be at CHOP when Kamri arrived. Sucking down ice chips and gulping down water in an effort to hydrate the waterfall of tears that would not stop. The blur of people in and out of the room, all of us just trying to get a grasp on what was happening. Recording a voice message on Mitch’s phone so he could play it for her, so she could hear her Mommy just in case… just in case… I can’t even finish typing that sentence. I love you, Kamri. Mommy’s right here. I love you so much. Kissing Mitch goodbye as he prepared to be a brave Daddy for Kamri… my stronghold, my best friend, my whole world leaving to go fight for our whole world.

Moving to the room I was to spend the night in. Mitch speeding as fast as his Dad’s car would take them to CHOP. Those next hours were the worst of our lives. Texts and phone calls back and forth as the updates came from the team of doctors to Mitch and from Mitch to us. She arrived. She’s not doing well. They’re telling me she’s not doing well, Leslie. She stabilized a little. Her heart has stopped. They resuscitated her, but they’re saying there’s only one option left. ECMO, I think it’s called? They’re not promising she’ll live long enough to get hooked up. She’s hooked up, she’s stable, but only time will tell. The pure exhaustion. A full day even for a perfectly healthy baby and delivery. There was nothing left. We both fell asleep that night not knowing what we’d wake up to. I fought my mom and nurse about going to sleep because I was afraid to wake up. Eventually, the exhaustion won and our day ended, the next day beginning… the day we shared with the world that our daughter had been born.

That day, the day our beautiful Kamri came into the world… that day will never, ever leave us.

We remember it all vividly and have spent countless hours of hard work and effort in the counseling setting to go back to those moments, process them slowly, and take small step after small step toward healing. We have spent time both in the memories themselves and physically gone back to the places they took place. We have since been back to CHOP, as we had to be there about a year ago to discuss Kamri’s test results with her doctor team. There are no words to describe what it felt like to go back to a place that had been simultaneously our home, hell, and heaven for a month. We have been back to Chester County Hospital multiple times, in the beginning to visit our beloved medical team, and more recently to do some trauma work with our counselor, spending time in most of the rooms we were in the day, night, and morning after Kamri was born in preparation for the likelihood that we’ll be back in several of those same rooms for our next delivery.

We have put in hard, hard work to heal from the fear and trauma that entered our hearts and our lives on December 28th. There is only so much you can do, though. There is no way to erase it completely. We are as prepared as we can possibly be for tomorrow, and yet… you’ve read some of the shadows that will be a part of our experience no matter what.

Part of grieving is fear. It makes sense why tomorrow is scary for us… that is the type of fear that is understandable, once you understand the context. Those fears are specific to us and our family, as the experience is uniquely ours. But grief comes with other fears as well. Ones that might lie a little deeper below the surface, ones that every grieving person will experience. What does my life look like now? Will the void of the loss ever close, ever change?  Most humans will face questions like that at some point in their lives.

We also grapple with fear of the future… Are we going to be good parents? Can we be good parents to anyone other than Kamri? What if I’m now too damaged myself and somehow I break him? 

And of the unknown… Are you there, Kamri? What are you doing right now? Can you see and hear us? Do you possibly know how much we love you? Are you excited for your brother? Have you met him already? When will we get to be together as a family again?

Fear is natural for all of us. Grieving, not grieving. It is part of the human experience. When we allow ourselves to sink into it, it feels all-encompassing, like there is nothing that can save us from it. Satan loves that. He operates out of making us feel like fear is all there is and all there will ever be.

He’s wrong.

There is something so much stronger than the terror, anxiety, pain, and fear in this world.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear.” (1 John 4:18)

Perfect love, the love of Christ. The love of God will win against fear every single time. There is no point at which terror will win that battle, that darkness will consume light, and that God’s people will become captives to fear. We’ve seen this firsthand. God’s love for us and for Kamri carried us through December 28th and will do the same on February 7th.

“We love because He first loved us.” (1 John 4:19)

In the scariest moment, day, month, and year of our lives, there was never the absence of love. That’s why we’re still here, that’s why we haven’t given up. God’s love has sustained us. The love of the community that rose up around us has carried us. The love of Kamri that we saw so clearly has shown us a depth to the love of Christ we had never seen before. All of that because God’s perfect love came first.

“For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and love.” (2 Timothy 1:7)

Our fierce love for our kids fuels us during our most terrifying moments, when it feels like too much. We love our daughter and son so deeply that there is nothing that will stop us, nothing that will hinder us from giving everything that we have to be their parents. That is the power of love over fear.

And the verse we whispered over and over again into Kamri’s ear, day and night…

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)

In many ways, we are headed straight back into the place of our nightmares. There is unknown, there are triggers, there are questions, there is deep sorrow. But there is nowhere we will go that God is not with us. There is nowhere you will go that God is not with you. So, we may be afraid in some of those moments tomorrow, but fear will not win. That is not the story of humanity, that is not the story of God’s creation and redemption of His people. That is not our story, that is not Kamri’s story, that is not our son’s story, and that is not tomorrow’s story. There will be hope, there will be joy, there will be victory, and there will be love tomorrow, just as there was the day we did this last.

Thank you for all of the ways we already know you are going to show up for us in prayer tomorrow… you have been a community of warriors on behalf of our family and our children and we cannot thank you enough. I think you probably now know what to pray for. Our C-Section has been scheduled for 8:30am. As we know from how attentive you were with Kamri’s updates, you will want to know… so when we get the chance, you will hear from us that all is well, we are safe, and that our son is healthy. Until then, we love you, sweet KamFam.