Normally, on this blog, I’ll post funny songs or lyrics, or little ditties I’ve made up to help the kids memorize scriptures or other useful things. I’ll write about what I’m learning that I think you might want to know, too. Hopefully, when you read it, you’ll think like I do, that simple, small things done with great enthusiasm can have awesome results. But this day is special, so this first post will be a unique one.
Today is the birthday of my oldest daughter. Today, she would have been ten years old…a whole decade. I say would have and not should have because I know she lived for exactly the amount of time God wanted her to. I wouldn’t change how things happened. But I miss my daughter just the same. Nine days from now, on February 8th, it will have been ten years since she died.
It used to be that having and losing a child was something that I talked about all the time. I think maybe I wanted to reassure myself that I had really had her. It was a way for me to possess her and prove she had been mine because I never did get to bring her home from the hospital. (It is a crummy feeling to go the hospital pregnant and come home un-pregnant with no baby to show for it–like it didn’t happen at all.) Maybe it was because Grieving Mother was such a huge part of my identity for the first couple years and I didn’t think someone could understand me if they didn’t know about my lost girl. And I really wanted someone to understand me. Sometimes, I talked about her because a stranger would ask how many children I had and I would say two, then explain the reason they only saw one kid with me was because the other had died. I realized this made them feel uncomfortable, but Geneva could have been peeking in on me at a moment like that and think I’d forgotten her if I didn’t mention her. That idea seemed horrible.
Eventually, I grew comfortable with the idea that she knew I loved her and missed her. I became more things than Grieving Mother once again. I learned that people are irreplaceable. I learned that grief carves out room in our souls, making more room for the joy that will come, filling in the empty spaces. I learned that people assume you are strong because something bad happens to you. “Oh, you must be so strong,” people would say when they found out my daughter died.
“I don’t feel strong,” I would think. “I feel like singed brown paper; I could crumple in on myself right here,” I wouldn’t say. There was no point in arguing with them. I didn’t have the energy for it anyway. I have one theory, that when we most need to change, something terrible or wonderful happens that can’t help but change us. My other theory is that some things just don’t get explained in this life and learning to stop looking for a reason is the point. I learned that terrible things are also really wonderful. I learned that moving forward is different than moving on and that part of moving forward sometimes involves stopping and crying. But enough about me. I want you to know a little bit about Geneva.
Geneva means juniper. The juniper plant is one of the most tenacious in the world, clinging to life against all odds in hostile environments. (Her dad knew this should be her name the instant he knew she was a girl. It took me longer to get on board, but I did in the end.)
Kate means pure.
Geneva Kate had a rough entry into life. At only 20 weeks in utero, all the amniotic fluid cushioning and protecting her tiny body inexplicably whooshed out, leaving her fragile skull pressed mercilessly against my pelvic bones, her little lungs without any opportunity to practice moving in and out with fluid, preparing them for the air to come. My doctor told me there was very little chance she’d survive to be born at all. He said most babies in that situation didn’t make it past 2 weeks in utero and that terminating the pregnancy was a valid option. Her father and I disagreed. So, Geneva and I spent the next month hanging out on the couch, lying down at all times. It wasn’t fun, but at least we were together. Then, my placenta ruptured, so Geneva spent the next month with me on a hospital bed with monitors and wires.
Miraculously, Geneva, the scrapper lasted 8 weeks in utero without any infections before being born at 28 weeks. She weighed about 3 1/2 lbs. and was 13 inches long. She had a pretty good head of light brown hair–just like her big brother’s. When she was born around 5:30 a.m. on January 30, she was whisked away to be cleaned off and given a temporary oxygen mask before being brought back to her mother. In the hallway, she cried once. It was the only time I ever heard her cry. When the nurse brought her back to me for just a moment, Geneva looked up into my eyes and I knew she was smart. It was the only time she ever opened her eyes and saw me. It was the only time I ever saw her dark blue eyes open. Then she was taken by very capable and loving nurses to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit where she would spend the remainder of her life. In the first 24 hours, her heart stopped and both her lungs collapsed and a geneticist informed us that she most likely had Down Syndrome. It was a long first day. Everything about Geneva’s life felt long in struggle and short in time.
All the medical things that had to be done to keep Geneva alive are blurred in my memory now, but they were not pleasant. One thing stands out from her nearly ten days of life: She squeezed her dad’s finger. Once. Geneva was on strong paralytics to help her keep the tubes in her lungs and the IV in her head in place. She couldn’t even open her eyes or move her tongue. But she managed to squeeze her dad’s finger and he knew that she knew he was there.
In the hospital, when I could find my voice to speak, I told her how many people loved her and I prayed over her and read aloud to her from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I think she liked it. Geneva died at 11:58 p.m. on February 8th.
It seems clear what a fighter Geneva was, but tenacity was not even her most dominant quality. She was the most peaceful person I have ever known. I’m an antsy sort of person in general. You would think that I’d be going completely berserk lying flat on my back for 2 months, but most of the time I felt calm. I didn’t even drum my fingers the way I’ve done compulsively since I was at least 15. I had thought it was the Holy Ghost, calming and comforting me through my trials. And I’m sure He was there, too. But as I walked out of the hospital just after letting Geneva go, all my fidgets came back. It was only then that I realized it was her presence that was so soothing. Everything about her life was stressful, but I was always calmest when I was with her–wires, beeping monitors, and bustling nurses notwithstanding. That’s what I miss most about her–how good it felt to just be near her.
While I held Geneva in my lap during what I knew would be her last hours in mortality, I wrote a little song for her. I write one for each of my children. Here is Geneva’s song. It’s what we sing before we eat her birthday cake every January 30th.
Geneva Kate Loomis, our precious little girl,
Geneva Kate Loomis, we’re thankful you came to this world,
To teach us to be humble, to show us purity.
Though your body is so frail, your spirit strengthens me.
Geneva Kate Loomis, our precious little girl,
Geneva Kate Loomis, we’re thankful you came to this world.
We’ll do our best to be like you and live with God again.
We’re thankful we know it’s true that families never end.
Geneva Kate Loomis, our perfect little girl,
Geneva Kate Loomis, we’re thankful you came to this world.
Small x Simple = Awesome 