I felt numb for awhile. A good while. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. And then I just sat. I just sat. You see I am a runner. Figuratively- not literally. (yes if I am running its probably because a sasquatch is chasing me or there’s a truck with free ice cream I am trying to catch it) But figuratively when things are hard and I don’t want to face them I run. I run hard. Away. My mind wonders to anything and everything so that I do not have to face what’s ahead of me. What is crushing me. Instead of reaching out to the Lord I run as far away as possible because then maybe even if its temporary what is happening won’t really feel like its happening. Like its crushing me.

But here is the thing about a tiny little baby growing inside of you. You cannot run. It goes with you. If I bolted out the door and went to the beaches of Mexico, there would be this not so little bump there with me. If I got in bed determined not to get out forever 10 minutes later I had to pee. This was the first time I couldn’t do my normal run away for a bit until I couldn’t run away anymore then come crawling back to the Lord asking Him how to sort this out. I had to face this. I had to deal with this. In a few months a living and breathing baby would be before me. And one with a hole in his lip and possible the roof of his mouth. This child who would need specialized bottle and possibly have hearing issues and later on speech problems. A child who needed surgery and maybe surgeries!

I just felt so stuck. Just uncomfortable and cried out and confused. I went to talk to a friend who was a nurse and asked her why I felt this way. This was not a death sentence. He would be able to read. He could play soccer. Someday he would go to college. So why did I feel this way? She gave me some wisdom.

She told me “you have to allow yourself to grieve.”

Grieve? This baby was still alive. Still kicking and getting daily hiccups. Still making me have to run to the bathroom every 20 minutes. What do you mean grieve?

She told me I had to allow myself to grieve over the thought of having a perfectly healthy, normal baby. That this baby would be different. He would look different and need different things. Surgery would happen sometime after he was born and I had to grieve over the idea of this perfect baby with no issues.

It was like a weight was lifted off me. I was stuck in this cycle of feeling so sad, then feeling guilty for being sad. I told myself being sad over the way my son would look was vain and just terrible and I was not supposed to feel this way. But then she unlocked something so powerful. She allowed me to let go and really grieve. Really go through the stages. I couldn’t really go through the denial, I mean I had this 4D ultra high def ultrasound in front of me that proved this was true. But sadness and anger washed over me and for the first time in my 30 years of life I didn’t run. I embraced it. I sat in it. I held the hand of my husband and grieved. I allowed all the fears and all the hesitations spill out before the Lord. I told Him how I felt about all of this. I fell on my face begging him to take this away. Then slowly and ever so gently He began showing me how we were going to make it through this. How we would be just fine.

We finally alerted the media (aka facebook and the church prayer chain) and allowed people into our grief. And a surprising thing happened. We were loved on so completely and overwhelmingly. People came out of the woodwork and knocked me over with their kindness. People I barely knew took an interest. I was stopped in Walmart and told I was being prayed for. Text messages, facebook messages and letters came. An army of people gathered around us like an army of angels and said “you got this Caroline. We got this.” I felt the fellowship of the church like never before and suddenly the burden of grief didn’t seem so heavy. People cried with us. They laughed with us. They brought me chocolate (bless them!) Suddenly I didn’t feel the need to run away, I just had to look around and grab a hold of those around me. Those cheering for me. Those who loved our unborn child as their own. It was amazing. People were amazing.

We headed towards the finish line with a new found confidence. Our knees were still trembling, but we did not run. We walked ahead with our arms outstretched to the Lord and said “Ok. Lets meet this amazing baby boy.”

We went home. I googled. And googled. And googled. I poured over pictures of poor babies from third world countries. I looked at success stories. I read mommy blogs. I learned about surgery and more surgery and more surgery. 3-5 surgeries the first year. Ouch. Possible hearing problems. Ouch. Frequent ear infections. Specialty (very expensive) bottles. Feeding techniques. Speech therapy.

No. THIS IS HARD. This is going to be hard. And I don’t like hard things. I couldn’t even talk about it for a week. I would silently weep in Michael’s arms at night unable to put words to how I felt.

This was not a death sentence. This was not a life long prognosis. This was not a debilitating disease that would keep him from a full and happy life. Yet why did this feel so unbelievable awful?

We waited for our April appointment with nerves heightened begging the Lord to heal Him. Begging this to be a mistake. That we would get to the city and the ultra sound would show it wasn’t really there and we would enjoy a smash  burger and some target and breath a sigh of relief that he was perfectly fine and it wasn’t real. Yes I’ll have that option God. Ok? Ok.

April came. The office looked expensive. I signed in. Dr. Smith, specialist in high risk pregnancies. HIGH RISK. I died a little when I saw that on the form. I fumbled through a People magazine on an expensive leather couch and tried to play like I was fine. We were fine. We were going to see our little man on high def 3D ultra sound and he would be perfect and totally fine. They called us back. I saw the boards lined with beautiful birth announcements of twins. Tons and tons of twins. Twins with perfect lips and perfect faces. No cleft lips. They must not get beautiful birth announcements I thought. I nervously walked with Michael to the room.

I laid down on the bed and looked at a HUGE TV screen on the wall in front of me. Please let it not be there. Please let it not be there. And if it is, let them see no affected palate. The palate seems really scary. Let this not be happening.

When you get a 3D ultrasound you can see EVERYTHING. Every little wrinkle, every little line. He decided to be difficult and had his hands in front of his face. So she measured and checked all sort of things. She was very sweet explaining everything she was looking at as she found it. Poked on him a bit and he finally put his hand down. There it was. His face. His lips. And his cleft.  Tears. Lots and lots of tears.

The doctor then came in and did another scan. There was his sweet face. His eyes. His nose. And his cleft. She explained that there was a unilateral cleft (meaning on one side) and based on the look of the cleft that the palate was affected. Tears. Lots and lots of tears. They would not know the degree of the palate until he was born in August, but we did know it was affected. Heart sank. Ok. Plan. I need a plan. Let me cling to the comfort of a plan. What is the plan?

She then explained we would come to the city and get scanned every few weeks until the baby is born to track his progress and make sure nothing else develops. “Nothing else develops???” I decided to put those very scary thoughts away for another day. That was a worry for tomorrow because we had mountain of worry here already.

Appointments scheduled. Copays paid. Car ride home. Families texted. Spirits crushed.

“This is really hard,” I told him that night. “And I don’t like hard things.”

his sweet little lip

covering up his face

Hello. Its Me.

Admit it you just started singing the Adele song! If so we can be friends and hang out a little while.

You did not start singing it or are asking yourself who Adele is you can just move on. You will not get me or my little musings here on my new little corner of the inter-webs.

anyways…..

I did it. I pulled the plug. I have thought about, dreamed, talked about and prayed about starting a blog for years and I have finally done it. Here it is. A piece of my heart. Doors thrown wide open and inviting you to come in and stay awhile. Just excuse the mess and the sticky floors, because we live here. We live messy real lives around here and just want to invite you in to join us on this journey.

Who am I- you may ask yourself? I am Caroline. I love my husband, my little wolf pack of three crazy cuties and most of all I simply love Jesus. He saved me 12 years ago and I just have not never gotten over it. I love sugar (all forms of it), crafting, and a fantastic fountain drink with the perfect balance of sweetness and bite. I love people and I love stories. I can be a bit emotional and somewhat loud, but that is how God created me.

This is just a simple blog following the journey of our family as we pursue Christ in all avenues of our life. So come on in and stay awhile. Embrace the mess with us.