Lucy Marlette
April 3rd, 2009
7:38am
8lbs, 12 oz
21.5 in
Proof of survival, life, light and one true amazing God.
Welcome to a glorious world little one, welcome.
the rest of your life
There is something so positively thrilling about knowing that your family is all almost here, together.
Only, what do you do when your family won’t actually all be together? Not in the traditional sense anyway.
Lucy will be here no later than this Friday.
April 3rd, 2009.
Three years to the day that we unpacked our precious Jakiepoo into his own room away from our home. Three years to the day that our lives forever changed. The first of many life altering events.
One year to the day that we stood in the April rain and listened as the priest placed Jake’s remaining ashes into the wet earth at Holy Angels where we had two years before brought our son to live.
I’m anxious to meet my youngest child, my final child. I’m ready to look into those newborn eyes and see, yes, this is exactly who I’ve been waiting for to complete this family.
But part of me, most of me I should say, is so very scared to look into my baby girl’s eyes, hold her soft skin, watch her tiny chest rise and fall, and fall apart.
15 months ago I watched and waited for Jakie’s chest to rise again, to hear his breath one more time.
It never did.
My son left this life and moved fiercely into the next, the glorious place in Heaven where his pain is no more and glory of God is revealed.
But I was still here.
I am still here.
Waiting.
Waiting for life.
Lucy’s life.
Eternal life.
To complete your family. To know, by the grace and mercy of God your children are all here with you must be a most glorious knowledge.
But it’s a knowledge I will never hold.
Because I can no longer hold my child.
My youngest boy.
But I can hold his sister Lucy.
I can look at her and know that God has given me far more than I ever deserved. The chance to love and nurture a child in His love from first breath to last.
God, my heart wants to resist this change, this permanence and at the same time embrace it like never before.
My family is what it is. Here. There.
My family is David.
My family is Taylor, Adriana, Jacob, Avery, Olivia, Lila and Lucy.
My family is not my own…my family, my gift. Praise you Heavenly Father.
Lucy’s Verse
“Arise, shine; for your light is come, and the glory of the LORD is risen on you.”
~ Isaiah 60:1
Each of my girls has a verse that I consider ‘theirs.’ The verse that sustained me during pregnancy or simply gave me hope in those early days of motherhood.
Tuesday, God led me to this verse.
You might recall that ‘Lucy’ means ‘light.’
With vibrant Lucy’s birth imminent, I feel the usual rush of emotions and hormones; but present too, are the not so usual ones.
This pregnancy has been my most difficult— the fierce morning sickness that literally brought me to my knees, the worry and wait over early testing, the gestational diabetes that has been anything but traditional and easy, the bed rest from signs of early labor, the early release from work-doctor’s orders.
So different.
But maybe it should be. Has to be.
Lucy isn’t coming into a naive family.
Lucy is coming after the deepest of heartaches, the worst of pain.
Lucy will be born, and all the wonder and amazement that is a new creation will be hers; yet it belongs to each of us.
I have truly fought to be in this moment.
Right now, a few cities over, my dear mother in law fights the physical battle of a cancer that has spread and invaded her weary body. This woman of faith also fights the inner battle I know all too well; on March 4th we said good-bye to ‘Uncle Jimmy.’ My mother in law’s oldest child, my husband’s only sibling.
This morning in prayer and devotion, my heart ached for my mother in law. How strong, how faithful. I didn’t think I could have ever fought that fight.
But in my own way; I have, I am.
We conceived Lucy 7 months after Jakie’s death.
My body was certainly invaded.
I have had to push through and fight, prove LIFE is what I wanted.
I have had to ‘arise’ in every moment and I only pray that God will continue to reveal HIS GLORY through our pain and our comforts.
11 Years
Maybe it’s because I’m the mother of so many young daughters.
Or maybe because I’m expecting another little girl.
Or maybe because I simply realize how much he’s missed out on.
Despite all the maybes, I know I miss him.
Watching my husband put together a doll house for our girls yesterday afternoon made me reflect on my own childhood and the things Daddys do for their little girls.
It’s not so much the nevers that get to me now, eleven years after his passing.
No, it’s seeing my own daughters with their Daddy and struggling to remember my own.
He worked hard. He worked often.
I remember how tired he always seemed; the sheer burden of caring for our family of seven and owning multiple businesses to keep us above and beyond our comforts and needs.
Always working, always weary.
A quiet man; easily angered, yet slow to react.
I don’t know that any of the five of us kids are much like him. Not really.
He didn’t raise us to be like himself.
Simple.
Dedicated.
I miss him.
I miss how he always wanted more and better for us; from the time we were just babies until his passing.
He wanted what every parent wants for their child; better than they had for themselves. That much was always clear.
While he did his best make sure of these things in his life; it was his death that sealed the deal.
My father’s death is easily the single most defining moment of my life.
When I close my eyes I can still feel the unusual warmth of that February day. I can feel my aunt’s arms around me, shielding me from the inevitable. I can hear my own shaky voice.
So simple, so genuine; my daddy.
My girls (and boys) are beyond blessed to have a Daddy even better than my own. David works hard and long for this family too; but even more, he’s there for them in the every day.
He builds doll houses, plays Princess Yahtzee, and has been known to sport a tiara or two.
My daddy worked so hard and so long that it killed him.
I have no memories of games and Barbies; it wasn’t his style. He was tired and strained, but his love for us was obvious. It was there in the vacations he planned every year, there in the daily discussions on news and events, there in the silly way he sang while making Sunday morning breakfasts. His love was there when he was there.
I pray my girls have a lifetime’s worth of memories with their Daddy, instead of just 15 years.
Soon, the time will come when I will have spent more years without him, then I did with him…but his legacy, his drive, his devotion to family; I live these things every day knowing he left us before he could ever enjoy them himself.
I love you Daddy.
June 25th, 1947 ~ February 22nd, 1998
Psalm 3:3
But you, O Lord, are a shield about me,
my glory, and the lifter of my head.
Few times greater than these have I needed these words Father. May you impress them on my heart, place them at my lips; let your words cover my pain and fear so that I might, indeed, ‘lift my head.’
Forgive me God, for those times I stand in way of Your Glory, Your Purpose.
May this life I carry, this life I hold bring glory to You…’my audience of one.’
This is what it means to be held
I just hope like hell I can do it for nine more weeks for you Lucy girl.
Never, have I had such emotion, such power behind a pregnancy. I can barely keep my own head above water…so how will I help you get here too?
I’m afraid you must hate me. I’m doing a terrible job with you little one.
I’m sorry.
What can I say? I didn’t know it would be this way.
You deserve better.
Four Years and Counting
Just four years ago this morning, I looked like this,
A few hours later and I was holding one sweet baby girl, my Olivia Marie.
8lbs, 7oz and 21″ of quiet perfection.
It’s no surprise that Livie, my most introverted child, made her grand entrance into this world with just a whimper of a cry.
From her first moments, Livie preferred my company over any other; a fact that often exasperated me over her first year years, as I struggled to make sense of my reserved child.
I simply cannot imagine a world without Livie in it.
Her love and affection, though hard to obtain, is pure joy when at last you succeed and she offers you her biggest grin and tightest hug.
My silly, literal Lulu, how I love you! You bring such joy and adoration to your Daddy and me. I love the way you view the world, so concrete, so absolute; even when I can’t always see it the way you do.
I am delighted to be a part of your world my sweet girl.
Happy Birthday Liv!
“Listen to Me, you whom I have upheld since you were conceived and have carried since your birth. Even to your old age and gray hairs I am He and I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you. I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” -Isaiah 46:3-4
I’m not sure if I read these words as they applied to me or my baby girl, but they moved me just the same. I came across this passage as I prayed for another child, another set of parents; all out there fighting.
All these appointments, the interventions, the procedures and standards of care Lucy and I are facing as we struggle to control my diabetes; they all awaken within me those old thoughts, those old struggles.
Those feelings of helplessness.
Those feelings of doing all the right things.
Those feelings of nothing ever being enough.
I *know* what it is like to have a sick child.
I *know* what it is like to have a sick mother.
I feel stuck in between those two worlds. Smashed among the memories of those before me.
“It’s just gestational.”
“You are doing everything right.”
“It’s a matter of supply and demand.”
Damn straight.
My body doesn’t supply, but my heart demands…
but God DOES supply.
God sustains, even when my body doesn’t.
When, when, will I learn?
How many times before have I offered these same questions? Battled these same demons?
Does the answer ever change?
No,
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
Hebrews 13:8
I can struggle, I can question, I can do every ‘good and right’ thing, I can bury my head in the sand…no matter, for God will sustain me.
God will sustain Lucy.
I cannot even pretend to understand why the baby that holds so much light has brought so many doubts, fears, and worries.
It isn’t a question of what we deserve, but rather a question of what I have been missing.
Today, I heard God whispering as I read the passage from Isaiah.
It’s not about you Katie, not this time. This one is about me.
I have to surrender to God. I have to believe that He alone will sustain me as I walk, heavy with child, into the unknown.
God and I, we’ve walked this road before; with a different child; with a different plan.
”For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jer 29:11 (NIV)
Sometimes I wonder if despair has a scent, a tell-tell calling card to its impending approach.
I swear Despair must have something familiar about it. Why else would you recognize it the second before it sinks into you? How else can you explain the peculiar way the goose bumps form on your arms long before the darkness falls?
Maybe it’s a scent.
Or a taste in the back of your throat.
But, it’s got to be more than a feeling, surely.
Or maybe not.
Regardless, you know it before it hits.
Every time.
Sometimes you know why Despair is visiting, other times, all you can do is brace yourself.
I feel a bit in between the two.
I know, but I don’t know.
I feel, but I don’t want to feel.
I see it, but I’d rather just close my eyes.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Today, I spent two hours in an educational class about gestational diabetes.
As the class wore on, I grew more and more agitated. I began to feel the walls closing in as the instructor dictated my every calorie, carbohydrate, fat, and protein. I could feel my skin crawl as I thought of all the extra time and energy I would have to spend to make their meal plans and schedules work for our family. I nearly lost it when blood refused to pool onto the meter strip despite four finger pricks and running my hands under hot water. I felt my face grow hot at the lists of bold faced foods I was to ‘avoid.’
Finally, my blood soaked unto the strip and I read with satisfaction my well-within-limits reading.
But it was too late for my rage.
My anger and disappointment spilled out effortlessly, in a way my blood had not. How dare they restrict me!? Don’t they know I have a family to cook for and extra meals for me is just more work? Can’t they understand that I’m tired, I’m working, and I just want to eat a bowl of cereal, white pasta, or a cookie for goodness sakes?
My rage sat with me in the freezing car as I redefined our weekly menu and redrew our grocery list. Forty minutes later, my rage walked me down the aisles of two grocery stores as I picked and hunted, read and calculated just to get the number right for my meal plans.
My rage crashed like fasting a woman just before dinner when my eyes filled with tears searching for the cannenelli beans.
It’s not the meal plans.
It’s not the inconvenience.
It’s not the extra work.
It’s not even the fear of diabetes.
It’s knowing YOU wouldn’t do it.
It’s knowing, YOU could still be here if all you had done was,
follow every calorie, carbohydrate, fat, and protein.
spent extra time and energy making your meal plans and schedules work for our family.
pricked your fingers four times a day, every day,
followed the lists of bold faced foods meant to ‘avoid.’
Why didn’t YOU do it?
If it meant you could stay with us, wasn’t it worth the carb counting, the extra effort, the finger pricking, the self-control?
Wasn’t it?
Weren’t we?
Wasn’t I?
So, you passed these genes to me. These genes that are dysfunctional, that don’t allow my body to work as it should.
But you couldn’t possibly pass the neglect to me.
You couldn’t, you can’t, you won’t.
I would follow this plan indefinitely if it meant I could watch Lucy grow, hold her hand when genetics takes its turn in her life, and encourage her through the rigid structure, the meal plans, the medical care.
Would you do it differently Mom and Dad? Would you? Would living be worth it then? Or would the damn food win again? Would you let the stigma of your childhood control you or would you ask for help?
Tell me you’d do it differently.
Tell my your proud of me for doing this for me, for my baby, for my children.
Tell me you would do it too, if you were me.
