Funeral Photographs

Blessed is the one who waits . . .
—Daniel 12:12

For two long years, I was afraid, scared of a little compact disc labeled Ezra Knox Cofer. I remember when a family member gave it to me, saying, “When you’re ready.” Ready? I thought. I’ll never be able to look at these pictures.

I was fearful, afraid of what I might see—images of death and morbidity, I suppose. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to photograph a funeral. So, I hid away the CD and thought I would never view the pictures it contained.

Recently, however, I awoke with only one goal: find that disc. This is the day, I thought. I am ready. Where had I put it? With all of the organizing and rearranging I performed to distract myself after Knox’s stillbirth, I knew finding that CD would be an almost insurmountable task, but, surprisingly, I discovered the CD in the first place I looked. How uncanny; I was ready and there it was.

I need to do this. I felt strong, brave, and confident and, strangely enough, I wanted to remember that day. My recollections from the first week of Knox’s stillbirth are such a blur. The unexpected death of a child—coupled with grief, trauma, and shock—certainly takes a toll on your mind. Forgetfulness became the norm and I, most definitely, wanted none of these memories to fade. I want to forget nothing concerning my son because that’s all I have left to cling to and any memory, no matter how painful, is better than no remembrance at all. So, there I sat with disc in hand, prepared to weep.

But then, the unexpected happened. I did not cry; instead, I felt indescribable joy.

I saw hands held, hugs given, tears shed, and above all, I saw support. Of course, I was saddened by the pictures on the screen before me because I was reminded, once again, of losing Knox. Yet, seeing such intimate and candid portraits of compassion, love, and truth made me ever so thankful and grateful for my family and friends. I felt blessed to see—through much clearer eyes—how much my family and my son meant to those present that day. These photographs were my new-found solace.

Now, I understand the significance of photographing a funeral is not to capture death and all its sadness, but, rather to celebrate, remember, and reflect on existence—no matter how brief—and to honor the gift of life itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only in Dreams

I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Day-Dream”

When I dream, I see my son.

There, amidst the tossing and turning, Knox visits me and I watch him grow. We spend time together, mother and son. We do the things I never expected would be taken away from me.

We talk. We read books. We play at the park. We make new memories in this alternate reality, in this world of dreams. Because in dreams, anything can happen. The possibilities are endless and all my wishes for him come true. So, when I close my eyes and I drift off to sleep, my son lives. He feels so alive and his presence seems so incredibly real, that sometimes, if I wake suddenly, I become totally confused. I can’t distinguish between reality and fantasy.

For example, recently, as I dreamt of Knox, I bolted out of bed. I heard a child crying, so I ran to him. I ran faster and faster. And in my dreamlike state of confusion, I fell, skinning my knees on the carpet. When I finally composed myself, however, I realized it was Zoë’s cry that had awakened me, not my son’s.

I was riddled with guilt for thinking Zoë was Knox. And although Zoë easily fell back to sleep that night, I did not. I lie awake thinking I was officially losing my mind. How could I have mistaken my daughter’s cry for that of my son, my son whose cry I never heard, my son who died almost two years ago?

For days after the knee-skinning incident, I felt drained and somewhat preoccupied. I thought I was doing much better, having fewer bad days, and then the grief monster attacked me without warning and this time in my sleep. I felt so violated, so cheated. I was angry because ever since Knox died my sleep has, surprisingly, been the only part of my life unaffected by grief. God truly blessed me with many restful nights when I needed them most.

Now, though, after much thought and consideration, I’m no longer angry that grief may interrupt my sleep. In fact, I think I look forward to sleep. Dreams are my friends. Because only in dreams do I see my son.

Growth

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that, but simply growth. We are happy when we are growing.
—William Butler Yeats

Growth. It’s such a hot topic right now. And with a new school year just beginning, it’s hard to avoid all the “growing up too fast” talk. Just check your Facebook news feed and I’m sure you’ll be inundated with pictures of kids wearing backpacks and cheesy smiles and captions that read: “my baby is growing up too fast.” Growth is all the rage, but why is everyone so glum? Why are parents so sad that their children are growing up?

Not me. I don’t feel that way. Instead, I feel angry, my heart hurts, and tears of envy flow. I envy you because I want what you have. I want to watch my son grow up. I wish Knox were here, getting bigger and stronger everyday. I wish he were growing by leaps and bounds, growing so fast that his clothes no longer fit. I would give anything, and I mean anything, to just buy him a pair of shoes. I want to watch him age, having birthday after birthday, year after year. I want to see him grow into the handsome young man I’m sure he would have been.

Yet, you are saddened by your child’s age progression, saddened because he has reached yet another milestone. Why? Your child is here, he’s full of life. Embrace his growth. Be joyful for his progress. Look ahead to new days, to new memories. Don’t think about how fast time has flown by, think about how much time you have left to watch him live, to see him accomplish his dreams.

When I witness my daughters transform before my very eyes, I praise God. I thank Him for this wonderful blessing, I thank Him for this opportunity to watch Cleo and Zoë grow up, because their growth is my happiness.

Podcast Interview

I recently participated in an Enjoy True Living podcast interview series called “Ordinary People, Extraordinary Faith” hosted by David Deffenbaugh. I accepted the interview request so that my story could not only offer hope to those in similar circumstances, but also to inform and educate those who are unfamiliar with grief.

You may listen to the interview here.

Missing Piece

It was missing a piece. And it was not happy.
—The Missing Piece, Shel Silverstein

Do you know how it feels when a piece of you is missing? When a part of you is gone, never to return?

Unfortunately, I do.

As the bereaved mother of a stillborn son, I sometimes feel like an incomplete puzzle. I am missing a piece. And I am not happy. Instead, I am broken, defective, and deficient, especially on Mother’s Day.

This day of joy, this time of happiness, this whole 24-hour celebration for all mothers is, by far, my hardest day of the year, even more difficult than the anniversary of Knox’s birth and death. Of course, I love my daughters. I am grateful and exceptionally thankful that God has blessed me with the opportunity to mother each of my girls. Yet, when one of your precious children is absent from this world, celebrating motherhood seems so…grim. For me, Mother’s Day is a most bittersweet holiday because my daughters are here in my arms, yet my son is not. He is my missing piece.

And, although, I have been dreading Mother’s Day without my Knox, my precious missing piece, God did not fail in His attempt to comfort me amidst my sorrow. Only yesterday, I received the most unexpected Mother’s Day artwork from my daughter…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…a heart filled with five puzzle pieces. I couldn’t believe it! Five pieces—one for each member of my family, including Knox. I know that God is continually present in my life and this little trinket from my daughter is further proof of that.

God remembers those who are missing pieces. Now, I challenge you to do the same this Mother’s Day. Do not forget those who have lost their mothers and those who have lost precious little ones. Please, remember their missing piece.

Rainbow Baby

Babies born after a loss (or storm) are sometimes called rainbow babies because they bring hope and color back into the lives of the bereaved parents. Hence the expression, “after the storm, comes a rainbow.”

For the past year-and-a-half since my son died, I have survived a ceaseless storm of grief and trauma, pain and anguish, sorrow and suffering. Lately, however, the weather seems much more favorable. The sun is finally shining and my world is no longer gray. Instead, it is filled with such unimaginable color that I sometimes wonder if I am dreaming. Is it possible? Can my life really be filled with happiness again? It can and it is … all because of my precious rainbow baby Zoë Cate.

Now, don’t misunderstand me, Zoë didn’t “fix” everything. She didn’t fill the spot of my stillborn son or take his place. And her arrival, most certainly, did not make my family whole. We are a family of five minus one and grieving Knox will remain a part of our lives. We all will teach Zoë about her big brother. She will know he existed and she will know how his death lead to her life. She will know how wonderfully thankful we are that she lives.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life.
—Lord Byron

Never-ending Battle

“How old is he?” someone asked.

“He sure is cute,” another said.

He: that was the word that stopped my heart and completely took my breath away.

I had forgotten about the gender confusion that sometimes occurs when your child is a newborn. It didn’t bother me that someone assumed my newborn daughter, Zoë, was a boy because that had happened when my first child, Cleo, was an infant. Then, it was just annoying, but now it was different—it brought forth such unexpected anguish that I was not prepared for. It was incredibly painful to hear that someone thought, or rather assumed, that I had a living, breathing son—a baby boy who was not in heaven, but here on Earth instead. Instantly, my heart ached for my precious stillborn son, Knox. My eyes were brimming with tears and I tried desperately to contain the impending flood, but I did not succeed. In fact, I failed miserably. The grief monster had attacked again and I lost this round. But this battle is never-ending and I will have other chances to be the victor.

Why does grief so sporadically interrupt my life? Why does it continue to surprise me, unexpectedly popping out of nowhere? It becomes so emotionally and mentally exhausting that I sometimes wish people could magically know my loss. If only I could wear some sort of “badge of grief” that would indicate what I have survived, that would declare the storms I’ve weathered, that would tell others I am the mother of a stillborn son. But, would it make my life after loss any easier? Probably not, if I’m honest with myself. I can’t change my past or erase my loss, but I can grow through grief and let my suffering shape my future.

More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
—Romans 5:3–5

Broken Road

This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you
—Rascal Flatts, Bless the Broken Road

Sixteen months have passed since my son’s tragic birth and death. Thus, the journey thereafter, in addition to my subsequent pregnancy, has been challenging and wrought with grief, trauma, and so much pain. Yet, the great distance I have traveled on this broken road has set me on a path straight to happiness, albeit bittersweet.

January 28, 2013: 7:00 a.m.
The air in the room was frigid and the IV fluids quickly chilled my body. I sat on the operating table shivering, shaking just the way I did the night Knox died. I could tell by the look in my husband’s eyes that he was worried and I squeezed his hand more tightly. I waited for the panic attack, I waited for something inside of me to shift, to change, for distress to overtake me, but it never did. Apparently, the EMDR therapy that I had previously completed worked like a charm to significantly reduce my distress level. Then, after the spinal block numbed the lower half of my body, my doctor began the c-section, relaying every detail to me as I waited patiently for my daughter’s arrival. Also, my counselor’s suggestion of creating a playlist for the operating room was definitely helping; I heard Mandisa’s “Good Morning” playing in the background and I felt a bit more at ease. And as the playlist continued, I felt strangely happy—the power of music truly is a wonderful thing. “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins began to play and that’s when we met our precious baby girl. I had expected sadness and tears, misery and pain, but when I saw and heard my beautiful daughter for the first time, I was overcome with such joy that crying was not possible. My Zoë Cate was alive, she was breathing. I couldn’t believe it was finally over—this chapter in my life was finally closed. We had our daughter and I was no longer pregnant. It was the ending we had prayed for, it was what we so deeply desired, yet we still grieved our son.

Surprisingly, I shed not a single tear while we were in the hospital. It was a strange feeling because I didn’t expect my emotions to react that way. I was so overcome with joy and happiness that crying never occurred to me. And even though Knox’s picture was opposite my hospital bed, I smiled when I looked at his beautiful face. Those were bittersweet moments—happiness and sorrow simultaneously, almost too difficult to explain.

I look at my precious Zoë now and think, you are here because your brother died—your brother’s death gave you life. And that’s why we chose the name Zoë because it’s meaning is “life.” Honestly, if Knox had lived, we wouldn’t have Zoë, we probably wouldn’t have had any more children. Yet, because he died, he gave us a most precious gift of another child—he gave us his baby sister, he gave her life. The relationship between them reminds me of the Jack Johnson song, “If I Could:”

They say that
New life makes losing life easier to understand
…
One goes out
One comes in

Zoë’s life made it easier to understand losing Knox. And God truly did bless the broken road that led us straight to her.

Leap of Faith

She took a leap of faith and grew her wings on the way down.

A leap of faith—that’s what I took when I jumped head first into EMDR therapy (mentioned previously in Therapy? Yes, Please. as a highly effective form of therapy for the treatment of trauma). I admit I was a little skeptical at my first appointment, but decided, through prayer and support from family and friends, that I would just go for it and take an all or nothing approach. What could it hurt anyway? I desperately desired help for the upcoming c-section day. I was extremely afraid that being back in an operating room would prompt me to relive the trauma of Knox’s birth. And I wanted to overcome the anxiety and distress that I knew would cause my son’s death to overshadow the joyous day of my daughter’s birth. Was any of this possible?

Now, four EMDR sessions later, I have completed the therapy and I am happy to say that it works. And not only does it work, but it is amazingly effective. I can honestly say that I am excited about my daughter’s birth and I am not afraid of being in that operating room again. Can you believe that I actually feel this way? I can’t either. It seems impossible, inconceivable even.

I remember sitting in my third EMDR session grinning from ear-to-ear like a child because I was so proud of myself—I was so happy with my rapid progress. My original distress level of a ten decreased to a two . . . yes, a two. This level is manageable and may even continue to decrease after our daughter is born, but, thankfully, will not increase. And this therapy has not only readied me for the day of my c-section, but has also prepared me for a lifetime of coping with the trauma of Knox’s death. Now, I am confident and I am strong. I feel as though I am taking back my life. I guess I have finally grown my wings.

The Sweetest Blessings

We pray for the big things and forget to give thanks for the ordinary, small (and yet really not small) gifts.
—Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Months ago I remember telling a friend that I wish people, in general, would be more thankful for their children. It seems that every where I go, I hear someone complaining about how horrible their child is behaving or instead ignoring their child because it is more important to update Facebook statuses on their smart phones. Sometimes, I just look at these parents and wonder how in the world they can go through their lives without thanking God for a living child, without thanking God that their children are breathing. It seems so sad to me that these parents, most likely, chose to have children, yet to others, the children appear as a nuisance to the parents. This kind of thinking seems so foreign to me.

Furthermore, I would give anything to have a living breathing son, a child who did not die. I would not care if Knox was the crankiest, most colicky, horrible sleeping infant on the planet, I would take him that way and I would be thankful for each minute he breathed. Likewise, I truly wish I could impose this perspective on other parents, for others to see how something as small as a child’s laughter or even the opposite—a little temper-tantrum—deserves prayers of thankfulness. Why? Because those things mean that your child is alive—it means that they are here with you. Who wouldn’t praise God for such a wonderful gift? I know I would and I do thank God every day for my sweet Cleo, for every breath she takes I am thankful beyond description.

Thus, I will continue to praise God in this way after our baby girl is born. Each time I am awakened for a midnight feeding, I will not complain. Instead, I will thank God that my child’s hunger means that she has life. With every diaper I change, I will not grumble. I will say a prayer of thanks that my baby is alive and well. And just like Hannah, I too prayed for this child and the Lord granted my request. I have no right to fret or fuss if my baby girl cries for 3 hours straight. I will thank God that I am able to hold her while she uses her strong lungs to breathe and to live because there is no greater blessing than a living, breathing child.

Those blessings are sweetest that are won with prayer and worn with thanks.
—Thomas Goodwin