The Trinity Transformation: LOSING TRINITY

Monday, February 13, 2012

LOSING TRINITY

INTRODUCTION:

Today is February 13, 2012, my daughter Trinity’s sixth birthday. There will not be a party or presents or guests. It will just be my husband and me trying to explain to her 4 year old twin brothers why she is in Heaven, as we eat a small pink birthday cake. Perhaps we’ll also escape to the mountains, as has been our tradition each year so far. That sounds pitiful, but we have to validate her existence as part of our family, and the significant impact her short life has made. She was like a flash of lightening, a bright light gone in an instant, but the thunder that resulted is still reverberating today. It shook me to my core, but I’m still here, albeit rearranged.

BLOG OVERVIEW:

Though the catalyst to my writing was loss, the inertia propelling it is encouragement. This is not just a sad story. It is also a story about rising from the ashes. So if you are unable to make it through today’s post, please join me next week.

The plan is for this to be a 12 week project, with one post per week. If this were a book, it would have three parts. Parts One and Three are the beginning and end. Part Two is the meat, comprised of ten chapters that detail ten milestones of my rearrangement, my Trinity Transformation.

PART ONE: LOSING TRINITY

(Though this was six years ago, I retell it as if were happening today.)

It is before dawn on a Monday, chilly and damp, a common San Francisco morning. My husband, Richard, and I are alone, except for various hospital staff. The closest family is several time zones away, but our dear friend/professional photographer, Joanne Lee, is on the way to capture the occasion. She does not arrive in time for the birth, but thank God she gets here shortly after. We could not have anticipated the importance of her role.

It’s been a long, slow labor and the moment is finally here. Our baby girl emerges at 5:04 am with that final push, and her silence fills the room. As she is rushed to the warming table, Richard turns off the video camera. The joyous birth of our first child is turning into something we will not want to watch again and again, perhaps ever again. What is going on? We didn’t learn about this scenario in birthing class. I had envisioned having her handed directly to me for immediate skin on skin contact. Richard would cut the cord, and I’d offer her my breast right away. I wanted the bonding to begin from the first seconds of her life. I wanted to gaze into her little eyes and feel that indescribable connection. I had become fixated on a picture in my birthing book of a tiny newborn held in dad’s strong hands. There was something so dreamy about those eyes, and I’ve really been looking forward to getting lost in her gaze. Would they be blue like mine? Or brown like daddy? I would have to wait to find out. I put my disappointment on hold as the goal of healthy baby trumps the methods it may take to achieve that goal.

Several people are tending to her, cleaning off her fresh baby skin and cleaning out her airways. I hear, “Come on baby!” as they pat her little feet, the way a coach would encourage an athlete. It’s taking too long. When will I get to hold her? At the same time people are tending to me and scurrying around the room. Exhaustion, relief, concern, disappointment, and medication cloud my senses.

HOLDING HER:

Finally, someone hands me my warm little bundle. I have waited so long for this moment, too long, and it is not what I’ve imagined. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is shallow. I know she needs more help. What I do not know, is that this is my only moment to hold her while she is alive, so I hand her back to a nurse to take her to the NICU to get the additional care she needs. I think she will be fine, but she isn’t fine yet. It’s an unsettling feeling. Richard accompanies her, and I stay in bed, immobilized from the residual effects of the epidural. I learn about my second degree tear, which is about to be repaired. The room is now empty except for me, the doctor, and the heavy, awkward quiet. Time continues to drag.

THE NICU:

Richard cycles between the NICU and my room. Each time he comes back, he is more hysterical. As her condition worsens and more staff joins the effort to help her, he is asked to leave. At this point, his hysteria is full blown. He’s a very passionate, emotional man, and I think he is overreacting. My coping methods leave me stoic. I hold it all together until the facts are in, and then fall apart in private. Besides, she will be fine right? God is faithful. Richard, Joanne, and I hold hands and I pray out loud. ”Where two or more are gathered…” We wait. Richard would later tell me how before he was asked to leave the NICU, she opened her eyes and looked at him. He was at her feet. She gave him a knowing look.

THE NEWS:

A small medical team walks slowly across the room and eventually reaches my bedside. The head of the NICU takes my hand with both of hers and speaks.

I think she is going to tell me how my baby girl is doing. Instead she tells me they have done all they could. I can’t remember how she phrased it, but it felt cold and insensitive. I suppose there’s no good way to deliver such news, and she probably has to do it more than we care to know. Perhaps she was just trying her best to keep it together and be professional. I can’t remember what else she said, but this must be when she explained that there wasn’t an explanation. She was severely anemic, and they couldn’t account for the blood loss. The little blood she did have was clotting massively, which is highly unusual. They kept trying to get an IV in her, but couldn’t find a vein that would accept fluid. All of them were too clotted. As a last resort, they tried to get an IV into her belly button, which they do not like to do, but the situation was dire. That also failed. Too many clots. Time of death, 7-something a.m. I am too stunned to feel anything at first. But the pain won't stay away for long.

SPREADING THE NEWS:

Richard and Joanne now have to call family and friends who are waiting to hear the happy news. I am desperately grateful to be spared that task. Listening to my husband tell our moms is agony. “She didn’t make it.” My mom, on the other end, is obviously unable to process what she just heard. And then he must repeat those unthinkable words, a little louder, voice broken, barely able to say it again. My mom would be on the next flight. The conversation repeats with his mom. She would arrive the next day along with his grandmother and sister. Joanne is out in the hall calling friends.

FRIENDS:

The pale hospital light has been gradually replaced with sunlight. It doesn’t fit, and I am angry at the sun for shining, and the cars going by on the street below. How dare the world continue about its business. The news spreads quickly and a dozen or so friends rush to comfort us. They actually miss work to take part in the worst day of our lives. This is just one of many acts, for which we will be forever thankful. When everyone arrives, I ask our friend Dean to pray. It’s sort of like an impromptu funeral. Would we have a funeral? How does all this work? All our thoughts have been focused on how to prepare for the arrival our baby, not her death.

We have her brought back in so our friends can see her. I know this must be hard for them, but she is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and I want them to see her too. By now, she’s been gone a little longer. Her small mouth gapes open as I cradle her limp little body in my arms, haunting as Lisa describes it. Justine encourages me to inspect her fingers and toes. She actually has long fingernails, perfectly manicured somehow.

I treasure her while I can, knowing our time is short. I study her sweet face and button nose and try to commit them to memory. Joanne at some point asked permission to take pictures. I barely remember her asking, but thankfully I agreed. She captures these priceless moments. She captures Trinity. I am glad I will not have to rely on my devastated mind to remember what she looks like.

SAYING GOODBYE:

I hate goodbyes. I find “until next time” much easier to accept. But Richard & I know that it’s now or never. She’s starting to look worse, and we can’t bear it. We know she’s not really in that little body anymore anyway. With heaviest hearts, we send her back for the last time.

MOVING ROOMS:

They’ve taken blood from Richard and me to test us for a common blood clotting disorder, we’ve consented, with sadness, to an autopsy so that they can try to provide answers, we’ve visited with Trinity and friends; it’s time to leave the labor and delivery room. We are transferred to a tiny post partum room, and most friends depart due to lack of space. A few stay and walk to a nearby grocery store to pick up a pint of my favorite ice cream and a pink and white variegated azalea to brighten the room. Little did I know that I would manage to keep that azalea alive for several years, and that it would bloom for her birthday every year.

PAPERS:

A hospital social worker arrives with some bland words and a packet of papers. I am offended that there are pamphlets for this. You mean this happens often enough for there to be literature? I’m disgusted. But stepping outside my emotion for a moment, of course I am not the first person this has happened to. That’s exactly why there is a packet of papers full of resources. I am not interested in any of it now. I’m not sure I can even read right now. And we have paperwork to fill out. How can we possibly be expected to do paperwork right now? But they need to know her name, and we need to decide. We had it narrowed down to a few favorites and wanted to see which one fit her best. Naming your child is supposed to be fun. Again, this is not how I imagined it. We decide on Trinity Layne Wons. Trinity had been our front runner all through the pregnancy, and Layne was my middle name that I gave up when I got married. She shares our last name.

We then learn that we will unfortunately receive her death certificate before we get her birth certificate, another irritating detail. This would become more upsetting several weeks later when we take her death certificate to a government building, have them issue her birth certificate and watch them pound the red stamp “DECEASED” on it. Another crushing moment.

TINY TREASURES:

The hospital provided us with a small keepsake box with handprints, footprints, and a lock of hair. She had dark curly hair like daddy. These I will cherish, but they are not enough. I want all of her! It feels like a lame consolation prize. You can’t have the new car, but here are some tire tracks, and a sample of the leather interior.

MOVING ROOMS AGAIN:

The sound of all the crying newborns is unbearable, when your newborn never made a sound. The hospital staff is compassionate enough to make arrangements for us to move to a different floor. Someone suggests that we should consider staying there to help us accept our new reality. Absolutely not. We are acutely aware of our situation, and do not need to be reminded. Everyone grieves differently and perhaps that would be the right choice for others, but not us.

A KEY MOMENT WITH GOD:

Now that we are settled for the night in a bigger, quieter room, I am looking forward to a long, hot shower. At last I am alone, alone with God. I don’t seem to know what I am truly thinking or feeling unless I am totally alone. Tears come again, and I want to ask God why. Why me? Why did He take her? It feels surreal like a scene out of a soap opera. People always cry and ask why. I feel stupid asking why though. What good is it asking that? It happened. There is nothing that can be done to reverse it. So “why” doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t appear to be anyone’s fault. There is no one to blame. I suppose a lot of people, my husband included, would be angry with God if no fingers could be pointed at people. I can’t explain it, but I am not angry. Maybe I don’t have enough energy to be angry. I just tell God that He has to do something good. We’ve all heard inspirational stories where good things come out of tragedy. That is my desperate plea and my prayer. Something good must come from this or else I won’t be able to take it. I can’t accept that she died for nothing. My mind cannot rationalize senselessness.

I would later run across a very reassuring Bible verse that would become my mantra. “And we know that all things work together for good…” Romans 8:28.

THE END OF THAT DAY:

After work hours, more friends arrive. The room is dim and quiet, full of comfort. We have a really nice visit. I am feeling a little more at peace, still exhausted and heavy with grief, but the initial shock has passed. I am starting to realize I also have the physical recovery to get through. It’s good to be out of bed, but I am moving slowly. What about post partum depression? Is that a given for me now? This is going to be really hard for a really long time.

Just before midnight my mom arrives. Julia picked her up from the airport and brought her to the hospital. She also went as far as to fill our fridge and freezer with food. We are dumbfounded at our incredible friends. How do they know what to do? We don’t feel worthy. I don’t think I would know how to be as supportive. Perhaps I will after all this.

My mom is also a very emotional person, and I knew she would feel all this deeply. I am glad she is there. We haven’t seen each other in months since we live on opposite coasts, and this is not how we expected our next visit to be. She gives me a big hug, some sympathetic words and tears. She falls into bed, and Mom, Richard, and I escape into sleep. We have survived the longest and worst day.

SNAPSHOTS FROM THE REST OF THAT WEEK:

“CONGRATULATIONS!”: Leaving the hospital, I am holding sympathy flowers in my lap as I am being wheeled to the exit. An innocent person, smiley but ignorant of our situation, congratulated me. Ouch. I am not angry. They didn’t know, but ouch. There is just no running from this pain. I’m going to encounter it everywhere.

MASTITIS: Distracted by the magnitude of everything, I have completely forgotten about my milk coming in. The physical pain of overfilled breasts adds insult to injury. The implications multiply the emotional pain. I am headed toward mastitis because my baby girl isn’t here for me to nourish and nurture. I will just have to suffer through this, too.

THE LOGISITCS OF DEATH: Should we have a funeral? How do we plan one? How are we supposed to make important decisions right now anyway? We meet with Dean and Justine from our church, and they help us figure it out. It won’t really be a funeral because Trinity won’t be there. It will be a memorial service. And Dean and Justine will take care of it. It’s a big relief.

What do we do with her body? Do we bury her? We know we are not settled, and we have no idea where we will end up later, so burying her somewhere alone is unthinkable. We decide on cremation, so we can keep her ashes with us until we settle someday. Cianna steps up to hold our hands through this process. She unfortunately has experience with death, so she finds a funeral home for us. We make an appointment, pick out her tiny urn, and specify the engraving. This was terribly draining, but also a relief. After we make it through each difficult step, we can stop to rest. We are making some progress with these awful, unavoidable details.One less thing to dread.

FAMILY: The simplest arrangements are nearly insurmountable. All nine family members are from out of town and will not fit in our small condo. Feelings are hurt about who gets to stay with us and who has to get a hotel. One night, those staying at our condo cannot decide where to sleep, and I am called in to help. I’m still embarrassed about the string of expletives that spew from my mouth. I can’t believe a bunch of grownups can’t figure where to sleep. Richard and I feel like we somehow need to take care of everyone who is supposed to be taking care of us. Every meal is a chore. I don’t feel like I can stay in bed, where I want to be. Richard needs backup. But grace prevails, and we realize that everyone else is grieving and incapacitated, too.

THE MEMORIAL SERVICE: It’s a drippy Saturday evening about dusk. We arrive early to the roomy, but cozy Axis Café. The living room type furniture is arrayed around the fireplace. More chairs are aligned in rows behind. The room fills with people while soft music plays. As guests arrive, we receive the first of countless embraces.

Family and friends sign the guest book that Joanne has made, complete with photos. The last photo is of Richard, Trinity, and me, and catches my mom off guard. She points it out to my Dad, Sisters, and Grandma.

Joanne has also assembled a shadow box from the contents of the hospital keepsake box and added photos to that, too. It is on display with pregnancy photos she’d taken of me, a picture of Trinity, and a mosaic tile goody box my sister, Jamie, had made during my pregnancy. It is all carefully arranged with flowers and one white votive candle.

The program is poignant, well thought out and well executed, led by Dean and Justine. Lisa sings a solo, accompanied by Mike on the keyboard. Friends share sweet words. Somehow Richard manages to speak, and it’s beautiful. There is no way I could have done that, and I am amazed at him. Dean closes with prayer and light refreshments are served. We thoroughly enjoy everyone for the whole evening. It is a lovely culmination to a hideous week.

It means everything to be surrounded by family, friends, coworkers, neighbors, and friends of friends. Family dropped everything and flew in from the East Coast and Midwest. Friends changed plane tickets and plans. Friends’ significant others who barely know us are here. People we don’t know are here from church volunteering. We are overwhelmed by love in action, and are forever grateful for each and every person that has reached out to help us survive this time.

30 comments:

Tymbre JoyFebruary 13, 2012 at 10:45 AM
I'm so glad you wrote this and that you're sharing it. I can't wait to read the next part... HUGS!! :-) ~tymbre joy
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mellydFebruary 13, 2012 at 10:59 AM
I was so moved by this - to tears. I remember this hard time but having this inside glimpse into your experience has made me so aware of how even small and innocent things can cause added grief at times like this. I hope that will make me more sensitive to people who are hurting. Thank you for sharing. Next post is going to be amazing - I just know it!
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JulieFebruary 13, 2012 at 11:11 AM
I can't imagine the enormous strength it takes a mom to keep pressing on after losing a child. Thank you for this honest and heartfelt account of your journey. I know this is going to impact so many lives!!
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CherylFebruary 13, 2012 at 1:42 PM
Stacy - You are so brave to have written this. I know it will help so many. I don't know what else to say, other than it was beautiful and heartbreaking. I can't stop hugging my kids right now.
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Richard WonsFebruary 13, 2012 at 1:44 PM
This comment has been removed by the author.
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Richard WonsFebruary 13, 2012 at 1:55 PM
I know Stacy has wanted to share this for years and I’m happy that it has finally happened. As the father, I wanted to share some of my perspective on what Stacy has already discussed...

The time in the delivery room felt like an eternity. I knew right away that something was wrong and almost lost my mind as I went back and forth between Trinity in the NICU, and Stacy alone in the room. When Trinity had finally passed, it felt like time stopped. I so wanted to turn off my mind and fast forward for about a year! But I couldn't. As Stacy mentioned, I had to call family and tell them the terrible news. To say that was difficult would be a gross understatement. Grandparents expecting to hear happy news were instead greeted with broken inaudible words telling them that their grandchild didn't make it...and with Stacy's parents, it was their first grandchild. I won't pretend to understand what must go through someone's mind as they contemplate suicide, but I might have an idea; a pain so great with no relief in sight that you can think of only one way to make it stop. I remember thinking that briefly as I looked out the window several stories up in the delivery room.

Stacy mentions prayers several times. At the time, I was not as connected as Stacy. I did not go to church regularly with her and most of the people from church were there to support Stacy, for they barely knew me. I wanted no part of prayers after our daughter was taken, but I stayed silent for Stacy, cursing and questioning under my breath. Although I was still very angry with God and struggled with faith, I went to church with Stacy after our loss to give Stacy support. It was probably a year, before I started going for myself and stopped blaming God. For me, the incredible people from Christian City Church helped greatly in this transformation from Feb 13th on.

It got easier every day, but it was never easy. After the family returned home and Trinity had been laid to rest, I returned to work. I was in sales and many of my customers knew that I was a proud expecting first-time father. What do you say to someone when they say "congratulations"? It was incredibly awkward trying to tell someone the truth, while trying to keep your composure, and also being empathetic because you know they now feel bad for bringing it up.

One thing is certain from all of this. We would not have been able to make it through that extremely difficult time without an amazing network of friends and family. Not only were they there for continuous support, but they anticipated our needs before we even knew what we needed. We are eternally grateful.
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Shelly LandonFebruary 13, 2012 at 3:43 PM
Oh Stacy. I'm speechless. This is so emotional to read. No holding back the tears. Just like it was yesterday when we heard the daunting news. Yet it was 6 years ago...? How is that possible? Remember that trip to tahoe a short time afterwards? It was so unavoidably hard for you, but I felt so honored to be spending time with you, to be next to you during that enormously difficult time. You two went through one of the most unexplainable tragedies there are. You guys are amzaing and I am so glad you are sharing the life of Trinity.
We love and miss you.
Love,
Shelly and Trent
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InnaFebruary 13, 2012 at 5:05 PM
What a heart wrenching story, Stacy. I was crying feeling your and Richard's pain. Worst nightmare to live through.

How special it is to have the pictures and the memories of that tragic day.

Thank you so much for sharing your story and I look forward to reading more about what followed and how you coped and picked yourself up.

Inna
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UnknownFebruary 13, 2012 at 8:14 PM
This is beautiful! I look forward to reading about your transformation, I have no doubt God used her precious life for great things!
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Julie FryeFebruary 13, 2012 at 8:40 PM
Stacy and Richard, First off, I am so so sorry that you have had to walk this path on earth. I am equally anxious to see part two (the meat) because I know that God has plans for even the absolute worst moments of our life.

Richard, I am so glad that you ended up coming to God through this that in itself is amazing!! One thing I would say to you is that I have learned over the years that whether you are angry and ranting at God, or glad and praising him, it comes across all the same to him... He wants the relationship with YOU!!!

Have you guys read "Heaven is for Real" by Todd Burpo, It is an amazing and very believable book... You will be with Trinity again.

My prayer for you guys today is that God gives you a sense of peace and joy about what you are sharing. That his peace rains down on you as you continue this journey that started 6 plus years ago. Stacy, my prayer is that God continues to guide your words as you write this story and that your family's story has an impact on people that the impact is larger than anything you can even begin to imagine. You are an awesome writer.

Final thought is what an awesome name Trinity is.... It was just the three of you for a very short time physically but it really is the three of you on this journey . She was by the way a beautiful baby and I am so glad that you allowed Joanne to take the pictures and that you have chosen to share them.
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Melanie Moore KuboFebruary 13, 2012 at 10:08 PM
Dearest Stacy (and Rich), your strength and grace are inspiring and beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
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CathyK8February 13, 2012 at 10:49 PM
Beautifully written. My heartfelt sympathy to all of you. Thank you for sharing your journey with us, I am truly moved by your strength, faith and love. Sending comforting and healing wishes, her spirit thrives in your hearts.
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oodrea1221February 16, 2012 at 11:05 AM
Stacy,
I read this when you first sent it out and then I read Richard's post, and I've kept this open, meaning to write to THANK YOU and tell you how awesome it is that you're doing this, but the words are hard to find, to do it justice...so I'll just keep it simple...

Thank you for writing this...people need to hear it, the truth, the honesty, how hard it is to miss her so much, but to keep to keep going, b/c you know it's what's best, for you, your husband, your beautiful kids, your family & friends...b/c this world is a better place with you in it and Trinity would want it for you (and your world is a better place because of her, even though it's hard). Thank you for showing us that we can do hard.

I look forward to reading more...keep pressing on...
With love,
andrea
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StacyFebruary 17, 2012 at 2:51 PM
Wow, thank you Andrea. I know you know all about hard.
Much love, Stacy
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AnonymousFebruary 25, 2012 at 1:21 PM
Hi Stacy,

This is a strange way to introduce myself, but I am, in a very roundabout way, your cousin-in-law (or something like that). I am married to Russell who is Willie Cleveland's great nephew. (We are actually stopping by to take her a warm meal tonight.) Russell's mom, Brenda Loftis, keeps me up to date on you and the twins. We also have twins so she knew I'd understand. =) It wasn't until very recently that I learned about Trinity. I'm so glad to find your blog and read about how precious and beautiful she was. From one mama to another, you are strong and brave and so loving. Nobody should have to endure what you and your family have. What a gift you are giving to others who may find themselves in similar circumstances. To know you are not alone is huge when grieving a loss. The pictures and keepsakes you have of Trinity are priceless. I know she lives in your heart every second of every day. Thanks for sharing your story with us.

Warmly,
Erin Hinson
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Crystal HallauerMarch 2, 2012 at 1:26 AM
That is a very touching story. One that really hit home with me. I didn't lose my son the day I had him but almost two months later. He never left the hospital. I had him when I was only 24 wks and he was only 1 lb 3.5 ozs. The whole experience is fresh in my head like it just happened even though it will be almost 3 yrs. From before I even had him til the day we had his service is one thing I never thought I would ever go though. It's one of the hardest things a person can go though. I remember how it felt being told he is not gonna make it and we want you to call whatever family you want to come up here. Plus if you and your husband can't decide let us know and we will decide on when to pull the tube. One thing I never had my husband at the hospital with me when they sat me down to tell me this. I was alone. Just as when I went into labor and they had to do a emergency c-section I also went though that alone besides having my nurse hold my hand though the whole thing. By the time my family could get to the hospital which wasn't a close drive I was being stitched back up. It is a really good thing to be able to share what you went though. I haven't even got to the other things you wrote. As soon as I read this without even thinking I just started typing.
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StacyMarch 2, 2012 at 3:49 PM
Crystal,
Thank you so much for sharing! There is so much comfort in sharing our difficulties.
Big hugs,
Stacy
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AnonymousMay 25, 2012 at 12:41 PM
Dear Stacy,
I am not really sure how I came across your page. I just stumbled across it somehow. I have to say that is one of the saddest stories I have ever read...I am so sorry for the loss of Trinity.
I wish you well and thank you for sharing such a personal side of your life.
Best,
Steve
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The Trinity Transformation

Monday, February 13, 2012

LOSING TRINITY

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