It has always been our habit to consider a baby's first Christmas as their first December 25th outside the womb. But the rules are all different with Abigail.
Her life is likely to be entirely within the womb, though we are praying for time with her after her birth, as well. What's true for us is true for everybody: we never know how long we have with our children. But when your child is given a terminal diagnosis, it feels more urgent. You feel there will never be enough time. For that reason, Bill and I are grateful to have received Abigail's diagnosis in the middle of the pregnancy. We had twenty-two blissful weeks of planning and dreaming and hoping for a healthy child, and now we have the rest of the pregnancy, however long it may be, to plan and dream and hope with a different understanding of Abigail's reality. I know there are families who welcome a baby with anencephaly into their hearts at the very moment of birth and, with shock, discover that the baby they have long loved and planned for will not be staying.
Because we know, we have been given the gift of cherished time. Rather than merely tolerating the last two trimesters of this pregnancy, Bill and I are watching and appreciating every moment. The times when Bill puts his hand on my belly and feels her move are deeper and sweeter. The way we talk about her is more reverent. The comfort we give each other is more fervent.
This December 25th will be Abigail Reileen's first Christmas. The name of this blog, Abigail's Stocking, is drawn from this idea. We will be putting up a stocking for Abigail and talking about the intangible gifts we can offer to our angel that will give her what she truly wants, a reunion in heaven with her whole family.
We haven't really started decorating for Christmas yet, as it's Thanksgiving Day. But last Saturday the local Relief Society put on a Super Saturday crafting event, and I signed up to make a bunch of little wooden-and-sticker ornaments, complete with Mod Podge. I arrived a little after ten in the morning and was the only one at my table at first. This was fine because I wasn't feeling particularly social. I came with the hope of making some special ornament for Abigail and some other cute decorations. It had been about two weeks from our diagnosis.
The first day I had been almost proud of myself for handling the news so well, but I was soon reminded forcefully of what I had long heard about grief: it comes in waves.
Over the previous two weeks, I had gone from peaceful acceptance to sobbing unacceptance to anger and self-pity and back to quiet acceptance. On Saturday morning, I felt okay. It was nice to be done with the previous week of school and two very challenging tests, one in Neurobiology and one in Chemistry. And now I was at an event just for women to get together and be creative. What could be better? I quietly began the process of choosing stickers to put onto my little wooden and paper ornaments and Mod Podging them on. There were red and green and gold and silver stickers. Some were pictures of Christmas trees and snowmen, and some were words like "together" and "tradition." I was having a nice time, and then another woman came to sit across from me and start her own Christmas project. We engaged in a little small talk, and one of the organizers came over and talked with us, too. But slowly, as I worked, I began to notice that I kept taking short gasps of air every so often. Sometimes these gasps of air accompanied some thought about Abigail. After all, I was writing out her name in red stickers across a decorative Christmas gift tag. But in general I have found that it is impossible NOT to think about Abigail. Everything seems to direct my thoughts to her.
Lesson in Neurobiology on movement? Abigail.
Little girl shopping with her mother in the supermarket? Abigail.
Facebook post by my friend or cousin, both of whom just brought home twin girls? Abigail.
Sitting on my bed and staring at the wall where I would have put the bassinet? Abigail.
There's no escaping the thought of her. And if I do by some chance get busy thinking about school or reading with my older kids, or some non-Abigail house project I need to get working on, the precious movements inside my womb will awaken me to Abigail once more.
So as I sat there, talking with new friends about Christmas traditions and whether we tell our kids there's a Santa or not, I couldn't do a thing about the random gasps of air. I knew it meant I was suppressing my breathing unconsciously, but I didn't know how to fix it. I tried mindfully breathing in and out. And I hurried up to finish the ornaments I was working on because now I couldn't wait to get out of the stifling indoors. I don't think anybody noticed my mini crisis, and that was good because talking about an anxiety attack does not actually help an anxiety attack. I went to the wall where there was a plug and plugged in the glue gun so I could string my ornaments with the pretty candy-cane-striped string provided in the kit. And I reminded myself to breathe.
It was a slow and painful death-by-anxiety-attack, and eventually I felt close to hyperventilating. I steadied my voice and asked my friend if I should leave the gun plugged in for her. She said yes. I stood up and returned to the table, carefully keeping my ornaments separated in their baggie since Mod Podge tends to stick horribly whenever it comes into contact with itself. And then I explained that I needed to go home. My new friend asked if I was okay. I told her briefly that we had received a terminal diagnosis for our baby and I was having a hard time, but that I just needed to get out into the fresh air. She offered to give me a ride home, but she wasn't even finished with her project yet and I really wanted to be alone, so I declined.
As soon as I was outside in the brisk November air, I could breathe. And as soon as I could breathe, I could cry. I cried all the way home, letting the tears dot my face. I know there's nothing wrong with crying but I prefer to do it out of sight. It was a melancholy day after that, but I got lots of hugs from my sweet husband and my other kids. And Abigail made sure to make her presence known. Sometimes the movements brought tears, but other times they brought a smile.
I'm glad I went out and made ornaments for the tree. I'm glad I have a cute little one with Abigail's name on it.
The more things with her name on it, the better, as far as my heart's concerned.
Waiting for Abigail is no easy feat. But we will fill this time with as many remembrances and special moments as we can.
In the afternoon, we called all five of our boys out to the front yard and asked for their help in planting a bulb garden for Abigail. There were crocuses and giant daffodils and giant tulips.
They loved doing it, and it was good for my heart. There will be Christmas and there will be spring. And Abigail will be there for all of it, either here next to my heart or in heaven surrounded by God, angels, and family. And whether in a Christmas ornament, a stocking, or a tulip, she will always be cherished and remembered.
Yes! She will always be remembered and cherished!
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