When It's Not a Happy New Year

I’m a classic Type A person. Firstborn. Planner. Goal-setter.

Typically, I’m motivated, energetic, busy. (The latter is not necessarily a good thing.)

New Year’s resolutions and goals? Bring on the planner and pencil—let’s do this!

But…not this year. Not even close. I wish I could say “The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak,” but to be perfectly honest, the spirit is probably even weaker than the flesh these days. 

The turning of the calendar to 2017 has been far more difficult than I would have imagined. This is a big year for us, and a year ago we would have embraced it with such a spirit of adventure: At the end of May Ted will have reached the 20-year milestone in his military career. Our 20^th anniversary is coming up in June. We are scheduled to move…somewhere...later in the summer.

Obviously the adventurous outlook we would have had otherwise has been replaced…

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Grief.

Anxiety.

Exhaustion.

Depression.

I can’t deny that these feelings overwhelm me pretty much daily. Oh, I’ve learned to cope. My husband helps me stay faithful with daily time in prayer and God’s Word (even when, honestly, I don’t really feel like it). Supportive friends and family somehow send a note or text just when I need to know I’m not totally forgotten. And thanks to previous experience, I now recognize when I’m drifting toward depression, and my daily regimen of certain essential oils goes a long way toward supporting me emotionally and mentally. But I still have to deal with reality.

And my reality now includes utter, complete uncertainty. It also includes a widening circle of acquaintances within the Trisomy community who have daily joys and struggles living with their Trisomy children. All too often, though, we learn of the loss of one of these little ones, whether in utero or after a life well loved outside the womb. New Year’s weekend for me included tearful prayers for a family whose 5-month-old son was fighting for his life in a hospital. I broke down when I read the news that he had lost the battle. I don’t even know these people personally, and yet we are connected because of a diagnosis. I weep with them though I may never meet them. The beauty and fragility of the lives of our babies connect us in both encouraging and heartbreaking ways.

This new year…what does it hold for us? For Verity? We are less than 8 weeks away from her due date. Will we make it that long? Perhaps she will surprise us all and be one of the 33% of Trisomy 18 babies who clings to life in the womb beyond 40-42 weeks; or perhaps we will meet her well before February 25.

There are so many more questions than answers—which is a testimony to how outdated much of the available information about this diagnosis really is. Our early research had us assuming we would be burying Verity shortly after birth. And while that is still a distinct possibility, we’ve learned enough to realize that we may need to answer different questions, such as:

What will be the best way to help Verity breathe if, like many other T18 babies, she needs respiratory support?

What kind of feeding support will we need to give her?

How tiny will she be? Will preemie outfits work?

How can we rearrange our bedroom to allow her to sleep as closely as possible to my bedside?

What kinds of monitoring will we need to learn?

And looming over it all…will Verity be with us when we move to our next location? Or will we have had to say goodbye to her, laying her to rest before packing up and starting over somewhere else?

It’s too exhausting, too depressing to wonder what our lives will look like next month or next year. As much as we know God has a plan and purpose for all of this, as much as we acknowledge His power, His sovereignty, His love—this walk of faith is the hardest thing we’ve ever done. There are times when answers are not available, times when I know Truth but can’t feel it. Times when I am in God’s Word and yet feel crushed, overwhelmed, and discouraged. Times when I sit in prayer, yet can say absolutely nothing.

It isn’t totally honest to leave it at that, even though I have no pat answers and my general mood has been pretty downcast lately. In the midst of uncertainty, along this strange grieving process (strange because there isn’t anything tangible—yet—to grieve), I am grateful for moments of sunshine. Verity’s movements make me smile. My children make me laugh. My husband and I are growing as a couple in ways we never could have dreamed. There is so much LIFE surrounding me that I simply MUST live in the present moment. My 3-year-old’s earnest request for a spot on the bed beside me deserves an affirmative response. My teenagers’ thoughtful observations deserve my focused attention. And all the children, from the blissfully unaware 17-month-old to my newly licensed 16-year-old, deserve to know how very loved they are and how much joy they bring us.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven…

a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance…