Sandy Hook

It's been a while since I've written a new blog post. I've had a million and one ideas and somehow not made the time to write a single one. I've been jotting these ideas down because there are so many of them, and I'm bound to forget a few. Among the ideas are some topics that are probably expected: getting through the holidays, a recap of Harvesting Hope (which was VERY successful, by the way), and a general update on my emotional status (don't worry--it's pretty good, considering...). There are also a few that probably are not expected: a message from the mom of another Max McFall, a renewed friendship with a high school classmate who recently lost twins. The one that I am sitting down to write today falls into the "unexpected" category, and I wish I weren't writing it. It is about the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings.

I was out and about the day of the shootings, so I only heard about them a few hours afterward. I was visiting friends at Shawnee Mission South, and my former principal told me about the shootings. I decided right then and there that I didn't want to know any more about this tragedy. I know that sounds selfish, but I am more affected by sad news stories, especially those involving children, since Max's death. I try to avoid them at all costs. I read an article a few months ago involving a newborn baby boy and something so horrific that I haven't shared it with anyone. I wish I'd never read it, but I wish even more that I could stop other people from knowing about it. I know I'm not alone in this either. I had breakfast with the aforementioned high school friend this past Saturday, and we discussed this very issue. We both agreed that we are just more emotional affected by stories of death, namely children's deaths, than we ever were before. Don't get me wrong--I've never enjoyed hearing about children dying, but I wouldn't fixate on them for months and months. I think I have always been a pretty empathetic person, but my mind and my heart weren't trained to think about anything beyond the sense of loss that these families must be feeling. Now, I know better. I think about these poor parents going home to a house full of belongings with no child to possess them. I think about the reminders that will surface months and years from now--a phone call reminding them of a dental check-up scheduled for their child who no longer exists, a birthday card with a 20% off coupon from Toys R Us, the question on forms at their doctor's office and in every conversation with a new acquaintance: "How many children do you have?" I think about the dead children's stockings still hanging above the fireplace and the gifts already purchased and wrapped sitting under the Christmas tree. I think about the horror and helplessness that they feel at knowing that their children's bodies sat on cold autopsy tables where they were methodically cut open, organs removed and weighed, while a stone-faced doctor jotted down numbers on a sheet of paper that will become the final autopsy report. I think about them today. About how their world felt like it ended all over again when they woke up and realized that their children really are gone. I think about how hard, maybe impossible, it will be for these parents to drop their other children off at school, to let them learn how to drive one day, to let them spend the night at friends' houses, and eventually let them move out and fend for themselves in the world. If your child wasn't safe at school, or in my case, at home, then how can we possibly let them out into the world again?

Of course, my desire to not know any more about the shootings quickly vanished when I wondered what would have happened if people decided they didn't want to know any more about Max dying. As soon as I got in my car, I turned on NPR and listened to all the horrific details. I still listened as I sat in the carpool line waiting to pick Ethan up from school that day, and I thought about just how lucky I was to be doing something as normal as picking my son up from school. I thought about how easily Sandy Hook Elementary School could have been Stanley Elementary School, or any other elementary school in the world. I thought about how that first grade class could have been Ethan's first grade class and how those brave teachers and administrators could have been the very ones who I have chatted with and handed my son's life over to every day since school started. I was watching when the Connecticut State Police released the names of all of the victims, and I watched as the MSNBC news anchor attempted to read each one through tears. I don't know what it's like to lose your child to an act of violence and evil like these parents did. I don't know what it's like to think about your child's last moments and just pray that they were one of the first ones killed. I cannot imagine how it feels to be told that your fragile little six-year-old child was shot three or five or eleven times at close range with an assault rifle. I do know what it feels like to have your child ripped from you for no reason, though. And I know exactly how it feels to be left with so many questions, none of which will ever be answered satisfactorily. I know how horrible it feels to know that your child was an innocent victim and that he, you, and the world has been robbed of his life.

In the weeks and months to come, the talk of the tragedy at Sandy Hook will continue to morph into debates about gun control, school safety, teachers' rights to arm themselves, and a variety of mental health issues. I have tried to avoid most of that for now, but I recently read an article that I think is worthy of attention now. Here is the link: http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/ It is written by the mother of a mentally ill child who displays violent tendencies, and it is brutally honest. The author brings up many valid points worthy of discussion in this country, but one really stands out to me. It has to do with access to quality mental health care in the United States. This mother has tried everything to get help for her son, but nothing has worked. He has physically threatened his family with knives, harmed himself, and vowed to seek vengeance on others. Despite the very real threat that he poses to himself and others, nothing has been done to truly help this boy. His mother writes about the expense of quality mental health care, about insurance companies' refusal to cover treatments (despite his escalating violent behavior), and about her decision to return to work simply to draw benefits from a group insurance plan that will cover at least part of the cost of her son's mental health treatment. I can't imagine what it must be like to live with a child who you both love and fear greatly. And I can't imagine what it's like to not only know that your child is capable of walking into an elementary school and doing what Adam Lanza did, but also to know that no one will help you try to prevent something like that from happening.

I'm going to share my own little story about mental health and insurance companies. It is personal, and some probably think it is in bad taste for me to share it. While I don't disagree, I do think that it needs to be shared. The point is not to turn the Sandy Hook tragedy into my own, but rather to demonstrate that if it is hard for someone like me to get the care that I need, then you can only imagine how difficult it must be for the Adam Lanzas of the world. I have been very open about the fact that I sought professional counseling after Max died. I met with a grief counselor once a week on my own, and Scott and I met with a counselor together once a week. I was lucky to be covered under a group insurance plan that covered mental health visits at 100%, so I never paid a cent for my private counseling sessions. In September, Scott and I decided that we were ready to start trying for another baby. I made an appointment with my gynecologist to discuss a few concerns that I had. I wanted to be sure that there were no concerns about genetic predispositions to SIDS and that I would physically be okay to carry and deliver two babies in such close proximity. In the past, my gynecologist had also run a battery of blood tests prior to me becoming pregnant. Obviously, the topic of Max and his death was bound to come up since all of my questions and concerns centered around some aspect of his life or death. My doctor asked me if I felt depressed. I very clearly remember my answer: "My son just died. Yes, I feel depressed." She asked me if I had thought of hurting myself, and I said no, that I didn't have any desire to harm myself. She then asked me if I was seeing anyone to help me deal with my emotions, and I told her that I was in counseling twice a week. We moved on to my other questions, she assured me that it would be fine physically for me to get pregnant again, and then I left and didn't think another thing of it. I became pregnant very soon after that, and I didn't see my gynecologist again since her practice does not include obstetrics. When I took a leave of absence from teaching, I lost my benefits. I applied for an individual policy with the same insurance company, Blue Cross Blue Shield, thinking that I could get pretty affordable coverage. I was completely wrong. The monthly premium that I was quoted doubled after my application went through the underwriting process. Why? Because of that visit to see my gynecologist. It turns out that she coded my visit as a "mental health" visit and diagnosed me as "major depressive," a diagnosis that she never shared with me. And in case you are wondering, neither my grief counselor nor my primary care physician (who I saw the day after Max's funeral for my 6-week postpartum check-up and then at least once a month starting in October when I became pregnant) ever diagnosed me as major depressive. Unfortunately, my gynecologist had retired a few months prior to this discovery, and the receptionist at her office told me that "they don't work for Dr.____ any more," so there was little I could do to clear up the situation. I spoke with several people at Blue Cross Blue Shield and at the coding agency that my doctor used. Many of them were sympathetic to my story, but guess how many of them offered to actually do something to help me? None of them. I posed several (in my opinion, valid) questions to Blue Cross Blue Shield: Do you commonly pay claims for doctors to practice outside of their specialty? Should I make an appointment with a cardiologist next time I get a blemish on my face? Can I schedule my next pelvic exam with my podiatrist? Why didn't the mental health professional in charge of my care diagnose me as major depressive if it was so obvious to my gynecologist after a three minute conversation? Did they realize they had paid out a claim for me to see my grief counselor that week in addition to this "mental health visit" when I was only allowed one mental health visit per week? Why would I make a counseling appointment with my gynecologist, whom I had seen only once in the year prior to that appointment? Besides that, why would I be punished for seeking help, assuming that I did want a counseling session with my gynecologist? In the end, I got nowhere. I am a healthy 30-year-old woman who has never had an illness more serious than a sinus infection, never visited the emergency room or been hospitalized for anything besides totally routine labor and delivery visits, has no chronic conditions, and takes no medications. But because I answered a few questions that I assumed were being asked out of personal concern for my well-being, Blue Cross Blue Shield expected me to pay over $400 a month for a high-deductible, high out-of-pocket cost insurance plan. I doubt that my gynecologist knew or will ever know just how much her error has cost me. She will probably never know that we might have to give up on having more children because I don't have maternity coverage on my temporary insurance plan, and she will never know that I wouldn't go to the doctor right now unless I really thought I was dying because it would be way too expensive if I wasn't.

I know that this has turned into a little rant, but I hope that no one sees it as a "poor me" declaration. I don't pity myself or feel sad that I can't get affordable health coverage. I feel angry, and I'm not sure who I'm more angry with: the doctor or Blue Cross Blue Shield. And honestly, this experience scares me and makes me feel pretty hopeless for our world. If I can't get affordable coverage because of one stupid visit, imagine what it's like for people who have had cancer or people who have a child who has a diagnosed mental illness. We will never know if the shooting at Sandy Hook could have been avoided, but it is a guarantee that we will see more Sandy Hook-type incidents if the care that could prevent them continues to be inaccessible. I realize that this is my attempt at finding some sort of purpose in such a pointless tragedy, but I also think that is a rational reaction. I've been trying to find purpose in Max's death for the past eighteen months, and I'll probably spend the rest of my life searching for it. Ultimately, I've done some pretty good things along the way, so maybe it's not as fruitless as it seems. Nothing that comes out of the Sandy Hook massacre will make me forget the beautiful faces of those children, and nothing will make me forget the selfless acts of the teachers and administrators who sacrificed their lives for their students, but I do think that tragedy has a way of inspiring hope and change. My wish is that the idle talk and debating that is going on right now will cease to be just talk and at some point become real change. Shame on us if it doesn't.

Here is a link to a slideshow with pictures of the victims and brief biographies: http://abcnews.go.com/US/newtown-connecticut-school-shooting-victims/story?id=17984685#

Happiness Complex

Quinn is three months old today. In a way, it feels like she is three years old. In most ways, though, she still feels brand new. I wonder if she will always feel that way to me. I am so in awe of her, and I can't help but feel a weird sense of magic when I look at her. Not to put too much pressure on her, but Quinn is a miracle in my eyes. Not because it was difficult for me to get pregnant with her (because it wasn't...at all), but because she has given us a sense of hope and purpose that I felt convinced was not possible after Max died. She gives us this simply by existing. Every breath she takes is a miracle to me. Every contagious smile she displays is a miracle. That her little heart continues to beat is a miracle. The past three months have been, hands down, my happiest in the last thirteen months. Quinn is such a happy, easy baby, but I honestly think I would feel the same way if she were colicky and difficult. Her demeanor is just an added bonus to the other joys that she brings me. I cannot help but be amazed when I watch her reach milestones that are meant for much older babies: rolling from her back to her side (she's been doing this for weeks), grabbing at toys, rolling from her back all the way to her stomach, and even trying to sit up on her own (I said trying, not succeeding...). I look at her and see so much of Max and Ethan in her. She is long, like Max, and could have been his identical twin (minus the luscious black locks) at an earlier point in her life. She is stoic and curious like Ethan, although Ethan was never in a rush to try new things like Quinn seems to be. I watch Ethan treat her with the same love and gentle touch that he treated Max with, and I am reminded of how lucky we are to have a 7-year-old boy who still has a soft, loving side that he openly displays. I am, to put it simply, happy. Very happy. Sometimes, I think too happy.

After Max died, I would have scoffed at the idea of someone being too happy. I welcomed any opportunity to laugh for a few fleeting seconds at a stupid joke. I must have watched that Wally World video on YouTube hundreds of times because it made me laugh. For that four minutes and twenty-two seconds, I could feel some sense of happiness and forget all of the pain. Thank you, Mr. Ghetto, for providing me with a welcome distraction. I still haven't mastered the dance moves in the video, but I have mastered the art of using the one-liners in it. Our house was a constant gathering place for friends and family after Max died, and I remember one of our "sleepovers" better than the others. It was the Friday after Max's funeral, and we had five or six friends sleeping over. We sat on our back porch, like we did almost every night, until it started raining. We moved to our garage, and hilarity ensued. I let loose that night and laughed until my abdominal muscles ached. Paul and I still talk about our friend "Bobby" fondly on occasion. I remember thinking to myself that it was okay to enjoy this because it wouldn't last very long. I tried to soak up every second of that night, which led me to stay up way too late. I was right, though: the happiness didn't last. I felt so guilty the next day. How could I be laughing and having a good time when my son was dead? I still struggle with those feelings, but I try to remind myself of exactly what I did that night: the happiness won't last forever, so soak it up and don't feel guilty for doing so. Still, sometimes I have to fight back the urge to suppress a smile or laughter because I think it's just not right to feel any happiness after what we've been through. These feelings have evolved a little bit. I no longer feel guilty for laughing, smiling, or having a good time. Instead, I find myself feeling suspicious of these moments. I feel like I'm being set up sometimes, like something bad is just around the corner. I try to temper my happiness because maybe if I don't let myself feel too happy, then nothing bad will happen to bring me back down to reality. This has been more difficult lately because Quinn does bring me so much happiness. I have these moments when I look at her and wonder for a split second if she really is real. And sometimes I look at her and think my heart might burst with joy and pride. I think about how perfect my life feels right now, and then I begin to panic a little bit. What if I don't deserve this? What if it does all go away? I hate feeling like happiness is temporary or that it comes with conditions. I am so scared that there is some puppet master somewhere measuring my happiness so that he knows just how hard to pull the strings of pain when I let the happiness outweigh the sadness. I wish I could go back to just allowing myself to feel joy without telling myself that it might cost me later on. It's strange for me to think this way, and it takes real effort for me not to give in to the voice in the back of my head telling me to tone down the happiness.

I have no doubt that my reflection on these feelings has a lot to do with a dream that I had a few nights ago. In the dream, I was holding Quinn while she cooed and wiggled in my arms. I walked around with her for a while and showed her off to various people. I finally came to a person who looked at me with pity in his eyes instead of the admiration and love that the others had shown. He said to me, "It's time for us to take her." I was genuinely confused and stared at him wordlessly. "She's dead, Lindsey. It's time for us to take her." I felt shocked. I looked down at Quinn, and she looked up at me, still wiggling in my arms. I kept insisting to this man that Quinn was alive. I tried to get him to see that she was still breathing and moving, that she was not dead. His expression never changed, though. He still looked at me with pity and spoke gently to me, insisting that Quinn was dead. I realized at some point that he must be right; I must have deluded myself into believing that Quinn was still alive and wiggling around in my arms. I remember feeling that crushing sadness that I felt when the fire captain told me that Max was gone. I felt like I'd just been punched in the gut, like I felt waking up on June 11, 2011 and realizing that Max really was dead and that it wasn't all a dream. In my dream, I bartered with the man to let me spend a few more minutes with Quinn, but he wouldn't allow it. Before I gave her up, I woke up. It was very early in the morning, and I was physically and emotionally shaken. I was very confused at first, not quite sure if I had been dreaming or not. Luckily Quinn still sleeps in her bassinet beside our bed, so I realized pretty quickly that I had woken up in a world in which she still existed. I'm no dream expert, but it doesn't take one to see that my dream about Quinn has everything to do with Max and my fear of losing her too. Even though I don't always feel stressed or worried about Quinn on the surface, it's clear to me that I am scared. Terrified, really. I know it's not healthy to suppress these feelings, so here I am, acknowledging them. I'd be lying by omission if I didn't also acknowledge that a small part of me hopes to ward off these types of dreams by digging them out of my subconscious.

To bring this all full circle...am I happy? Absolutely. I am incredibly happy. Does that happiness come with conditions? Absolutely. And it probably always will.

The Cost of Grieving

Most of you probably know that I have been working with a good friend, Lori, to plan a fundraising event to honor our sons' memories. We started a foundation, the Max and Bo Foundation for Hope, and we're working with a local organization, SIDS Resources, to put on an evening of fundraising that will be fun, but that will also honor the babies already lost to SIDS while raising money for the families who will lose babies to SIDS in the future. I wish that I could say that there won't be any more families that will have to experience what we've gone through, but the reality is that at least three families will lose babies to SIDS every month next year. And probably the year after that, and the year after that. And that's just in the KC Metro area. If you take a second to think about that, it is truly astonishing, and not in a good way. There will be more weeks next year when babies die of SIDS than there will be weeks when babies don't die. We all tend to think of SIDS as something that you just hear about, something that is far removed from you and your loved ones, and something that only happens to other people. That's always how I thought of it. Of course, I knew it was real, but it always held some elusive, not quite personal meaning to me. Now, it's all too personal. I realize also that SIDS isn't the only thing that robs parents of their children. I hope that our foundation can start small, with SIDS families or other families that are referred to us through personal connections, and eventually expand to help families coping with their children's deaths regardless of the cause listed on the death certificate. I know that many people are curious as to what exactly the Max and Bo Foundation for Hope plans to actually do for grieving families, so I'm going to expand on our foundation's mission in this blog post. This post deals with the actual financial costs of losing a child (if you are a regular reader of my blog, then you are well versed in the emotional costs of losing a child by now!), and I suspect that it will open your eyes to some things that you might not have considered before. Please note that while I realize and agree that it is tacky to talk about money, I hope you will see why I find it necessary to do so here.

Many people can imagine the emotional ramifications of losing a child suddenly, but few people consider the financial costs associated with a child's unexpected death. Grieving is, simply put, expensive. Most parents have to rely on others to help with the cost out of necessity. All expecting parents plan for the expense of diapers, clothes, health insurance, etc., but how many plan for the cost of a funeral, obituaries, and burial of their babies? As sad as it is, the money set aside or allocated for caring for a living child is not nearly enough to cover the cost of caring for yourself and your family after a baby dies. As I go through some of the expenses that my family incurred, keep in mind that our expenses were actually less than what other families might pay for several reasons. We were lucky enough (if anything concerning Max's death can be called "lucky") to end up at a funeral home, McGilley's, that does not wish to profit from infant deaths; they reduced their rates substantially for Max's funeral with absolutely no requests from us to do so. We also chose cremation for Max, so we did not pay for a burial plot, the burial itself, a graveside service, or a coffin. I also had pretty good health insurance through work, so my grief counseling was covered at 100%. So, although Max's death was costly for us (in more ways than just financially, obviously), it is much more expensive for other parents who choose to bury their children and then seek professional help to cope with their loss.

The first few days after Max died are very foggy for me. Luckily, my mom is a hospice nurse and knew exactly what to do to get funeral preparations started. I sometimes wonder what other people do. Who do you call to figure out what to do after your child dies??? My mom called some funeral homes, and I believe that Nancy from McGilley's was the first one to either answer or return her call. She was wonderful, but there was no part of planning Max's funeral that was wonderful. I'll never forget how sick to my stomach I felt as I looked through the catalog of urns as Scott and I tried to select the perfect one for our baby son's ashes. At one point, Nancy brought one out that is customarily used for infants' ashes. It looked like a toy. It was tiny, almost like a joke version of a real urn. I honestly felt a little bit offended. And angry. It made me really angry that some company makes a tiny little joke urn (as if to emphasize that the ashes inside of it could only be from a tiny person) and charges $300 for it. It made me angry that grieving parents probably agree to pay that ridiculous amount just to get it over with. Scott and I chose a box instead. It's a beautiful mahogany box that locks and has room for other items inside of it. It's also a ridiculously expensive box. We also had to select flowers and music and way too many other things. It was overwhelming. By the end of our visit, we had racked up $1700 in charges. Keep in mind that the funeral home drastically discounted their prices (I believe we paid $25 for the actual funeral and use of the room). If you were at Max's funeral, you know that it was not an extravagant affair. We didn't have doves flying around the room or memorial cards dipped in gold to hand out to people. It was your normal, run of the mill funeral, and it cost $1700. According to the FTC, the average cost of a funeral is around $6,000. When you add in all of the extras (flowers, thank you cards, etc.), it is not uncommon for a funeral to cost $10,000. I wonder how many new parents have access to that kind of cash??? We certainly didn't.

I've always been a reader of obituaries. I know it sounds morbid, but I feel like it's my way of honoring people's lives. Obituaries tell the stories of people's lives, of the people they loved, the careers they chose, the people who loved them, and the impact that they made on the world. They did all of those things, so the least I can do is take five minutes to read about it. In all my years of reading obituaries, I never paused to consider how much they cost. If you would have asked me, I would have told you I thought they were free. I realize that newspapers have to make money in order to survive, but by charging grieving people to announce to the world that someone that they love dearly has died? Max's obituary wasn't long, but it cost $700. That number still makes me cringe.

It would be negligent of me not to mention that Scott and I didn't pay for any of those things; our parents did. We are lucky to have parents that stepped in to take care of those things (and so many more) for us. Not all families are that lucky. We had just used all of our savings to buy a house, and we had a new baby that we liked to spoil. I have no idea how we would have come up with the money to pay for Max's funeral and obituary. Do funeral homes or newspapers offer financing? Somehow, I'm doubting they do. Most health insurance policies have at least a minimal amount of life insurance built in, which is nice to have when planning a funeral. Unfortunately, most insurance companies won't pay that life insurance amount unless a baby is older than six months when he dies. That seems odd to me. Who decided that life begins at six months? I thought we were still busy debating the whole life begins at conception vs. life begins at birth thing? I realize that I'm wondering off topic, so let me get back on track. Scott and I make a decent living. We live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood, we drive newer cars, and we have extra spending money every month. If we couldn't afford to pay for a funeral, I wonder how people who live paycheck to paycheck would? What if they don't have parents who are able financially to take that burden off of them? What if they don't have parents at all?

Most companies offer three days of paid bereavement leave after the death of a child. Can you imagine going back to work three days after your child unexpectedly died? If a parent needs a little bit longer (who wouldn't???), then they can take unpaid leave, but where does that leave them financially? Trust me, KCPL doesn't stop sending you bills because your child died. Life goes on, and the bills keep coming. It's a horrible position for anyone to be in; it's stressful, and there are very few options for most.  It's either: (a) go back to work (as unproductive as you will be); survive financially; and try to put off grieving for later, or (b) don't go back to work, go bankrupt, and add the stress of financial instability and everything that comes along with it to your grief. Neither choice is very desirable, but people have to make decisions like this all the time. We were lucky again in this arena. I was off for the summer and had a little over two months off before I had to go back to work. It was still incredibly difficult. I can't even go into everything that was going on with Scott's job at this time, but let's just say it wasn't a good time for a vacation. Still, Scott was lucky in the sense that he didn't work for a large company with strict time-off policies. He had wonderful friends and colleagues who didn't hesitate to appear on Scott's behalf in courtrooms all across the city, and judges were very generous with continuances and forgiving missed appearances. Because of the help of other people, Scott was able to ease back in to work. There were many days when a few hours at the office was all Scott could do before breaking down and coming home. Some days, he didn't make it to the office at all. Who can blame grieving parents for failing to see the importance of their work when they are busy trying to figure out how to live life without one of the most important things in it? How much time off would be enough for you? I'll be very honest...even after two months off, my job was never the same after Max died. I just didn't care that much about it. I know it sounds horrible, but it's true. I had very little enthusiasm, and I really just forced myself to get things done. The best part of my job was being around my coworkers. It might have gotten better with time, but my heart just wasn't in it any more. 

One final cost that families are confronted with after the death of a child is the cost of grieving for that child in healthy, productive ways. Counseling is expensive. A friend of mine who had a stillborn daughter last year recommended a counselor who specializes in child loss to me and spoke so highly of her that I decided I should go see her too. Unfortunately, she didn't accept my insurance, and her hourly rate was either $100 or $150. To give you an idea of how that cost adds up over time, consider this: Scott and I saw a counselor for nearly a year after Max died. If we would have paid just $100 for each session, we would have owed at least $5,000 for counseling alone. I found a counselor that accepted my insurance plan, which paid for 100% of the cost of my visits. Scott and I sought counseling as a couple through Solace House, a wonderful non-profit that provides counseling and support groups for grieving families. Although Solace House provides their services at no cost, they do ask that you make a donation every time you go for counseling. They also have an application process because, as you can imagine, their services are in high demand and they can only offer as much as they have, which isn't a whole lot. Again, we were lucky to find these things and to have good insurance that covered the cost of counseling. One thing that a lot of people don't think about when it comes to counseling is the cost of childcare for surviving children. We had a wonderful friend, Ellen, who picked up Ethan from school every week and hung out with him for free. But, again, most people would struggle to find help like this. 

Like I said before, grieving is expensive. Most people need help, and that is exactly what the Max and Bo Foundation for Hope is going to offer: help. We want to help families pay for funerals when they can't afford them, and we want to help families with meals, gas to get to counseling, childcare expenses so that they can attend support groups or counseling sessions, and maybe a bill or two that hasn't gotten paid. These are the things that people shouldn't have to worry about when they are already dealing with everything else that comes along with losing a child unexpectedly. Scott and I were lucky that we had friends and family members who took care of a lot of these things for us, but I know that many people don't have the kind of support system that we were blessed with after Max died. This is why it is so important to us that we raise a lot of money at Harvesting Hope. There are families all over the metro area that need us now, and that number will continue to grow every week. It is so important to me that Max's death be something more than just a tragedy; I want (really, need) it to be something that results in positive things happening. If I can help other families experiencing the pain of losing a child, even in a tiny way, then I think I will have accomplished something wonderful because of Max and his impact on my life. 

So, I know that $50 seems like a lot of money. Trust me! I can be a little on the cheap side. But think about it this way: for $50, not only do you get a delicious meal, a chance to win some super sweet auction items, a few drinks, and an opportunity to bust a move on the dance floor (Gangnam Style, anyone???), but you will also know that you are helping a family who will be faced with a horrible, life-changing tragedy.

We have a really great evening planned, and I hope that you all will bless us with your presence!

http://harvestinghope.charityhappenings.org

When versus If

Quinn is 36 days old today. Max lived to be 37 days old. Writing that is like kicking myself in the head (I saw a guy do this on Big Brother, so I know it's possible). It seems impossible that 37 days can make up a lifetime, but it did for Max. Because of Max and his impact on my life, I am enjoying the gift of every day with Quinn. And because of Max, I realize that every day really is a gift. To be honest, my anxiety has not been as bad as I thought it would be. I definitely do things that most moms probably don't--check to make sure she's breathing 8,000 times a day, put on her Snuza monitor every night before bed (this monitors her movements from breathing and sounds an alarm if necessary)--but I also do what most new moms do--enjoy her. As the minutes tick by and we get closer to the 37 day mark, I do feel my anxiety increasing, however. I don't know what it will feel like to wake up tomorrow and be Quinn's mom on her 37th day of life, and I am even more clueless as to how it will feel to have Quinn live to 38 days, and in doing so, outlive her big brother. I sure hope that I get to find out, though.

At times, I feel like I am tempting fate. No matter how hard I try, I can't shake that feeling. When I found out that I was expecting a girl, it was obligatory for people to joke about how moody she would be as a teenager, how much money we would spend on clothes, and the creative ways we would protect her from predatory, hormone-addled boys. I went along with these jokes, and I made them often myself. In the back of my mind, though, I was always qualifying these statements with, "If she lives that long..." I would immediately feel guilty for questioning my unborn daughter's ability to survive, but I also knew that there was a lot of truth behind it. Now that Quinn is here, I still find myself prefacing thoughts of the future with "If she lives that long..." and imagining her future with some hesitation. When I buy or receive clothes that she isn't yet big enough to wear, I wonder if she'll live long enough to fit into them. And I remember how horrible it was to pack up boxes of clothes that Max never grew to fit into. Every time I see the box of size 1 diapers sitting in Quinn's closet, I wonder if she'll live long enough for me to open the box and put one on her. And I can't help but remember giving boxes of diapers away after Max died. When I think of the milestones that I assume Quinn will reach--rolling over, crawling, walking, speaking--I can't help but think that I assumed that Max would reach them too, and look where it got me. I worry that I took things for granted with Max, and I worry that I will do that with Quinn too. I scold myself when I think or say things like, "When Quinn is a teenager..." or "When Quinn starts walking..." or even "Tomorrow..." because I know that those things aren't guaranteed. How stupid can I be? I think to myself sometimes. The alternative, though, is to say things like "IF Quinn lives to be a teenager..." or "IF tomorrow comes..." and how depressing would that be to hear?!?! I know that this way of thinking isn't likely to change, so I'll get used to it. Maybe the way I feel about it will change. Maybe I won't even notice it at some point. Max's death left me with a lot of questions and a feeling of uncertainty about the future, but it also left me with the unshakable belief that every day that we live to see is really a gift. I try to keep that in mind so that if tomorrow doesn't come--for me or for someone I love--I'm happy with today.

On a very important side note, I learned tonight that a friend's newborn son is in the NICU. This friend is not someone I speak with every day, but he was, at one point, a very important person in my life. He taught me many things and undoubtedly contributed to the person I am today, so I will always consider him a friend. He is funny, generous, fiercely loyal, and has a very strong faith. I ask that you take a break from reading now and say a prayer for him, his son, and their family. And when you're done with that, take a break from stressing about the future and think of all of the blessings that you have today.

Good Old Facebook

I would like to start by apologizing if this post sounds angry, self-righteous, or self-pitying. I have said before that my goal is to be totally honest in sharing my feelings, and this is one of those posts that is totally honest. It may also be angry, self-righteous, and self-pitying, but it is at least honest. I have thought and thought about whether to post on this topic, I've asked trusted friends for advice, and I've talked to other moms about whether I am being too sensitive or confrontational. What it comes down to is that this is something that is bothering me, and the best way for me to make it stop doing so is for me to write about it and let it out. Just know that this all comes from a place of goodness, a desire to help and educate, and a need to give a voice to myself and other mothers of children who are dead to the world, but still very much alive in our hearts.

To say that losing Max has changed me is to put it lightly. To say that my grief has transformed me is more accurate. Max's death and the sense of loss and grief that I continue to feel have completely eradicated parts of my personality and replaced them with new ones. Where it hasn't done that, it has at least altered other parts. This includes my sense of humor and what makes me laugh. I am more sensitive, and I am definitely more easily offended. It used to take a lot to upset me. I rarely thought that a joke "crossed the line," and I'm sure I am guilty of offending many with my one liners and sarcastic comments. I've always had a pretty dry, sarcastic sense of humor. That hasn't changed, but I am perhaps a little more reserved with my wise cracks now because I know what it means to be offended by what is meant to be a harmless joke. I used to be amazed at how offended people could get over silly little jokes. Can't they just forget about it, I wondered. Why do they let it bother them? Now I understand. It's an involuntary reaction. At least for me it is. I don't want to be upset by anything that someone says, especially when the person is either (a) completely ignorant or (b) well-intentioned (or at least not ill-intentioned). Still, sometimes things bother me, and I can't help it. I try to "forget about it" or let it roll off my back, but I can't. If you know me or are a follower of this blog, then you are probably assuming that this little diatribe has roots in some recent experience. You would be correct. As ridiculous as it sounds, this all started with Facebook. If you are on Facebook, then you have undoubtedly seen the Ecards that people have been posting like it's their job. Here is an example:

These cards always have some sort of "old time" drawing accompanied by a "funny" message. A few weeks ago, one of my Facebook friends posted this one:

Things that I still find funny:  witty one-liners, a clever pun, people falling, dirty jokes, impromptu karaoke sessions with Aaron Baker. Things I don't find funny:  insensitive jokes like this one, bragging about the fact that you are blessed enough to not know what it's like to lose a child. Honestly, I don't find jokes about dead anything to be very funny. Remember that viral video that shows a little girl playing with a dead squirrel? Creepy, not funny. That said, I do understand why people would find this funny. It can be seen as a statement on the high expectations placed on moms today, it can be a statement about how dangerous the world can be and how demanding it really is to be a mother. It can also be seen as an incredibly insensitive thing to say to a mother who can't say that all of her children are alive. Maybe I would have thought it was funny before Max died. Maybe I would think it was funny today if Max were still alive. I don't think I would, but I don't have the luxury of knowing whether I would or not. I can say that I've always been a little bit too superstitious to joke about my kids' lives, but that's beside the point. The point is that Max did die, and that changed me. Not only do I find this ecard unfunny, but I find it pretty offensive. I wish I didn't. I wish I could brush it off, but I can't. I don't want to be bothered by petty things like this, but I am. Like I said, I'm more sensitive now, especially when it comes to comments about anyone, especially children, dying. I just don't think it's something to be taken lightly. The last thing that I want people to think about me is that I'm bitter or that I use Max's death as an excuse to hop on a soapbox and preach about how to be a good person or mother, so let me try to explain.

The first time I saw this, it took my breath away for a second. I read it again. I stared at it for a while. I didn't break down and cry or spend the whole day focusing on how horrible it made me feel. I did think about it though. A lot. I wondered if I was being crazy or hypersensitive because it did bother me. Obviously, I understand that this cartoon is meant to be harmless. It's not literally saying that if you have a dead child, then you are a bad mom. I get that. But it is a little insensitive to those of us moms who can't say that all our children are alive. Still, I wasn't about to comment on the photo or make a big fuss about it. I just tried to forget about it. It came up in a conversation with Lori, though, and she felt the same way as I did. Then, a few more friends posted it. And it still bothered me. Now, I do not believe that any of my friends who posted this picture meant any harm by it. I don't think that they ever in a million years thought that it would offend anyone. I don't think they saw anything potentially hurtful about it. They wouldn't have posted it if they thought it would seem insensitive. I know that about these people, so if you are one them, please believe me when I say that I don't think you're a jerk, I don't hate you, I won't defriend you, and I don't want you to feel attacked. If I thought you were a jerk, I wouldn't be friends with you.

When I started seeing this picture more often, I felt like maybe I could do something good by writing about it here. I know that my blog has helped many of my friends and family members figure out how they can be supportive and helpful throughout my grieving process. It has also helped people figure out what not to say or do. With that in mind, I hope that you will see this post not as a rant or complaint-fest by me, but rather as a post that might educate you or open your eyes to something you didn't consider before. I would venture to say that we all know someone who has lost a child. Consider this: one in four women has lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. If you are reading this or if you're my friend on Facebook, then you at least know me. Besides me, you probably know at least one friend or family member who has suffered a miscarriage. Beyond that, you probably know several people, both old and young, who have outlived their own children. When I think back to Max's funeral and the first few days after his death, I can remember the shock that I felt at discovering just how many of my friends and family members had lost children. I had never heard of these children. I never even knew that most of them existed. Hearing the stories of these children made me sad, but it also made me realize that I'm not alone. There are a lot more of me in the world (and in my social circle) than I ever knew. When you have friends and family members who have lost children, it changes your relationships with them, like it or not. You have to watch what you say a little more carefully, you have to be a little bit more forgiving, a little more flexible, and a little less selfish. I know that my friends and family members have had a heavy burden placed on them since Max died. I need them more, and they have been wonderful about giving me more of themselves than I ever asked before. They didn't ask for this extra responsibility, but they have taken it on without complaining (to me at least!). What I'm trying to get at is that everyone in the world knows someone who has lost a child, so it is up to all of us to be sensitive of that. I know that it's impossible to please everyone, but it is possible, even easy, to resist offending a few of us. I understand that it takes a little extra time to consider whether something you are about to post could be offensive or insensitive to others, but I promise you that it's worth every second it takes. I, like every mom who has lost a child, encounter hundreds of difficult moments daily--moments that test me, moments that remind me of Max, moments that remind me of what I will always be missing, moments that remind me that inconsolable pain will just be my reality sometimes. Yesterday, I opened the envelope that I knew contained Max's birth certificate only to find it stamped boldly with "INFANT DEATH." Seeing this, although obviously true, took my breath away just like seeing that post on Facebook did. So, next time you're wondering whether you should post something for all the world to see, take a second to consider whether posting it will make me or another friend unnecessarily encounter yet another difficult moment that reminds us of what we have lost.

Welcome, Quinn!

As you probably know (or have at least assumed), Quinn is here! Scott and I checked in to the hospital on Tuesday, July 3 around 6:30 am. I started my first dose of the medicine used to "induce" labor around 9:00 that morning. I won't go into details about the medicine or how it works, but I will say that it doesn't actually begin labor for you (like Pitocin sometimes does); it simply prepares your body for labor and then allows your body to do the rest. Under the recommendation of a friend who also happens to be a midwife, I decided that I wouldn't opt for this method of induction unless I was already beginning to dilate. Anyway...I entered what is considered "active labor" around 4:00 that afternoon, and Quinn was born at 6:29 pm. Obviously, my labor progressed pretty quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I almost couldn't get an epidural. Luckily, I had a fabulous nurse who made sure that I did get my epidural. The physical part was easy after that; it was the mental/emotional part that was a little difficult.

I was convinced that something was wrong with Quinn when she was finally born. I didn't hear her crying, and I misread the concentrated look on my doctor's face for something much more ominous. Aside from two lungs full of amniotic fluid that Quinn swallowed on the way out, she was fine. She was better than fine--she was perfect. I don't know if it was intentional, but the nurses left Quinn on my chest for much longer than Ethan or Max had been allowed. She spent most of that time coughing up hideous looking materials (no details needed here) and crying, but what an amazing feeling to finally hold my little girl! I will admit that I felt a little frantic and wondered if someone should be doing something to help Quinn get the amniotic fluid out of her lungs, but I trusted my doctor and my nurse to step in if intervention was necessary. My doctor took the time to go over my history with my nurse, and she took the time to talk with me about it. I can't tell you what a relief it was to have everything out in the open. A frequent topic of conversation among us mothers who have lost children is how, when, or even if to bring up our dead children to new people we meet. It can be stressful to meet new people because of this, so it was a relief to have this out of the way. It's not that I dread talking about Max; anyone who knows me can tell you that's not true. It's that I dread the reaction of other people. I know it is uncomfortable for people, and most don't know what to say or do. I felt like my nurse just got it, though. She seemed to understand that Max's death impacted my pregnancy in a big way. I may not have had many physical complications, but my pregnancy was far from complication-free in the mental realm. My nurse, Emily, seemed to understand this. I am so grateful that she was on duty and assigned to me that day. Sometimes things in the universe just have a way of working out in exactly the way they should. On a related note, I was also very grateful to be in the care of one of my postpartum nurses, Sarah. During one of our conversations, we actually discovered that she and her husband are close friends with a couple that Scott knows through work. The wife had actually just left a congratulatory message for Scott on Facebook. I knew immediately that Sarah's nature was gentle and kind, and we talked quite a bit before I left the hospital. She took the time to read my chart and learned about Max that way. She approached the topic of Max with care and offered her condolences. We talked quite a bit about my anxieties and fears regarding Quinn, and she seemed to know that leaving the hospital and 24-hour-a-day care would be a little bit difficult for me. I am so glad that she was the one to walk us out of the hospital and send us on our way. It was an emotional moment for me, so it was nice to be with someone who understood why it was emotional.

When the nurses finally took Quinn from my arms after she was born to weigh and measure her and administer her Apgar test, I will admit that I felt very overwhelmed. A rush of emotions came over me--happiness, relief, excitement, but also fear, sadness, and an all-consuming sense of loss. I cried for a while, totally unable to capture with words exactly why I was crying. I think now that the reason behind the overwhelming rush of emotion has a lot to do with the dissonance of my feelings at that moment. How could I be anything but overjoyed at the birth of beautiful little girl, a baby that truly came just when we needed something to look forward to? But then, how could I not be heartbroken and scared considering all that happened after Max's joyous birth just a little over a year ago? I guess I know now what it is like to combine tears of joy with tears of despair. I don't suppose that childbirth will ever be the same after Max, and that's okay with me. It's yet another way in which he has made my life richer and more meaningful.

Since Quinn's birth, I feel a little less anxious, but cautiously so. At first, I couldn't stop looking at her in the hospital and thinking that she looked like she was dead. I know that's morbid, but I'm being honest. I checked on her quite a bit, often in ways that I think masked my true intentions--adjusting her blanket to see if she would move, touching her face to see if her skin was still warm, leaning in to kiss her to try to feel her breath against my skin. Now that I'm home with her, I can be a bit more obvious. I also don't look at her any more and think that she looks dead, but I have had a few moments when I have thought that she could be dead. Once, when I picked up her arm and it flopped down on the changing table; a few times when she appeared to not be moving or breathing. It's sad to say, but in those moments, I think to myself, "Enjoy this moment...this moment before you realize that she's really dead." I want to soak up that moment when everything is still okay because I'm so scared to go through what comes afterward. I know, I mean I really know that this is all very morbid, but it is my reality for now. I hope it will go away, and it does seem to be tapering off, but it is how I think for now. I know that Quinn could be gone at any moment, so I take her in every second. I take way too many pictures of her, I probably hold her too often, and yes, I change her outfits way too often. I don't care though. I'm allowed these things. In truth, every parent is allowed these things, but I wonder how many parents truly take advantage of these "mundane" moments with their children. More than I think, I hope.

I mailed Quinn's birth certificate application yesterday. As I filled out the paperwork and wrote the check, I couldn't help but think that we never got around to ordering Max's birth certificate. How awful to have received his death certificate before his birth certificate. "It's time," I thought to myself. So, I got out the paperwork from Max's birth and completed the application for his birth certificate. It was hard to write "N/A" in the space provided for "Present Age," and even harder to fill in the blank for "Date of Death (if applicable)." I wish that it wasn't applicable. I wish that more than anything. When I got to "Reason for Request (Be specific)," I was baffled. How do I answer that? Because it has been too painful to request it up until this point...because I was lazy and didn't do it soon enough, and then he died...because I can't stand to only have a death certificate for my baby. I'm not sure what I wrote in the end. "Personal Records" or something like that. I know it's probably not specific enough, but I hope that they'll cut me some slack. It feels good and bad to have that done. It feels good because it has been looming over my head. Yet another thing that still needs to be done, and one that could be very emotional at that. It feels bad because it's another loose end that is tied up now. Every time something is complete--packing up Max's room, storing his things away, getting the death certificate--it feels like another part of him is gone. Every completed task feels like the end of some aspect of his life. I get bogged down sometimes with the paperwork and silly administrative tasks associated with Max's death, and I want it all to just end. If I'm totally honest with myself though, I don't really want it to end. I guess I need those things sometimes as proof that Max was here and that his existence wasn't just erased when he died.

You will have to forgive me for sneaking this next part in without explanation. Honestly, I'm just too tired and distracted to try to make all of the connections, but you're smart; you can do it! I've been reading A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, and I read a part today that just resonated with me. I think it helps to explain why I look at Quinn sometimes and think that she is dead, or why I think morbid things like, "Enjoy this time with her before she dies." Here it is: "Your memory is a monster; you forget--it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you--and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you."

Here are some pictures of beautiful Quinn Jordan McFall. 7 lbs 3 oz; 19.75 in (she is currently 7 lbs 6 oz; 20.8 in) She has brought us hope, love, laughter, amazement, and even greater purpose in life.

Waiting...

It's been said that waiting is the hardest part of any worthwhile feat, and while I don't know if that will be true with Quinn, it is starting to feel a little torturous. It's not even necessarily the waiting part that is bothering me; it's the unknown part of it all. I'm not talking about not knowing how big she will be, what color her hair will be, or whether I'll be in labor for a long time. The unknown parts that bother me are whether she will be healthy, whether she will be born alive, or whether she will survive every day. To be honest, I think that every day of her life will be a milestone for her and for us. Will I ever feel a sense of permanence with her? Will I always see her (and everyone around me, really) as the child who could die at any moment? I want to be able to enjoy her, and I know that I will. I guess I just worry that underneath it all will always be this nervousness that some sort of tragedy is right around the corner. I don't think that this is an unnatural way for me to be feeling, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. Sometimes I just wish that I had that naivety that many parents do about the fragility of their children's lives. I feel like that sounds snobby, but I don't mean it that way. I mean that before Max died, I of course knew that horrible things could happen. I worried about them happening. But horrible things happened to other people. My fears always felt so irrational and unfounded. Now, horrible things have happened to me. My fears don't feel the least bit irrational or unfounded. Lori and I discussed this the other day. It's like we expect something bad to happen. We wondered if this is our new "normal" way of thinking and living. If you think about it, how could it not be? Our babies died of absolutely nothing. How could the world not be a scarier place after that? How could we not feel more vulnerable and less in control? How could we not question whether the gifts we've been given will suddenly be ripped away from us?

The past two weeks have been difficult for me emotionally. I feel constantly worried if Quinn isn't moving around. I even went to the doctor to have her heartbeat checked because I had convinced myself that something wasn't right. I try to tell myself that she's fine and that everything will be okay, but it's a much more difficult task to make myself actually believe it. I've had quite a few evenings filled with painful contractions that brought me, oddly enough, hope and joy. I thought that I would surely wake up in the middle of the night to find that the contractions were regular and closer together. Then we could go to the hospital, deliver Quinn, and everything would be fine. Obviously, this hasn't happened yet. I wake up the following morning and discover that the contractions have stopped. I really don't want to induce for several reasons, but I'm not going to list them here. I truly want Quinn to just come on her own. I can deal with the physical discomforts of being 40+ weeks pregnant, but the emotional ones are becoming a little bit troublesome. Even Scott is feeling scared now, which is a big change from how he has been feeling. If I don't go into labor by my next appointment on Monday, then we will schedule an induction date. Preferably for five minutes after my doctor's appointment. :) Without going into too many details, my body has prepared itself and is hopefully still making progress. Unfortunately, nothing has happened in the way of labor progressing. Going much past 40 weeks scares me because there are too many risk factors...what if the placenta deteriorates too quickly? I haven't gained any weight in almost 7 weeks, so what if she has already stopped growing and needs to come out? I've done enough questioning and what-iffing over the past year. I would like a little break now.

There is a title given to babies, like Quinn, who come after the loss of a child:  "rainbow babies." The whole idea behind the title is that the rainbow baby comes after a "storm" has ravaged a family. The appearance of the rainbow baby doesn't mean that the storm never happened or that we aren't still dealing with its aftermath; it just brings something beautiful and hopeful to the mix. This makes perfect sense to me because I feel a lot of conflicting emotions when I think about what life with Quinn will be like. I imagine holding her right after she's born, and I think about how happy I will feel to have been given such a beautiful gift. I mean, no matter how you think about it, the fact that two people can form a new life is simply amazing. I also wonder if I'll feel sad to remember all that I lost when Max died. I imagine feeding her, changing her diaper, pushing her around in the stroller, and playing with her, and I wonder the same thing. What I do know is that since June 10, 2011, my arms have felt painfully empty, and I can't wait for Quinn to be placed in them. So, is waiting the hardest part? Maybe it is. Maybe all of my fears will go away when Quinn finally makes her appearance in this world. Maybe meeting her is the only thing that will quell the anxiety that I feel now. Until then, I would certainly appreciate any positive thoughts and prayers that you can give to us.

Guestbook Entries from maxmcfall.com

So many people, both friends and strangers, left such encouraging and kind words at my old site, and I couldn't stand the thought of letting them "expire" along with the domain name. Looking back through them was both difficult and uplifting. They reminded me why it is so important that I continue to not only share my story, but to be open and honest while doing so. There are so many more entries than I remember there being, and there are many from people who I don't even know. These words are what inspired me early on to keep sharing my feelings. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me; I hope you will keep doing so! Here they are:

Marla said:   June 23rd, 2012 4:28 pm

As someone who has faithfully followed your blog while praying for you and your family, I can not pretend to even begin to know the painful path you have been given. Although we have never met I have worried as milestones have been reached and passed such as, Max's birthday, Mothers Day, the anniversary of Max's death, Fathers day and all the days in between. I have worried that the absence of your blogs indicate life has been too painful to write but pray that is not the case. I wonder about Quinn and how your pregnancy is coming. I guess what I really want to say is I am so very sorry for your pain and I have been thinking about you and your family. Sending lots of care and warm thoughts.

Alexis said:   May 22nd, 2012 11:21 pm

Thinking of you and your family a lot recently. So happy to hear about Quinn!

Grandma Shirley said:   April 30th, 2012 12:31 pm

Your lastest blog touched my heart as I too think of Max so often. I still remember the short time I got to be with him. I can still feel his little head nestled on my shoulder as I sang to him and he didn't even care how it sounded. I am so happy you will have the memorial garden and wish I was there with all of you. Send my love to all

Jill said:   March 29th, 2012 1:33 pm

Max was a beautiful baby. Blessings to you.

Tina Roth said:   March 18th, 2012 10:31 pm

Just read your latest post. You do a great job of articulating what is going on. I understand and have had several simillar situations. Please keep writing. 

Mandi said:   January 19th, 2012 11:55 pm

Scott and Lindsey, I am so sorry to hear of your loss of Max. I've been reading Lindsey's blog and the writing is talented, raw, tragic, touching, and uplifting. Thank you for being brave and sharing your talent and feelings with us during this difficult time. May you and your families find peace.

carol said:   December 29th, 2011 9:18 am

I am sooo happy for your great news! I really prayed for you and your family throughout these holidays. You and Scott are doing the Day-by-day thing and living on this side of tragedy. You all are heroes to me. I'm proud of you!

carol said:   November 23rd, 2011 4:29 pm

Sweet friend, In reply to your wonderful efforts to create new traditions, enjoy creating the new. So don't hurry through anything, just soak in the meaning of it all. You can and will add each year as special days and holidays come.

Grandma Shirley said:   November 20th, 2011 12:22 pm

Your message is so touching. I have been having a lot of Max attacks lately and it was so calming in a way to read how you are going to spend the holidays. I really like so many of your ideas and especially making the tree ornaments. May your holiday be blessed with all the family and friends there. Know that you are all in my heart and I will be thinking of you.

Terra said:   November 3rd, 2011 11:58 am

I just read the Faith's Lodge post. I'm touched by the photo- not sure if you took it or someone else? It conveys so much...not only the beauty of nature and the freshness of the morning, but also the symbolic. The letting in of light, the bridge, the silent forest, the familiar yet unknown, the sense of grandeur and being a small but necessary speck in the middle of it all...sometimes the eyes need to be opened.

Kristi Northcutt said:   October 20th, 2011 8:34 am

Scott and Lindsey, A dear friend of mine from college, Amy, and her husband lost a child a couple of years ago - Emily. She was 7 months old. Amy blogs and has a series tagged "The Grieving Mother." She wrote an entry yesterday that really spoke to what I hear you saying in your own blog, and I wanted to direct you to it. I hope that you find comfort in reading it, and any of her past entries about Emily. Hugs. http://www.raisingarrows.net/2011/10/there-is-beauty-in-the-ashes/

Jen Damti said:   October 11th, 2011 8:06 pm

It was a great surprise to see you this weekend. I had heard about your loss a few weeks ago but wasn't sure how to reach out to you. Joe and I are incredibly sorry for your loss. It is brave of you to write this blog, and your writing is so vivid. Thank you for sharing. I hope to see you both again soon.

Kelly Lopez said:   October 4th, 2011 9:31 pm

Even though I don't think I will ever have the right words, I just wanted to tell you that your family is in my thoughts and prayers every day. Your writing is so powerful and I hope you keep writing, as long as you find it a good outlet. Your retelling of Ethan's memory box left a lump in my throat. What a sweet, tender big brother he must be.

Grandma Shirley said:   September 30th, 2011 3:19 pm

I loved your poem and also the rhythm of it. But then I really like poetry if it really has meaning to it. I check almost everyday to see if you have written anything. I can understand how your students love to have you as a teacher.

Kristi said:   September 29th, 2011 3:45 pm

Lindsey, I am a friend of Scott's from high school, and I have been following this blog since you started it. Scott knows a little of what's going on in my son's life, so I won't go into detail here, but I will say that every time I read this, hot tears of mourning and loss race down my face and I feel so much of your pain. We are so very blessed to still have our son, but there have been times when I have seen the color leave him, the cold overtake him, and I have been TERRIFIED in every fiber of my being that I would lose him. I wish I had the words for you, to comfort you and your family, but I do want you to know that I am praying for you. That may not feel like much right now, but I wanted you to at least know it. AND...that I loved your poem. God's peace.

Listy Lehman said:   September 29th, 2011 3:42 pm

Your poem is beautiful! I really appreciate you sharing your deepest thoughts. You are truly an amazing person and loved by many.

Grandma Betty said:   September 5th, 2011 9:46 pm

Once again you were so spot on in your observations. I do know that grandma/mother that Scott was talking to and realized that Sept. 2 was the anniversary of the death of her son. I understand that the birth of this little girl has been bittersweet. Her son will never know his daughter and the grandma will never get to see him with his child. How very, very diificult this must be. Thanks for sharing your thoughts with us.

Grandma Shirley said:   August 30th, 2011 4:44 pm

Couldn't help but have a teary eye as I read about the rocking chair. How well I remember rocking Max and singing to him. Little did I know then that I would not ever do that for him again so the memory is very precious to me as well as the time I got to spend getting to know Ethan better.

Abby Sapp said:   August 30th, 2011 12:55 pm

Thank you for continuing to share your journey. You are such a beautiful writer. All of you continue to be in our prayers.

Sara Bayless said:   August 30th, 2011 3:30 am

Lindsey, your writing is beautiful and poignant. I grieve for your family's loss and hope you recieve much comfort from your entries. I am humbled and honored to have a chance to read along through this gut-wrenching journey that is now your day to day life. I hope the days get lighter and the loving memory of your son carries you strong. Wishing you much peace and love.

Christine Baker said:   August 19th, 2011 6:56 pm

I hope you turn this blog into a book some day. Your writing is beautiful and your comments so thought provoking. It gives me so much insight in to what a grieving parent feels. I hope writing this gives you some comfort and a better way to cope with Max's death. I think about you and your family often and hope that you are blessed with much happiness in the future. Thank you for sharing such a personal journey with us.

Grandma Shirley said:   August 15th, 2011 9:34 am

Your writing is so so wonderful and calming to me also. I still think so often of Max and so glad I got to spend the time with all of you. Hope Ethan had a wonderful birthday. Miss you all but hope to see you soon.

Lisa Lung said:   August 10th, 2011 1:42 am

Lindsey, For some reason you were on my mind tonight. Perhaps it was because school starts up again this week, but regardless of the reason, I want you to know that I was thinking about you. I am so proud of this blog. I have been reading through your entries all night. Next thing I knew, I was sobbing! You and Scott are such strong individuals and I look up to you for your bravery. Please know that I think about your family and Max often!

Krissy DeVaux said:   August 6th, 2011 8:53 am

It took me awhile to bring myself to read this, but for some reason I woke up this morning and read every single word. Strangely, I found it soothing to read. I think about you and your boys nearly every day so it's relieving to know that you are doing your best to keep your heads up. I wish only the best for you all in the future!

Liz said:   August 6th, 2011 7:55 am

You have an amazing talent. Your ability to share your feelings and healing is unfounded. Thank you! I look forward to seeing you in a couple days. We love you guys! Liz, Jim, Emma, and Stella Bray

Erika Backs said:   August 2nd, 2011 11:53 pm

It was good to hear from you last night....it is NEVER too late. Laying on that big grassy hill and thinking about you, and probably passerbys wondering what the hell is wrong with her, I realize that you and Scott are just wonderful people. Max obviously was special too...look how many lives he has already influenced!!! Love you guys....talk to you soon!

Jeff Storey said:   August 2nd, 2011 10:02 pm

Lindsey, I have been reading your blog this evening: you do such a great job conveying your thoughts/emotions/struggles in the aftermath of Max's death. I must try the "Mad Max" pizza (or I could just sample some left in Nicole's fridge if it's still there!)...

Niki Dosland said:   August 2nd, 2011 8:21 pm

What a great website and way to journal your feelings! I've been reading your blogs and so happy to hear that you've surrounded yourself with lots and lots of support systems! Been thinking and praying daily about you guys. Love you!

Brie Meschke said:   July 30th, 2011 7:49 pm

so fun to read your blog. it is very wonderful, heartfelt, and inspirational. :)

Jennifer King said:   July 28th, 2011 1:08 am

Been keeping up, I know I don't know you well but your family has been in my prayers. It's wonderful to see that you are coping in a healthy way.

Katie said:   July 27th, 2011 11:06 pm

I have been putting off signing the guestbook for lack of being able to put all that Im feeling into my words like you can Linds. I really appreciate being able to read this blog even just to feel a little closer to you when Im so far away. You, Scott, Ethan, Max and all of your family are never far from my thoughts. I never thought I could miss someone so much that I never got to meet. Love always, Katie

Christy Mills said:   July 25th, 2011 1:49 pm

Your website is beautiful, I read it every chance I get. You and your family have been on my mind a lot lately, I can't imagine what your going through. Stay strong Mrs. Mcfall

Lindsey Welch said:   July 25th, 2011 4:35 am

Hi Linds and Scott, I have been reading all of your posts and they are beautiful and inspiring. Max's table is perfect and I am glad it gives you a little peace. I also read about the SIDS fundraiser and would love to help in any way I can so keep posting information about it. I keep thinking of you guys and Ethan!

debbie mcendarffer said:   July 24th, 2011 12:12 am

Lindsey, your blog and your ability to express your feelings is amazing. I admire your strength and want you to know you, Scott, Ethan and Max are in my prayers every night. I am happy we got to spend some pool time together and I got to know Ethan. Hope we can do it again before school starts.

Laura Dold said:   July 22nd, 2011 9:08 pm

I very much enjoyed meeting you and hearing all about darling Max. He sounded just as sweet as he was handsome. I'm thinking of you today and in the days to follow. Sometimes just knowing that there are a lot of us grieving mothers out there is enough to get through some of the more difficult days. We carry on because we have to. With love, Laura

Mommy said:   July 22nd, 2011 7:49 am

I should have called Nicole last night. I couldn't sleep thinking about you either. Wish I could hold you in my arms and make it all better but I know I can't. All my love coming your way, Mommy

Nicole said:   July 22nd, 2011 12:31 am

Couldn't sleep tonight thinking about you, Lindsey. I know these days are rough... which is the understatement of the century. However, reading your blog makes me feel stronger. I can only hope that writing does the same for you. I'm sending all my love your way.

Courtney Martinez said:   July 21st, 2011 11:11 pm

Lindsey, Scott & Ethan, I have met you a few times through Ryan & Alison. Mom told me about your blog today. You are so brave to share your feelings with the world. Thank you for your honesty. I hugged my boys a bit tighter tonight and we prayed for the McFalls. Prayers, good thoughts and wishes for peace from the Faddis-Martinez family.

Amber Byler Wilson said:   July 21st, 2011 4:05 pm

Lindsey, I'm so sorry for the loss of your precious son Max. I can't imagine the pain you & your family must feel. It's obvious the love you had for your son and I know he felt that love everyday of his short life. I don't understand why Max or any child would be called back to heaven so soon but it's not my place to understand it. God has a plan for all of us, for some reason he need sweet baby Max back in heaven with him after only 37 days. Ecclesiastes 11:5 As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother's womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things. After reading your posts on this website, I'm amazed by your strength. I know you have and will continue to be a support for families who have also lost a child. I will be praying for you & your family.

Grandma Betty said:   July 20th, 2011 9:38 pm

Lindsey - You have inspired so many of us who loved Max by your incredible writing. You have given words to the thoughts and emotions that randomly pop up during this difficult time. Thank you for that gift. I will always treasure the memories of my time with him. As time goes on I know there will be fewer tears of sadness and more moments of joy and hope. You are all loved very much. Grandma Betty

A said:   July 19th, 2011 1:28 am

Lindsey, I couldn't sleep tonight. I have thought of you, Scott, Ethan, and Max quite a bit even though I barely know you. I decided to google Max McFall at 1:30 in the morning Reading your story and the posts have been so endearing. I have lost a brother and a sister, and often think how my mom has been so strong all these years. She was a widower herself at 38. My sister died last year and although she is no longer on Earth to care for her children, I am positive she is helping to take of and love Max.

Melissa Green said:   July 18th, 2011 3:44 pm

This website it amazing. You are such an amazing family and I want to thank you for sharing all of your thoughts with us. Sending you love from California!

Aubry Spencer said:   July 18th, 2011 2:55 pm

Mrs. Mcfall - Your website is absolutely beautiful! Your honesty is so touching, and I can't imagine anyone reading your blog and not being touched. I think of you and your family all the time, you guys are always in my prayers.

Susan Jameson said:   July 16th, 2011 2:53 pm

Lindsey I just want to tell you that everytime I see you at Brookridge I want to come and hug you because that's all I would know to do. So everytime you see me smile at you know that I am holding you in my arms and hugging you. The other day as I was leaving the grocery store a mother walked in looking down at her baby, smiling and talking...it took my breath away and all I wanted to do was cry, because at that moment all I could think was if I feel like this what must Lindsey feel when she sees something like this. I carry the memory of the day at Brookridge when you and Scott came and picked up Ethan and you stopped at the door of Room B to talk and let me see Max. You are a family I will always remember...for all the reasons Ethan's first baby sitter wrote. My prayer for your family is that GOD will make that hole in your heart a treasure box that will always be there full of the wonderful memories of Max. Take Care of Yourself!

Carol said:   July 15th, 2011 12:55 pm

I read all so far...wrenching, I ache for your loss of Max,his dear little body,hair and face...his precious name...the dreams you and Scott had for him...the sobbing at roadside...Every tear of yours is seen by God

Sharon Anderson said:   July 14th, 2011 10:59 pm

Lindsey: I posted earlier today so if this is a repeat...sorry...I just want you to know I am heartbroken for you, your husband, Ethan and everyone who is close to you!! --Sharon PS--my husband works at (your) Quick Trip and he doesn't drink Rooster Booster or take No Doz... :-)

Sharon Anderson said:   July 14th, 2011 1:24 pm

Lindsey & family: You all have been on my heart and mind and in my earnest prayers since I learned of your tragic loss. Good for you that you have a forum for 'some' of your pain. I cannot even imagine. Please know that you are cared for. You are a brave person for being able to express yourself so eloquently!! You are quite a woman. Fondly...Sharon

Eva Schulte said:   July 13th, 2011 10:54 pm

Hello, I cry with you and am touched by your writing. I lost my baby boy from a cord incident several weeks before his due date. My new companions are an amazing comfort and salvation to me and I'm so glad you've found a similar network. I send you love and share your tears. Brie told me of your lovely blog tribute to sweet Max. Thank you for being so brave to share with us. We are here for you.

Schalie Johnson said:   July 13th, 2011 10:17 pm

Sending love and hugs your way. Lindsey, Scott, and Ethan. Know that you are always in my thoughts, every day, even when we do not get to see each other. My heart goes out to you.

Mary Helt said:   July 13th, 2011 9:23 pm

Lindsey~this is absolutely touching and honest. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, feelings, hurt and pain and beautiful memories of Max. You are in my thoughts all the time. I will be gone again this weekend, but maybe next week we could go for a walk together. You remain in my prayers.

Christine Baker said:   July 13th, 2011 6:40 pm

Lindsey, My heart absolutely breaks for you. I want to thank you for sharing your emotions and thoughts with everyone. I can't imagine what you must be going through on a daily basis, but I hope it gets a little easier every day. I've thought about you and your family often during the last month. I know happier days lie ahead for you.

Cindy Swarner said:   July 13th, 2011 1:43 pm

Lindsey, Even though we didn't get to know each other very well while teaching at South, You, Max and your family are in my prayers. Reading your posts brought tears to my eyes. So from an outside perspective I want you to know that I care that you were able to spend a short amount of time with a gift from God! I admire how you are sharing moments of Max with all of us. That is a treasure for sure! Wishing a little comfort for your aching heart for each day forward.

Casey McCabe said:   July 13th, 2011 12:30 pm

Lindsey, your writing is truly beautiful on every level. It's still weird, how life goes on despite the most devastating tragedy; I'm sitting in the Roasterie and I had just found the pics of Max I sent you on my phone. I had intended to procrastinate so I decided to review the hundreds of pics on my phone. Surprise, there was Max. In an instant the day changed, and not for the worse. It just became more precious. xoxox

Chris Fernandez said:   July 13th, 2011 10:19 am

I just wanted to say I love you guys! I'm so glad I got to meet Max and I'll always cherish the few memories have, especially the time he fell asleep in my arms while we were watching tv =) I cry when I read your posts, I feel so bad that you're hurting. But on the flipside, I'm glad you have an outlet for your thoughts and that you choose to share them with us instead of keeping them bottled up. There is so much more that I could write, but I'll just leave it at this. I really do love you guys.

Cheryl McFall said:   July 12th, 2011 8:00 pm

I miss Max. I never got to meet him. I never got to hear the giggles or see his eyes. I never got to hold him or even change a dirty diaper. I hear he had curly hair like me, his Aunt. I am so sorry for my daughter, Madion. She will never meet her baby cousin. She will never get to pick on him or be protected by him. However, she will know about him. She will, one day, hear about every moment of his short life. Peace be in the heart of all those who will read this. 

Kelly Lopez said:   July 12th, 2011 2:41 pm

Hi Lindsey, I work with your mom and have been so touched by Max even though I never met him. I wish I had something amazing to say to you but I just don't. So what I can say is this: I'm terribly sorry for the loss of Max, the loss of your hopes and dreams you had for your family and for all of the pain you are going through. You are in my thoughts daily and I pray for your broken, but healing heart. Your post about your mom was so very sweet. I know she thinks you are a simply amazing, kind and loving mother, daughter, sister and friend and she is so proud of you.

Brie Meschke said:   July 11th, 2011 8:06 pm

After having lost a child myself, I can completely identify with how you feel. I am so proud of you because I never had the nerve to tell people how hurtful it was when they said nothing. I admire how brave you are and would like to agree that no matter how hard it is for others, it is a thousand times worse for us. Many prayers and happy thoughts sent your way.

Brooke Bashaw said:   July 11th, 2011 1:01 pm

I worked with Scott for approx. 1 1/2 years and it was greatexperience that I am truly happy I was apart of. I loved the days that Lindsey would come by the office and bring Ethan in...just for a visit or to drop him off to hangout with us. Scott and Lindsey are honestly some of the most amazing people I have met in my life, always happy, laughing, joking and showing they love they had for eachother and for Ethan. I strive to have a loving relationship such as theirs. It was a wonderful experience seeing everyday how much Scott loved Lindsey and seeing his eyes light up when he talked about Ethan. The days Lindsey would drop Ethan off with Scott at work were my favorite because I not only got an excuse to hangout with Ethan for a little while but also see what a wonderful father Scott was and how much he enjoyed it. I started working with him in Feb. 2010 and shortly thereafter I remember him always talking about how they were going to try for a second child and how absolutely excited they both were after they found out their second child was on the way. I have not gotten to experience that joy before! I never got the oppurtunity to meet Max but I remember hanging up pictures on the wall above Scott's desk so when he returned from his short time off he would see them and know how excited we all were for them both. Each day was a new experience and I loved being able to share in the stories of them having a new baby in the house. After finding out what had happened my heart broke for Lindsey, Scott and Ethan. It is something I cannot imagine going through or even associate any feelings with. It didnt seem fair to me because of what wonderful people and wonderful parents Lindsey and Scott are. I think about you guys often and hope that you are finding the strength in eachother and through family and friends to cope during this difficult time. I will always keep you in my thoughts and prayers.

Ashley Eller said:   July 11th, 2011 12:25 pm

Mrs. McFall, You were one of my favorite teachers in high school. I love your dry sense of humor and I feel like you helped shape me as a person. I felt so cool my first few months of college that you took the time to Facebook chat with me about silly things, but also serious ones. Then, when I ran into you at Target over winter break, I believe, and you told me you were pregnant, I was so happy for you. All of us in fourth hour wanted you to get pregnant all year. I saw you as an awesome mom and role model and was so glad that you would have a chance to mold another great little boy. I heard about your loss when I was sitting at my friend's pool and I was speechless, in complete shock. You're such a good person and I couldn't imagine what you were going through. Like in your post from July 9th, I didn't want to say anything because I didn't know what to say; I didn't know your whole story and I didn't want to be nosey. But after reading your website and knowing more of what you have gone through, I feel so deeply sorry for you. You, and your family, did NOT deserve this. I think I say this for all your students when I say Thank You, and We Love You. You will always be in my thoughts and prayers.

Meghan McConville said:   July 11th, 2011 11:39 am

I am a firm believer in the power of the written word to cleanse and allow our brains a bit of room. Thank you for your honesty. I have experienced loss, but will not try to imagine your experience with this. It would be an insult to both of us and the lives we mourn. I will say that the range of emotions that you will continue to feel on this road that you and your family are now destined to follow will run the gamut. Anger is right up there and has its place. But know your ability to convey that emotion eloquently and with grace is something rare. So I applaud you taking the time and energy to allow so many people into these moments that for so long and for so many, are had behind closed doors without anyone knowing their true pain. It is raw and hard to face, but it is a testament to your love for your family and the impact that Max had on everyone. 

Mindy Eddleman said:   July 9th, 2011 10:50 pm

You do not know me but I went to nursing school with Lori and saw your website link on FB. I delivereed my twins on April 25th and like you am a constant worrier. I am paralyzed with fear daily that something will happen to one or both of my babies. I cannot imagine the pain you must feel and I am so very sorry that you and Lori both have to experience this. My heart breaks everytime I think of Lori and her little Bo and now, for you and your Max. Please know that even though we are complete strangers I pray for you and your family daily. I pray that God will at least lessen your pain because I know it will never completely go away. God bless.

Samantha said:   July 9th, 2011 10:26 pm

Lindsey, I am so glad to see that you went ahead with the post. I will say from experience your post will make more people reach out. Yet, unfortunately, you will also learn that sometimes it's just better for people to turn the other way.....this is because you and Scott will find that some people say some of the most inappropriate things when they are uncomfortable. Continue to express how you feel, it will provide you with a sense of release. It will also "help" your friends understand what you need. I often get told we don't say anything about Mason cause we don't want to upset you. Unless someone has lost a child themselves they can't begin to imagine our pain. People don't realize that we are always thinking about our babies and we want to hear people talking about them. Even if it makes us cry, we want to know they have not been forgotten. ((((HUGS))))), it was great to see you and Scott today and to get to meet Ethan and your in-laws.

Leann said:   July 9th, 2011 4:23 pm

Linds- Thanks for telling it like it is....being your true self! I didn't know the ettiquette of a short termed former co worker barging in on such a private moments such as his service and so on. I do know that prayers, love and good thoughts are coming to you every single moment from me and my family. Max is a beautiful baby and I am so very sorry that your time was so short with him.

Diana said:   July 9th, 2011 2:43 pm

Reading your experience breaks my heart, but it is beautifully written. I am amazed by your strength.

Meghan Robinson said:   July 9th, 2011 2:16 pm

Lindsey, I am so sorry for your loss. My thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family. I know that he will remain in your hearts forever and may God take care of him from now on. 

Davi Norwood said:   July 9th, 2011 1:45 pm

This website for your beautiful baby boy is amazing! I'm so sorry for you and your family's loss. I have a 13 month old and like you, I'm a worrier. I can't imagine your pain. I read the posts on max's website and cry. My heart aches for you! I know it's been a long while since we've seen or talked. Just know I've thought about you daily since I heard the news. The only thing I know to say is again, I'm so very very sorry. Hugs to you all from Texas

Donna Callewaert said:   July 8th, 2011 10:21 am

Wow. This gave me goosebumps reading it and remembering all the days I saw you during your pregnancy and us talking about Max arriving. My heart continues to ache for you, Scott and Ethan and everyone who knew and loved Max. I am always here for you, whatever you need. Love you girl!

Samantha said:   July 7th, 2011 11:21 am

Lindsey (and Scott) I am so sorry you are too living this horrible nightmare. It's beyond unfair that we won't get to raise our boys. (((Hugs))). I hope this provides an outlet for you to share Max with the world.

DB said:   July 7th, 2011 11:13 am

I thought he had kind of a British pop star look when I met him. Maybe the fifth Beatle? I can't describe how much it means to me that I got to meet Max when you brought him up to school. I will never forget that day. I hate what it has to represent now, but I think about it every day and cherish that brief interaction.

paul baker said:   July 7th, 2011 10:51 am

Mrs Mcfall- I still pray you heal day by day. I still cringe when I think about the pain your in. I still remember taking a class poll on boy or girl. (I voted boy) :) when I saw you had this website I immeditly followed the link and read your story. I'm happy that you're a strong enough person to share your story. You made an impact on my life as a teacher and as a person. The respect I have for you is tremendous! Mr Mcfall- you married an awesome lady who is a great teacher. I wish you all the best in the future ahead of you! Keep on truckin'

Kristin Kreutzer said:   July 7th, 2011 10:29 am

Max was a gorgeous baby. This website shows how much he meant to you and I think it is wonderful. May he rest in peace forever. Hopefully the memories of him will lift some of the heaviness from all of your hearts.

Great Grandma Shirley said:   July 7th, 2011 10:21 am

I will always cherish the wonderful time I spent with the McFall family and getting to sing and play with Max. Also spending more time with Ethan and letting him get to know his Gr. Grandma. Love to all of you from Gr. Grandma and Gr. Grandpa.

Grandma Mindy said:   July 6th, 2011 8:59 pm

I am crying a mixture of tears...sad ones for I miss you so much...happy ones for the beautiful words I have just read...hopeful ones for the days that happy thoughts override the sad ones. Love, Grandma

Nicole Leifer said:   July 6th, 2011 8:11 pm

Lindsey, What a beautiful tribute to Max. I look forward to reading your words as you navigate the future. I love you so much. Nicole

Lori Rapoff said:   July 6th, 2011 4:02 pm

I love it so far :) We will soon know the ways of the blog world...love his sweet picture!