One Year of Marriage

While we celebrated 10 years of being together this year, today marks 1 year of marriage for us. I imagine most first anniversary posts are filled with magical memories and comments of how the first year being the hardest is a myth, but we both know ours is not the typical first year of marriage. That is not to say that we didn't have our share of magical moments... our honeymoon spent laughing, swimming, drinking, eating and flying through the skies of Kauai, the afternoon spent sitting in the river in Leavenworth wondering if that faint pink line really meant what we hoped it meant, watching you become the unbelievable nurse I knew you'd be, marveling at the miracle growing inside my belly and our hearts, and most importantly, meeting our incredibly strong and beautiful daughter, Evelyn, who blessed us with the titles of mother and father. The first half of our first year together felt too good to be true, and in some ways, I suppose it was.

Unfortunately, what I think will define our first year together is the loss of our child, along with a piece of our hearts. While I would never wish this on any couple, I also know that I would never take back the time that I did get to spend with you and her as a family. Those moments are ones that I will cherish for all of my days, and hold onto tight when the world gets a little too dark. This was not the year we wanted, this was not the year we deserved, and these are not the emotions we imagined feeling while celebrating one year of marriage together.

However, what these experiences have solidified for me is that you are my person. You are not only the love of my life, you are the glue that holds me together when I feel like I am crumbling. You are the sliver of light in a cave filled with darkness. You are the rope I grab hold of when I feel myself slipping. You are my reason to keep going. I can't imagine going through any of this without you by my side, holding me up when I didn't think I could stand any longer. I'm sorry for what this year has brought us, but I am so grateful that I had you through it all.

I know now that whatever life has in store for us, whatever challenges we may face, that we will have each other forever. May our next year present us with less than our first ❤️ I love you, Colin

A Grandpa's Strength

Today is my dad, Evelyn’s grandpa’s, birthday. When I look back on the last year with him, my mind is immediately consumed with Evelyn moments. I remember being in the hospital with preeclampsia, thinking I would be there for months. On February 2^nd, my dad came to the hospital and sat in an uncomfortable chair and watched the Superbowl with me on a crappy, little tv. We talked about our fears, but also about the intense love we already felt for Evelyn. We had no idea that the next day, I would be told that Evelyn would be entering the world at 26w6d.

My dad was such a source of strength throughout the day of Evelyn’s birth, while I sat in a hospital bed filled with anxiety for 8 hours waiting for it to be time for my c-section. He held my hand and tended to my emotions so delicately. He helped me stay calm and strong in a moment that was so terrifying for me.

When Evelyn was born, I could immediately see and feel his love for her fill our world. He was so fascinated by her and had so much faith in her. He helped me focus on the wonder of our little Evelyn, rather than the things that scared me. I remember him coming to meet her for the first time, and how he said she was actually bigger than he thought she would be, because we made sure to tell everyone not to be shocked by how tiny she was. I remember him reaching his hand in and Evelyn grabbing hold of his finger. He was so timid about touching her with his “rough grandpa hands”, but Evelyn immediately responded to his touch. She knew. She knew this was someone who loved her powerfully.

As the weeks went on, my dad continued to be my absolute rock. He was so strong and steady, and reminded us to focus on the love in the room and between our family. He continued to fall in love with her every day, and on the day Evelyn passed, he was there the entire time.

Just like all of us, he never thought that day would come, especially as suddenly as it had. During our absolute darkest hour, my dad never wavered. He held me, my mom, my husband, and my beautiful daughter in his arms, and he was an absolute pillar of strength.

The next morning, while we held our daughter for as long as they would allow, he came and was there for us in so many ways. He came and helped us figure out what the process would be for that day. He helped pack up the two NICU rooms they had allowed us to take over during the night. He helped make sure we didn’t need any food or water, or anything at all. Most importantly, he helped us navigate such a difficult and confusing day.

He held our daughter in his arms, and looked at her with the same love he had when she was holding his finger. He spoke about how beautiful she was, and he comforted us by saying how she will always be part of our family.

When it was time to give her up, he helped us find the strength. When it was time to leave, he lifted me off of the floor that I had crumbled onto. He led me out the doors as my sobs spilled from my body.

He was there for us every single second of our experience, and has continued to be there for us as we walk through this unbelievable grief. I am so grateful for all he did for us, for all the love he has for our daughter, and for all he continues to do to help keep Evelyn’s memory and story going. Happy birthday to a very special grandpa, and thank you to all of the people who have been there for us through such dark times. We couldn’t make it without you.

Grief Feels Selfish...

Selfish

Grief feels selfish…

A selfishness that breeds anger.

Grief stops your world,

Cruelly leaving the rest untouched.

Life continues amidst your screams,

For time to switch directions.

And others try to invest in your pain,

But can’t abandon their own joy.

The world unleashes its own chaos,

And leaves us behind in our grief.

We understand there is pain outside,

But can’t seem to get past our personal starting line.

Previously so empathetic towards the world,

We are left feeling like our pain is the center of all.

A moment we don’t want to define our lives,

And yet hope that it actually does.

It makes you want to scream to the world,

To make sure they haven’t forgotten.

Their moving on to other things,

Makes us feel even more stuck in our grief.

Why does the world keep turning,

When ours has stopped in its tracks?

Grief feels like selfishness,

Yelling at the world to remember. 💟

Everything is Evelyn II

Everything is Evelyn

Written June 2020

Your roses finally bloomed,

Their pink hues remind me of you.

I couldn't sleep last night,

I thought of you and held my stomach tight.

I thought about our time together,

Before we had to face the world and stormy weather.

I wish I'd talked to you more often,

Or held my belly more so your world would soften.

I miss every minute I had with you,

From growing inside me all the way to the NICU.

As I sit here in our yard so green,

I see you laughing as if in a dream.

I see a girl and her pup playing,

Amongst the tall trees gently swaying.

I see you reaching for the flowers,

I feel you lying on my chest for hours.

But I feel all these dreams begin to drift,

In my perfect world appears a rift.

Because I can't hold you or protect you,

I can't hit reset and start anew.

I feel sick from the loss of so many lives,

That will never happen and don't feel right.

All I can do is look at a rose,

So pink and perfect like your little nose.

And pray one day it might make sense,

Why God needed my sweet princess 💟

Jojo Rabbit: An Unexpectedly Healing Film

I wanted to take some time to talk about a very unexpected part of my healing process. Not that it is surprising for a film to have an emotional impact or that a movie can help someone sort through emotions. However, if you have heard the premise to this particular movie, you might find it strange that this is the one that helped me during some of my darkest moments of grief-

Jojo Rabbit: A film by Taika Waititi, based off of the novel Caging Skies by Christine Leunens

Jojo is a lonely German boy who discovers that his single mother is hiding a Jewish girl in their attic. Aided only by his imaginary friend -- Adolf Hitler -- Jojo must confront his blind nationalism as World War II continues to rage on.

Yes, that is the actual premise, and yes, it is accurate. How could a story about a young boy whose imaginary friend is Adolf Hitler help someone through their grief? Like I said- very unexpectedly.

A few days after Evelyn passed, I was struggling to even get out of bed and go downstairs. My husband, mother and mother in law stayed by my side through all of it. On a particularly dark morning, I admitted to my husband and mother that I was having dark thoughts. About not wanting to go on, about wanting to go be with Evie, about not seeing any point in life anymore. I am so grateful for such an amazingly supportive family who forced me to get out of bed and go see a counselor immediately.

I was nervous and kind of pissed off that they were making me go, because I didn't want to do a single thing. I didn't even want to move. I am so glad that I did, because I have continued to use counseling as a resource to this day as a way to continue to work through my grief and the darkness that can feel so overwhelming at times. As I drove home from that first session, I wasn't sure what I felt. All I knew was that I wanted everyone to just stop moving and sit with me, which my counselor encouraged me to express. When my husband and I got back home to our mothers, we asked them to do just that. And we watched Jojo Rabbit...

For the first time since my daughter had passed, I smiled. I laughed even. I fell in love with the adorable, charming characters and the hilarious imaginings of Hitler through the eyes of a young, impressionable boy. But what I didn't expect was that I also cried. I felt true pain and tragedy. I felt a deep sense of unfairness and a longing to change what had happened. As the credits rolled, this quote appeared on screen:

Let me just tell you- I wept. I felt so many strong emotions and everything came out like a flood. Accompanying this quote was the song "Heroes" by David Bowie. Both this quote and this song have become so sentimental to me, and I clung to both while I continued to try to push forward. My sister in law was kind enough to frame the quote for me so I could hang it in my home to look at each day. It all just hit me so hard and meant so much to me in that moment.

Looking back, it all kind of makes sense to me now. I've come to get to know grief fairly well, and if it has taught me anything, it is that it is very complex. It is so many emotions at once, and has such strong conflicting feelings of joy and sadness. Joy for having had that person in your life, even for a short time. Joy of having been blessed enough to feel the love you felt for them. Joy for the memories and all the sweet moments that you will never forget. But then, the sadness and darkness hits. Those things feel so far away, and there is no way to get them back. Grief is such a range of emotions, all heavy and all important parts of the process.

I realized that all of the feelings this film had evoked in me were the exact same emotions that I so strongly associate with grief. This masterpiece of a movie has absolutely nailed the complexities of life and the grief that comes with it. This movie has proven to do this, not in a superficial way, but in a genuine, meaningful way. It wasn't specifically a movie aimed at helping me through my grief, but it allowed me to go through and feel all of the different emotions that would do just that. 

And after feeling all of these powerful, complicated feelings, this quote from Rainer Maria Rilke. Telling me that it was okay to be broken. It was okay to feel the horribleness that was happening to me, but at the same time, telling me not to let those be the ONLY feelings I allowed myself. It told me to keep going. The same day I had decided not to. 

I will forever have such a special place in my heart for this movie, this quote, and this song. Jojo Rabbit, in the most unexpected way, helped me to emerge from one of the darkest moments in my grieving process. Jojo Rabbit helped me to keep going. 

Thank you, Taika Waititi. 💟

Let's Talk About Grief

Let's Talk About Grief

Written 03.14.20

Let's talk about grief. It doesn't necessarily have a stigma, but it does have this rot of wall around it. A kind of wall of silence or loneliness. I think this is mostly a result of peoples' discomfort with death, which I completely understand and relate to.

Nobody wants to sit and talk about death, because nobody wants to sit and think about death. Many people are willing to, but it feels uncomfortable and awkward to put people in that position. Nobody knows what to say, because there is nothing to say. I feel like I'm putting such a burden on anyone I talk to. I can feel the tension. I feel like I need to console them, so most of the time, it feels easier on everyone to just not talk about it. That is why grief can feel so lonely.

Because really, "How am I?" I'm terrible, awful, horrible. My heart is literally broken, so I feel a pain and tightness in my chest all day. My stomach hurts all of the time. I get anxious stomach aches before the anxious thoughts have even formed. I feel such an emptiness, and such a yearning to hold Evelyn again. It hurts so bad. It hurts physically and it hurts emotionally.

My mind is in a deep denial and bargaining phase. I can't shut out the last hours of decision making before her passing, and I can't escape the "what ifs". My mind is playing tricks on me, which makes me hold on to some irrational sense of hope, along with such painful feelings of guilt and failure. Why couldn't I have saved her? I just can't fully accept that Evie is gone and that I won't somehow have her back.

Every single thing reminds me of Evelyn. The space next to my bed meant for your bassinet. The room with the closed door that hurts too much to go in. This house and yard that we got for you, that feels so empty now. The pink cherry blossoms outside that began to bloom right around when you did. Everywhere I look and every thought I have seems to connect to you. Everything is Evelyn.

It feels cruel and harsh that the world continues to move forward, when we feel so stuck in time. Without Evie, the world for us seemed to stop. It hurts to see everyone else moving forward and on with their lives, not that I blame them. It just seems so strange and wrong.

I'm angry at everything and how things turned out. I'm angry at how unfair this world can be. All of my faith and beliefs are being challenged, and it makes me feel very lost.

Grief is scary and lonely. Grief is confusing and painful. Grief is not a straight line, and it is not a quick journey. It feels like a deep hole, and even when you feel like you might be climbing up, you keep slipping back down and you can't see any light at the top. Grief is uncomfortable. But, it is very real.

So, let's talk about grief. 💟

The Original "Everything is Evelyn" Entry

Everything is Evelyn 

Written 03.09.20

The restless nights that should lack rest for different reasons,

That should be filled with my arm rested on your back in your bassinet,

Or intimate moments with you laying on my chest,

The nights that should hear muttered "your turns" between a mother and a father,

But instead hear soft cries between a husband and a wife.

The nights where I lie awake and think of one thing only,

Because everything is Evelyn.

💟

**I began writing these poems almost immediately after Evelyn passed away. The reason behind the title and the entries are simply because every single thing I think or do reminds me of her. Beauty in the world, moments that should have been different with her around, anything that is pale pink, a comment from a friend- somehow, everything in my "new normal" seems to be connected to Evelyn in some way or another. I think she is just such a part of me, that it seeps into every aspect of my life. It is one thing that I really cherish and makes me continue to feel close to her.**

Grief Isn't a Thing...

Grief Isn't a Thing...

Written May 2020

Grief isn’t a thing…

It is a million different things.

Grief births so many different emotions,

Each one both connected and disconnected from the rest.

It is fluid and does not walk a straight path,

It is constant but also stealthy.

It is a force unimaginably strong,

That can make a person feel so weak.

Grief isn’t a thing,

But rather an abundance of feelings.

Ones that last a lifetime.

💟

Evelyn Elizabeth Zink

If you are here because you have been through this, then you already know about this type of dreaded post. My original one was made on February 25th, 2020. The day after.

The post in which you have to tell people that your entire world came crashing down. The one where you have to find some sort of delicate way to put it that your baby didn't make it. They passed away, they gained their wings, they fell asleep, they are no longer hurting. The truth is, my daughter died on February 24th, 2020. My daughter died. And while it is hard for me to even process this in my own mind, I still have to make sure that I find softer ways to say it for others. Just another part of grieving a child that isn't fair. If you have been through it, you know exactly what I am talking about.

What I really want to say to people is- Yes, my daughter died... but she also lived. She was here, she was her own person, she filled our hearts until they overflowed. She mattered so much, and she deserves to be remembered and spoken about. She deserves for her life to be acknowledged and celebrated. She died on that horrible morning of February 24th, but she also lived. A very tough but beautiful life. Here is her story...

My husband and I have been together for 10 years now, but only just got married in July of 2019. We've known for a very long time that we wanted to be parents and felt no reason to wait any longer. We found out we were pregnant with our baby in August 2019. I remember feeling somewhat guilty that we were able to get pregnant so quickly and easily. I remember thinking it must feel unfair to women who struggle to have babies to see someone like me getting it all so easily. I had no idea that I eventually would find myself on the other end of these feelings.

Fast forward to January 2020 when our entire world was turned upside down. I found myself sitting in a hospital bed at 25 weeks along listening to doctors telling me that I would need to stay there until my baby would be delivered. Due to early-onset preeclampsia, they told me that they would try to get me as far along as possible, but that we would need to take it day by day, week by week. After a few days, I began to settle into the fact that I was going to be there for potentially 3 months. I knew in my heart I would hit the milestones they were telling me- 28 weeks would be huge, 30 weeks would be amazing, 32 weeks would be incredible! 10 days after being admitted, I had an ultrasound that led to the doctors telling me that my sweet baby girl, at 26w6d, would need to come out that day, February 3rd.

I laid in that hospital bed for 8 hours, panicking about having a c-section, whether or not she would make it through delivery, and what would happen next if she did. On February 3rd, 2020 at 8:36 p.m., my absolutely perfect baby girl, Evelyn Elizabeth Zink, entered this world with a fiery spirit that she kept with her throughout her entire life. I immediately felt overwhelmingly protective of her and hated that she was being taken away from me. I wouldn't be able to see her for at least 24 hours due to a medication they had given me, and it was absolutely the longest day of my life up to that point.

The next three weeks, we spent nearly our entire lives in the NICU. It was the most exhausting, emotional, stressful, and yet loving experience imaginable. Evelyn proved herself to be an absolute fighter, earning her nickname "The Mighty Evie". That girl was fierce and stronger than any human I've ever met. She had a way of emanating love and warming the spirits of anybody lucky enough to be in her presence. She stole everyone who met her's hearts right away. She was incredibly sassy, somehow. I have no idea how such a little bundle, who couldn't make any noises, could be so damn expressive. The nurses and RTs knew exactly how she felt about everything they were doing- her side eye was strong! She had a way of drawing you in and making you feel like everything in the world was going to be okay.

The first time she opened her eyes and looked into mine, I knew I would never be the same. That is my daughter and I am her mother. In that moment, I felt absolute connection with her- my heart, my soul, my life, were entwined with hers. When she died, I knew a piece of me did, too.

She fought so hard and did everything she could. I am so proud of the strength she showed. It wasn't enough. My sweet girl was dealt an unfair hand, and her lungs were not developing enough. They didn't develop enough to fight the pneumonia that eventually took her from us on that horrible, dark, life defining night and early morning. 

She amazed me every second I was with her, from inside my belly to holding my finger to lying in my arms drawing her last breath. She amazed me with her strength, warmth, and beauty. She amazed me by how she lived her life. I can't stand the idea of such an amazing life being lost in the past. 

So, although my daughter died, I want to remind everyone that she also lived. She lived a beautiful and unique life. One that was cut entirely too soon, but one that was amazing, nonetheless. Please, let's normalize talking about grief. Let's normalize talking about losing a child. Let's normalize talking about our babies. People don't talk about grief, because people don't know how to talk about grief. Let's show them how, because I am not okay with letting Evelyn's life disappear due to fear of awkward conversations or uncomfortable responses. Evelyn's life is important. Every single one of their lives is important. 💟