This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.
Wow. It’s been a whole lifetime since we last met here.
Words are hard to come by, but also not. Maybe they’re hard to come by because there are so many – does that even make sense? I don’t trust my grief brain these days.
Right now, my writing life has one Big Question: how do I tell Afton’s story? how do I document every critical moment, every raw emotion? how do I do his short, precious life justice? It’s so long and wide and deep – the thought of writing it all out feels motivating and important and completely overwhelming.
I have a vision that someday I will get his birth and his life all written out in one chronological piece. Someday.
But for today, for the next ten days, actually, I’d love to invite you into some of the small stories. They tell about the beautiful smaller moments, and I think, even though incomplete in their scope, they are where a lot of the magic lives. They are the stories within The Story.
Recipes will come back – I can feel it in my bones. Somewhere deep down, I want them to come back. But I am forever changed, and this telling of Afton’s story is one of the ways that the blog is reflecting my newness. With that, I’m excited to introduce you to a ten-part series that I will be publishing over the next 2-ish weeks – I’m calling it Afton’s Story.
Thank you for being here. Honestly, THANK YOU. You are lighting our way.
Here’s Afton’s Story, Part One.
Our 6 days in the hospital held a lifetime of trauma. The shift from “things are getting better” to “we need to move to an emergency c-section.” The decision to resuscitate. The hopeful sound of two meowing cries as he was born – the only sounds I’ll ever hear him make. The joy for having an otherwise healthy baby, and the desperation for him being born at 23 weeks.
The 2am call that our baby was struggling. The dark walk to the NICU, me in a wheelchair, wrapped in hospital bedsheets and shaking uncontrollably, and a terrified Bjork pushing me through deserted hospital hallways. The panic as we rounded the corner and saw room 44 overflowing with doctors and nurses and medical equipment. The sharp, stabbing realization that things were not going to be okay. That this was both the beginning and the end.
In all the darkness, there is one moment of clarity that feels bright and divine, and I am clinging to the memory of it like a lifeline: the moment they laid my beautiful, perfectly formed, 1lb 3oz sweet Afton on my chest.
His skin on my skin. My baby, warm and tiny. I felt his heart beating right over my own heart, I touched his delicate new skin, but even beyond the physical realm, I felt something lock – solidly lock – into place inside me, in my heart. It was beyond description. The physical and emotional feelings were SO BIG and so real. In that split second, with the two of us touching heartbeats for the very first time, my world clicked into place. It was my heart fully realizing, 12 hours after the c-section: yes, there you are. My baby.
I stopped shaking. I became calm. I felt a literal rush of love. I was able to whisper to him without crying. All this, even in knowing that we would be saying goodbye to our baby in our very next breath. It was the most profoundly beautiful and hard moment of my life.
It has been 25 days since that moment, and things have quieted down, which is both welcome and scary. I cuddle Sage, I laugh at a text message, and then in the next minute I feel so sure that a part of me has died and I wonder if it might never come back. It gets literally hard to breathe.
There are no easy answers, no cliche comforting phrases, no silver linings that could make this all okay.
But I am holding so fast to the hope that someday I will have him in my arms again, feeling his heart beating against my chest, in perfect peace and wholeness.
It’s one of the most powerful and unexpected things Afton could have ever given me: freedom from fear of death.
Rulet oynamak isteyenler için burası harika bir yer. Rulet masasına oturduğunuzda şanslı rakamlarınızı seçin ve para yatırın.
Lindsay,
I remember reading your posts about your journey with Afton and sympathizing, feeling pain for your situation but it wasn’t until it happened to me that I truly understand. My husband and I lost our little girl, Etta Edith, last month after a short time here with us on earth. She was born too early, just like Afton, at just shy of 23 weeks gestation. Your words resonate with me. Thank you for sharing your life with us. It gives me a small glimmer of hope that our life will evolve and change, and not for the worse but for the better.
Much love from another loss mom,
Lyndi
Lindsay and Bjork, I am so sorry for your loss of baby Afton. Thanks for sharing your story. I was never brave enough to share mine. We lost our second baby girl -Catríona Mary at 26 weeks in 2015. The pain was and is more intense that I could ever have imagined. It’s true that time is a healer but also true that life is never quite the same again. I hope you are doing well and that you find some peace. I love your website! 🙂
Lindsay, I’m so sorry that this had to all happen to you this way but obviously you know that Jesus is all over it and He is so clearly bringing beauty from ashes. I’m praying for you and Bjork. Thank you for testifying to God’s goodness in the middle of the darkest of valleys.
I can’t imagine how parents can ever cope with such a loss and yet somehow, I know it happens. You and your family are in my prayers. Losing a child and all those “memories of the future” is something no one should have to experience. If no one else has done so, I’d like to recommend “Anchored: finding hope in the unexpected” by Kayla Aimee. It’s a beautiful book
As I’m reading Afton’s Story, tears are streaming down my face. What a beautiful story and at the same time it is heart breaking. My heart goes out to you and your husband Bjork! Hugs and prayers to you both and to your extended family!
Thank you so much for writing about Afton and sharing it with us. I have been checking back here periodically, hoping for an update on how you are doing. I know this series will be hard to read but I am so glad to read it. Thinking of you.
I can’t stop crying. Your story is so honest, sweet, and full of encouragement despite your pain. Your faith is so real and a true testimony. Thank you so much for sharing with us. I am praying for your sweet family.
I first saw your website today,2/12 so I have followed Afton’s story in reverse. I am an old woman who never had any children. I just wanted you to know how sorry I am for your loss. Your writing is eloquent and a true testament to your love.
I have been a fan of your blog for many years and I read the news about Afton with such sadness. Sending you and Bjork so much love.
Beautifully said. Sharing your loss is so helpful to all of us who have lost babies.
I saw your name come up on our mutual friend Melissa Coleman’s Facebook page, she designed my food blog a few years ago. The last line in this post brought tears to my eyes. For your loss, and for the lesson that we share in life and death. I appreciate your candid approach to documenting your experience, it’s hard, and it’s raw, and it takes the urging of Brené Brown to get you over the hump. I’ve been there when I made the decision to shift the content of my food blog to a blog about illness and dying after I was diagnosed with stage IV cancer. Being that close to death does give you a sense of comfort – you’re forced to think about death in ways that most people don’t. In greeting death and meeting others who have had to greet it too, the topic becomes less scary somehow. It may sound crazy to compare, but my dog Jackson passed away from cancer only weeks after I started to heal, and it gives me comfort to think that in death I’ll possibly be reunited with the animal who I now see as my guardian angel. And unwilling as we are to join the group of people who’ve been touched by death, there is a mighty silver lining in that life itself will be forever treasured with a newfound sense of gratitude and respect. I wish you all the best in your recovery. Much love, Jessica
So Sorry for your loss , you guys would have been great parents.
Keep your Chin’s up.
Thinking of you guys
Me again, reading backwards from where I first commented. Getting caught up. Thanks for this. I know I said I wasn’t going to try to find words of comfort, but oddly enough, I’ve been studying the resurrection the last month or so. Jesus came back! It was something talked about, believed by some, a big no way by others, but never seen. And then it happened. His sweet disciples didn’t quite know what to do. But He did! He overcame death so that we can too! The majesty of it all is overwhelming. I’m not sure it’s the comforting words you need, but I hope this April (how timely), you find some hope in knowing that through Jesus Christ, your sweet Afton will overcome death too!
Opps! Autocorrect strikes again. That sentence in the previous post was to have read what a PRECIOUS gift, not previous, although there might be some meaning in that mistake.
I am reading this backwards, starting from the nurse’s letter. To lose your fear of death? and to lose it so young? What a previous gift. Always remember that there is purpose and meaning in every life, no matter how brief or humble. Your son, Afton, must have a truly beautiful soul
Lindsay and Bjork, I’m so so sorry for your loss. <3
First of all, again I extend my deepest sympathy. I know about grief. I’ve buried a fiance, an ex who was a great friend, my dad and my husband. Every man I’ve ever loved.
You will never not mourn your son. He was a part of you and that part is no longer here. You have every right to mourn that forever. But it does get easier. I always said, after my husband died, that you don’t get over your grief. It becomes a part of you. But it doesn’t stay horrendous, like at first. You get used to it. You eventually don’t even think about it, or feel it. But then, you look at a picture or have a little memory and the tears flow. Even six years after losing my husband, my eyes fill with tears if someone mentions his name. You will never “get over it”, but rest assured, it does, thankfully, get easier. You are not alone. We are praying for you both.
I lost my daughter 30 yrs ago on feb. 20. I feel your pain and loss. I keep Kaitlyn’s memory alive by talking about her. I still hurt. You will heal. It takes a very long time. Thank you for sharing.
Oh Lindsay. Thank you for sharing your heart.. I know there are no words that soothe right now, but you must know what a beautiful and graceful Momma you are! Sharing tears with you while reading Afton’s story and praying for fortitude, mercy and tangible comfort! Not sure if you’re an Ann Voskamp fan, but I find her Facebook page overflowing with encouragement when I’m feeling the most broken. Much love & Prayers, Shannon.
Lindsay, I am so sorry for the loss and trauma you and your family have gone through with losing your previous Afton. My daughter was 17 days old when she passed from a rare genetic disease. The pain is unbearable at first but does soften with time. It hurt so bad many days I thought I would die . I am amazed how so early on you are remarking on the gifts of grief. There are few and we grab what we can. Free from fear of death. Compassion – real empathy . Caring less of trivial things. It took me over a year to see any of this. I wish you peace Mama.
My thoughts are with you and Björk ….
Prayers for you and your family, Lindsay. Your Afton is in loving hands while you wait to see him again.
Oh Lindsay, is it funny to say that you love a stranger? In this moment, my heart flows with love for you and my tears pour down my cheeks. I know words aren’t enough, but I want to tell you that you are a precious Mama and I am grateful to hear about the moments with your baby boy. You are in my prayers.
My heart goes out to you. Thank you for this beautifully told story.