Guest Post: Ava

The holidays are a joyous time, but for many it can also be painful. Having personally suffered the loss of a parent, wonderful memories return but also the bittersweet reminder that it's all we have left. Today, my brave and strong friend Sheila writes about her beautiful angel daughter, Ava.

For any sadness in your life, any time of the year, take refuge in sharing your feelings with one another. Be it your spouse, a close friend or even a stranger with a similar experience. Talking about it can be immensely healing and personally I have processed my grief differently by talking about it. If you have a friend whom you know what suffered a loss at any time, gently talk to her about it and remind her that you remember. That may be the most comforting thing you do for her.
__________

Her name is Ava, simple and fleeting on the tongue.  In French, it means “bird,” a sentimental nod to our time in the Navy.  Swallows are symbolic for guiding each sailor’s voyage and bringing them home.  Before she was born, my husband & I constantly debated on this name.  We just couldn’t agree.  As first-time parents, we couldn’t agree on many things.  Once we laid eyes on her though, the debate died along with our child.  It was clear who she was.  Ava.  I wish I heard her beautiful name spoken more.

She was our first child and so badly, badly longed for.  After trying to conceive for a handful of years, she entered our lives that May just as quickly and unexpectedly as she left.  Even in those sweet, early days of my pregnancy, I felt I knew the little life I was carrying inside of me.  I was carrying a girl—a darling, feminine girl with dark wavy hair.  She’d love ribbons and bows, wear pink tutus, and dance ballet.  She was constantly in my thoughts, and on the way to work, I’d listen to lullabies or sing to her.  In the evenings, I’d read her, Guess How Much I Love You.  My evenings and weekends were filled with prenatal yoga and building our registry.  My bookcase was lined with the latest in parent books.  I was five months pregnant, hopeful for our future together and very much looking forward to being her mother. 

I was a week away from a routine ultrasound appointment and so excited to see her face for the first
time, anxious to point out whose features were whose.  And then, it happened.  For reasons unknown, I awoke one morning to blood-soaked sheets.  My amniotic sac had ruptured.  I rushed to the hospital
and was met in the ER; there was nothing they could do to save her life.  I was in early labor, and
because she was a few weeks too premature to live outside of my womb, she wouldn’t survive.  I was
giving birth to say goodbye. 

Laying on the hospital bed and between contractions, I would whisper to her, “I love you.  I am sorry.  I am so, so sorry.  Be strong.”  What lead to this?  I dissected my pregnancy over and over.  I prayed for the first time in years, asking God for whatever pain she was feeling, to let it pass quickly.  She was born on August 23, 2010 at 8:13 p.m., tiny, wiggly, and pink.  I recognized my chin, my eyebrows, and her daddy’s feet.  She lived for a very short time, struggling to breathe through her underdeveloped lungs before passing in our arms.  After having such dry weather the entire summer, it stormed that evening.  It felt like the sky was despairing with me. 

I don’t remember much about the months that followed.  I do know that I felt broken.  Lost. Responsible for her death.  Suicidal at times.  I was a mother with no baby to show for it.  My work gave me 6 weeks of paid maternity leave, and I slept much of the day while laying awake at night.  Dressing was too much work.  Eating was too much work.  Living was too much work.  Concerned, friends and family would call or stop by for small talk.  They didn’t want to upset me, so awkwardly they would avoid her name or any conversation of Ava.  I just wanted to die alongside my daughter.   

Then came the months of November and December, which brought another dimension of grief.  There were so many unintended reminders of how she was missing from our lives that holiday season, the time of year that I once most loved.  We’d never see the excitement for Christmas through her little eyes, and knowing this made my heart and arms ache even more.  We received cards in the mail and invites to parties, and although grateful to be thought of, I couldn’t gather the strength to feign joy or even respond.  Ava’s name wasn’t on them.  I knew everyone remembered her, but for how long?  My worst fear was that her name would be forgotten.  I’d wake in the morning, cry on the drive to work, glue myself together, cry on the drive home, and then go to bed.  I stayed in our bedroom most of Christmas Day. 

I managed that winter, and the four that came afterwards, the best I could.  Ava now has two healthy
siblings who know her name and sometimes ask about her.  A handful of family members also speak of her, acknowledging her birthday and on holidays, or sometimes just because.   My heart bursts with gratitude each time.  One of my worst fears continues to be that she’ll be forgotten, the only record of her short life being the marker that sits atop her grave—which is why I write this. 

Sweet Ava, your story is now memorialized in written word, just as it is engraved in your daddy’s heart and in mine.  You were here.  You are remembered.  You are missed.  Love you to the moon and back, baby girl.

The Pad Project: Update on Operation Christmas Child

A few weeks ago I shared about The Pad Project; a service project that a friend and I dreamed up to sew cloth menstrual pads to send to girls in developing countries.

Our first goal was to send pads over via Operation Christmas Child, a project funded by The Samaritan Purse. My MOPS group has participated in Operation Christmas Child for two years. This year we have 12 tables of about 10 women each and individual tables chose a boy or girl in a certain age group to prepare a box for. The shoe boxes are filled gifts and items for children are sent all around the world. Kelsey and I saw this as a perfect first vehicle in getting our pads over to parts of the world where girls would need them. The Samaritan Purse allows menstrual products for the 10-14 age group for girls so we asked each table to let us know if they are selecting a girl in that age group. We initially anticipated 8 boxes for girls in that age group, so our hope was to give a minimum of 4 pads per box, with the great hope of giving them up to 8.

Through the awesome donations of material, snaps, PUL, time and prayers we had 88 pads, 40 boosters (thinner wingless pads that can be placed on top of the pad for additional absorbancy), a small PUL clutch that holds 3 used pads at a time, a few bars of soap AND 3-4 pairs of underwear per box ready this morning!

Another great surprise and blessing was...8 additional boxes were ready to get more pads! There were enough extra donated items (such as pencils, sewing kits, coloring books, hair brushes) that filled 8 additional boxes for the girls 10-14 age group. So The Pad Project has an additional goal of making 40-50 more pads to fill those new boxes before the shipping deadline on November 16th.

The Pad Project: Sewing Cloth Pads for Girls in Developing Countries

About 3 weeks ago I pitched a crazy dream to a friend. "Let's sew cloth pads for girls in developing countries." Without missing a beat, she excitedly jumped on board and we started a project that has awed me in the power of God's work.

As a young girl starting your period is the rite of passage. In the US we don't really make a big deal out of it, it's typically discussed between a mother and daughter and later maybe her friends. There is no outside marker to show this physical change, though this girl may feel a time of pride or even confusion. But her life goes on as normal - she will continue to go to school, try to work through the discomfort at sports practice and learn how to live with this on a monthly basis.

 

In other parts of the world this same rite of passage can be mean the end of your educational career. She is unable to have it discreetly because of a lack of sanitary products. She may become very ill because her lack of options in materials that she can use or how she's able to wash them. Her culture may require her to be physically secluded because of the fear of evil spirits. Even in developed nations she may not be allowed in the kitchen or to touch her father. The typical response is exclusion. 

 

I can't imagine being in a world where a completely natural and NECESSARY biological function to mankind removes me from what I want or need to do. 

 

This idea has been bouncing around in my head for several months. I know that I live in a highly privileged world where I worry for very little, especially my period. I have been consciously searching for ways where I can use this privilege to make a change. It was recently reignited when I read the stories about Flo, a handheld washing, drying and carrying device for cloth pads and Kiran Ghandi who ran a marathon while "free bleeding." My journey began by applying the desire for a world where everyone is equally valued to something very small and simple- giving some girls pads so that they can continue on their lives without being hindered by unreasonable fears. It doesn't matter to me whether I change four girls lives or 40. Each one deserves this very basic dignity.

I can't wait to dive further into this topic of education, health and sanitation and sociological response to menstruation. It makes sense - I have a degree in Sociology. This is the stuff I would have spent hours devouring while in college and especially now, as the mother of two daughters, I see clearly why this is an important topic for me to discover and share with anyone who will listen.

 

Why cloth pads, you might ask. Disposables are surely easy for us to come by and donate. In our culture using cloth versus disposables is usually a matter of choice. Think about it this way - how much does a pad cost in The United States? Pennies. Disposable items are very cheap for us. In other countries it's the exact opposite. It is a luxury to throw something away after using it once. A luxury that most of the world does not have.  Providing a girl with a set of disposable pads will help her for a matter of hours. Cloth pads, on the other hand, have a lifespan of years.

My friend, Kelsey, and I brought this concept to several like-minded women and our idea has spread like wildfire. A large part of our project goals was to use as much material available to us that is simply laying around the house. Items like fabric remnants from previous projects, worn out bed sheets and receiving blankets that were waiting for a someday baby. Quickly several women came forward with yards and yards of their fabric stashes, purchased KAM snaps and several have donated their time to help us put these together. Many recognize the need and importance of this project and they are eager to step forward to help make this happen. I can't believe how blessed we have been.

A common question is "where will they go?" We are currently working to complete our first goal in providing a set of 8 pads per girl in our MOPS group participation in Operation Christmas Child, which is 64 pads total. With the help of others, we are also striving to include a bar of soap, a set of underwear and a wet bag per stash too. Operation Christmas Child will be our primary vehicle in sending this first shipment but we want to continue beyond that. We have several contacts in various organizations and missions, and we are working on narrowing down where we feel they would best go.

In this picture you'll see our little "booster" pads included too. We made these thinner boosters to lay on top of the pad to add for extra absorbency on heavier days.

And that's kind of what has been on my heart and mind for the last month! xoxo