Jenny Hintze

"We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams." – Willy Wonka

I missed you. May 9, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — jhintze @ 9:28 pm
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I opened up your box today. I had to blow the dust off the lid before I opened it. I’m sorry about that but I know you understand. I think about you often. I guess I always will but it’s usually passing thoughts. Just little flickers of thoughts. I don’t usually hang onto thoughts of you. I feel sorry about that too but I know you understand. But today I didn’t let you brush through my memory. I sat with you for a few minutes and I cried a little. And I let myself feel the hole that is still in my heart and soul. I embraced that today just for a little while. And again now as I write this down.


I wanted so badly to be your mommy. And I know that I was…am…your mommy but it’s just not the same. Not really. But so much of who I am and what I do and why and how I love and what I’m afraid of is all because of you. I hope you know that. Just like your brothers, you’ve made me the mom I am today. And today, this Mother’s Day, I missed you. I missed you, Evan.


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A tough night November 5, 2009

Filed under: Uncategorized — jhintze @ 9:40 am
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Last night was tough. While I was at Target with the boys I got a call about a family at our local hospital who wanted pictures of their little one. Those aren’t happy calls. I never look forward to getting those calls. I went to the hospital about an hour later after the baby was born. Last night’s session was the first time that I have cried while with the family.


Being in that room surrounded by a family brought together and torn apart for the love of a baby was just a bit too familiar. Brokenhearted grandparents, hugs where people hang on, a big brother still too little to understand…just all too familiar. And it was tough. I couldn’t help feeling like an intruder on this family’s precious time together. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of just…Holiness. The presence of God was thick in the room and I’m sure everyone there must have felt it. I didn’t want to disrupt it or interrupt it with my presence and my camera but I knew that some of those moments had to be captured. Their sadness and love for this child is, in a way, his legacy and his impact on this world. And he deserves to have his impact seen. The world outside that little room carried on unaware. Unaware of his life and unaware of his death.


So I took the pictures that I wish I had of the moments with our son. And I hope that I was able to capture a glimpse of the presence of God in the room. And while last night was tough for me, I got to walk away. I got to pack up my stuff and go back home to my sleeping boys. But this family doesn’t get to walk away from this. They will carry yesterday with them for the rest of their lives. They will feel pain deeper than most people can imagine. And they might have moments where they feel completely abandoned by the One whose presence enveloped us all in that room last night.

 

A Bereaved Parent’s Wish List September 27, 2009

Filed under: Uncategorized — jhintze @ 1:55 pm
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I did not write this. This was on a blog that I read. I thought it was worth sharing. When we lost Evan and the other babies, there were many people who just didn’t know what to do or say or how to act. I understand. I didn’t know before that either. There were people who hurt me because they did or said the “wrong” thing. Or worse, they didn’t say or do anything at all. They didn’t mean to hurt me but it’s hard to get over that kind of thing. Phillip and I were transformed over that 2 years. We came out of that time different people than we were going into it. I hope that no one you love ever loses a child. But if they do, this might give you a little insight into how they feel and ways that you can be a good friend for them.


A Bereaved Parent’s Wish List


I wish my child hadn’t died. I wish I had him back.


I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that he was important to you as well.


If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it isn’t because you have hurt me. My child’s death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.


I wish you wouldn’t “kill” my child again by removing his pictures, artwork, or other remembrances from your home.


Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you wouldn’t shy away from me. I need you more than ever.


I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of the day.


I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child’s death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know things through a phone call, a card or a note, or a real big hug.


I wish you wouldn’t expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.


I am working very hard in my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that he is dead.


I wish you wouldn’t expect me “not to think about it” or to “be happy”. Neither will happen for a very long time so don’t frustrate yourself.


I don’t want to have a “pity party,” but I do wish you would let me grieve. I must hurt before I can heal.


I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I’m feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.


When I say, “I’m doing okay,” I wish you could understand that I don’t feel okay and that I struggle daily.


I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I’m having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So please excuse me when I’m quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.


Your advice to “take one day at a time” is excellent. I wish you could understand that I’m doing good to handle it all at an hour at a time.


I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with him. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.


I wish very much that you could understand – understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.

 

Evan’s journal August 5, 2009

Filed under: Uncategorized — jhintze @ 12:07 am
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I almost feel that I no longer have the right to talk about Evan and the other three babies we lost. I sometimes feel that I should be “over” that. Over him. Over them. That my life now is complete and shouldn’t require reminiscing about the past. That it’s a sign of weakness. Something this evening prompted me to get out some of my journals and flip through them. I have a friend who is in pain. And I guess I just wanted to connect to her pain somehow.


I started a journal when I found out I was pregnant with Evan. I started that journal on February 21, 2005 with the statement “Positive pregnancy test and scared to death! Here we go again.” I ended the journal on July 9, 2005 with a few details of Evan’s memorial service and the signatures of those who attended. I wrote 15 pages in that journal during those 5 months. 15 pages to document a life. And some of the pages aren’t even full; just a few sentences. Evan’s ultrasound picture is on the cover. This journal rests in his box with his ashes and his footprints and the measuring tape they used to measure him. And that’s all I have of him. And I’m not “over” it. I’m not “over” him. There is a hole in me that will never go away. I try to hide it but it’s still there.


from May 9, 2005
“I love the idea of two boys running around the house in their little underwear with spiderman or whatever. I’m praying we get to meet this little guy. I think once I finally get him in my arms I’m not going to want to ever let him go.”


But I did have to let him go. And the world moved on like it should have and I had no choice but to move on with it. Because that’s what people expect. That’s what makes people comfortable. Eventually the world forgets. But I can’t forget.