Jenny Hintze

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

Laughing in hard times December 22, 2009

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I don’t know if I’ve ever told this story here. I don’t think so.


About four years ago Phillip and I were sitting in a doctor’s office waiting for him to confirm our worst fears about our pregnancy. We were sitting there numb, solemn, weary, out of tears. It was a very bad day. And as we were sitting there in that doctor’s office waiting, a lady came in. She was probably in her mid to late 40’s if I remember correctly. And it seems like she was wearing some kind of work out outfit with very tight fitting pants. I don’t have to tell you that sometimes the people who wear the tightest and most revealing clothing have the least amount of business wearing them. Anyway, she went up to the counter right in front of us and leaned over the counter and stuck her booty out and we saw more of her thong underwear and crack than we could have ever wanted. And it took everything in both of us not to laugh out loud right there in that silent doctor’s office waiting room. It was just so funny. And when things are pretty bad and you need to laugh sometimes it becomes the hysterical out of control tears rolling down kind of laughter. But I think we held it together.


As gross as it sounds, that lady’s butt was sort of a gift to us that day. I really believe that God sends us lots of moments like that when we need them. There were many things like that during those 2 years. And for the most part, Phillip and I embraced them all, figuratively speaking, of course. We didn’t actually embrace that lady’s butt. In times of great sorrow there are always things that we can find to make us laugh and smile.


I have a friend who is going through a time of great sorrow right now. And yesterday I saw and heard her laugh. I hope this time in their lives is sprinkled with lots of funny and joyful things. We all need that from time to time even if it is a gross booty put on display for all to see.

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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.