Click Links for:  Memorial Slideshow             Emily's Memorial Service

Arizona Republic Article          Savannah Morning News Article

Matthew 6:19-21 Poem        Jolly Old St. Nicu Santa Poem--in Emily's Memory--for Benjamin, Casey & Danielle

New Year's 2006 Poem for Emily                Where Did You Go? (Article printed in Summer 2006 issue of SuperTwins Magazine)

November 23, 2006--On Mourning Fitting in with Thanksgiving

New Year's 2007 Poem for Emily

Those who would like to make a contribution in Emily's memory are encouraged to do so by visiting www.projectseahorse.net and/or by sending a check (made out to "Project Seahorse") to:

Project Seahorse * 4328 Gum Tree Lane * Lexington, Kentucky * 40513

matthew 6:19-21

 we held in our arms a treasure

for a moment yesterday—

her beauty, beyond measure

or words we knew to say

try as we would her life to keep,

this jewel we cannot own;

we smile at her, and softly weep

and know she’s not alone

and though it hurts with all we feel

(this leaving—so abrupt),

we place her where no thief can steal

nor moth or rust corrupt

Jesus, heal our precious child

as we so wanted to—

and till the day we’re reconciled

we lay Emily up with you

Jolly Old St. Nicu

'Twas the night before Christmas, and in each isolette

Little creatures were squirming and getting all set;

Machinery sat by their bedsides with care,

In hopes that good breathing skills soon would be there.

Day shifters were home all snug in their beds,

As visions of overtime danced in their heads;

While preemies on ventilators, and some on CPAP,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap...

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter,

The residents woke up to see what was the matter.

Away from the sink I flew like a jet

To make sure all was well at my baby's isolette.

Some bilirubin lights with their powerful glow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to babies below,

When, there before my wondering eyes, it would seem,

Was an oversized stroller and a medical team.

With a handful of needles with which they could stick you,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nicu.

More rapid than eagles his specialists came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Nurses!  Now, Residents!  Now, Neonatologists!

On, Social Workers!  On, Respiratory and Occupational Therapists!

From the front of the unit!  To the end of the hall!

Now dash away!  Dash away!  Dash away all!"

Up to each baby's cribside they flew,

With the stroller full of toys, and St. Nicu too.

And then, in a twinkling, they stopped at each bed

And tucked in the babies and got them all fed.

As I looked at my baby, and was turning around,

Down our aisle St. Nicu came with a bound.

He was dressed in red scrubs, and I could instantly tell

That his clothes had an obvious hospital smell;

A bag of stuffed animals was flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

A little red pen he held tight in his teeth,

And a stethoscope encircled his neck like a wreath.

He was chubby and plump, with a few extra pounds,

And I laughed when I saw him there doing his rounds.

A turn of his clipboard and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke few words, but came straight to my side,

And running down his face was a tear he had cried.

And laying his hand on the back of my head,

He gave me a nod, and slowly he said:

"Each night you come here you're aware of the danger,

But your baby is loved by the One in the manger."

Then the medical team gave a thumbs-up and smiled

And St. Nicu placed an animal next to my child.

But I heard him exclaim, as they rolled out of sight,

"Merry Christmas, tiny baby, and have a wonderful night!"

--For Benjamin, Casey & Danielle, from Daddy, 12/24/05

in memory of Emily (11/4/05-11/23/05)

forward

we’re moving forward and it feels all wrong

‘cause we look around and you we just can’t find

(just an empty car seat and a box of memories)

yet we can’t stay in this spot for long

but it feels so much like we’re leaving you behind

and we think you’d laugh—and cry some too?—

and say that looking back means standing still

(oh but the photos of you still break our heart)

and so for our sakes and to honor you

we march forward, though some days we march uphill

and we’ll not forget your life so brief

and in many ways we’ll never be apart

(we just don’t get to help you learn to color)

though death has snatched you like a thief

we press forward with you right here in our heart

oh, little one, before you died

there were no flaws in you that we could see

(no temper tantrums in the grocery store)

you emerged with a never-developed corruptible side

and now drive us forward with your purity

and when we reach that final mile

and run forward finally into the unendable end

(where there are no car seats or photos or crayons or grocery carts)

we’ll embrace you and compare notes for a while

and finally grasp what we can’t now comprehend

that as we crept forward, at what seemed a crawl,

and wept at the thought that our precious one was dead

(in a tiny casket in a beautiful cemetery with big trees)

we never left you behind at all

but—quite the contrary—sent you running on ahead

--in memory of Emily Anne Roberts (November 4-23, 2005)

written by daddy in the final days of 2005 as he contemplated the hard thought of entering a new year without you

Thanksgiving Memorial Thoughts--November 23, 2006

Read to the Family at Emily's Graveside One Year after Her Passing

It is Thursday, November 23, 2006.

It is a day of Thanksgiving in the Roberts house, a day to celebrate the blessings of the Lord, the food and clothing and shelter that have been provided for us, and the family members that brighten our home and our hearts.

Yet it is a day of mourning and remembrance in the Roberts house, a day to grieve the loss of a precious little girl, our daughter and sister and granddaughter, whose life here on this earth came to an end one year ago today.

We are so so thankful.  And yet we are so sad.

It may be hard to know exactly how to feel.  And this is the nature of true thanksgiving.

The greater the loss and pain that we have experienced, the deeper our gratitude runs.

It is okay to be both sad and thankful on a day like today.

Emily is okay.  We need not worry.

But we will cry.

For our memories of little Emily are a reminder of the very greatest blessings that God has given us.

We cannot think of Emily without thinking of Jesus.  Jesus was with her when she was born, with her while she was so healthy during her first week, with her after that when she lay ill in the hospital.  Emily was Jesus’ idea, His creation, His child before she was ours.  And at that moment when Mommy and Daddy kissed her goodbye, she ran into the waiting arms of Jesus—healed, complete, fully restored.  She is with Jesus today…because He came here to live among us, experienced our pain, and gave His own life so that Emily could be made right with Him.  Our connection to Jesus is our connection to Emily.

We cannot think of Emily without thinking of Ashley, Benjamin, Casey and Danielle.  When Ashley runs, when Benjamin smiles, when Casey laughs, when Danielle stands…how could we not be profoundly grateful for these four beautiful blessings, and yet how could we not also long to see our fifth child right in the middle of all of them?  We will never say to one of our children, “I wish you could be more like Emily.”  On the contrary, as we love and laugh and grow with these four, we will often selfishly and foolishly find ourselves thinking, “I wish Emily could be more like you.”  Ashley, Benjamin, Casey and Danielle represent all that we said goodbye to one year ago today, and all that we miss and mourn about Emily.

We cannot think of Emily without thinking of family, friends, the church.  During the nineteen days of Emily’s life, and in the aftermath, we were showered with more prayers, e-mails, letters, cards, visits, flowers, gifts, expressions of sympathy, memorial contributions, and assorted acts of love…than we could count or respond to.  Where does this kind of love start, and where does it end?  In celebrating Emily’s life with us, and mourning her passing, our family, friends and church put on a fireworks display of the unfathomable love of God.

We cannot think of Emily without thinking of heaven.  She was sick one year ago today, she is well now.  She was dying one year ago today, she is fully alive now.  She lay restricted in the confines of a hospital one year ago today, she walks and runs and plays free and uninhibited today.  We don’t shed tears for Emily on a day like today, but only for ourselves.  And we grieve most of all for those who don’t understand that everything Emily enjoys today is available to them.  A place where there is no death, mourning, crying or pain is intended for those who are made right with Jesus—a price that has already been paid.  Heaven is not that far away.

Jesus…Ashley, Benjamin, Casey and Danielle…family, friends, the church…heaven

These are the things that our sadness draws our minds to.  And these are the very things for which we are most grateful.  There is an unmistakable link between our sadness and our gratitude.  This is no mere coincidence.

On this day, on Thursday, November 23, 2006, each of us in this house has permission to be sad and to be thankful at the same time.  It is a day of mourning.  But it is also a day of great, great Thanksgiving.  Through both we are truly, richly, immeasurably blessed.

Our God and Father, from Your own hand and through Your own generosity we were given the privilege of beholding and holding a precious creation of God, one of our treasures and Yours, now a completed citizen of heaven—she is our daughter, our sister, our granddaughter Emily Anne Roberts.  And for that privilege of knowing and loving her we are eternally thankful to You today, O Lord.  Amen.

Emily Anne Roberts Memorial Service--April 29, 2006 in Savannah, Georgia

(most files are audio only, but files with video & pictures will take a while to load)

01--Prelude--Keith Baxter

02--Opening Prayer--Mark Hall

03--Emily's Life--Daddy

04--Scriptures--Amanda Pommerenck

05--Emily's Slideshow

06--Emily's Potential--Grandpa David Roberts

07--Amazing Grace--Jennifer Nagy

08--Emily's Savior--Dave Allgire

09--Jesus Loves Me--Jennifer Nagy

10--Emily's Siblings--Mommy

11--Emily's Healer & Closing Blessing--Daddy

(click on pictures above to see large view of front and back sides of the Memorial Service bulletin)

Where Did You Go?

The Extremest Extremes of the HOM Experience

The Highest High

They are all three so beautiful.

Benjamin rolls over from his tummy to his back, and flashes a big smile when he catches Mommy’s eye.  Casey opens his mouth wide to laugh at Daddy making noises at him.  And Danielle’s bright eyes, when she sees her red ladybug, are reminiscent of big sister Ashley’s smile from a year and a half earlier.

They are the three most beautiful babies we could ever imagine, now five months old and home from the NICU.  Despite whatever sleep deprivation we’ve experienced, we know that we have three times the blessing of the typical parents of a five-month-old baby.

This is the highest high of the HOM experience.  And we wouldn’t trade it for all the world.  People who meet our children but who don’t know our story excitedly exclaim, “Wow!  You have triplets!!!  They’re so cute!”  We nod and thank them for their kind words.

Yet they aren’t triplets.

The Dreaded Column

In early September, we were eighteen weeks pregnant with bggb quads, and had been through every imaginable high and low of a quadruplet pregnancy, including a move into a rental house in July and a move into a brand new house at the beginning of September.  And as September 14 approached, we were scrambling to get packed up to go to Arizona to finish the pregnancy and the NICU experience with world-renowned specialists there.

Our first issue of SuperTwins magazine arrived.  We were thrilled to stop packing long enough to read it from cover to cover.

Thrilled, that is, until we came across the Lost Angels column and noted just how many babies had not survived the pregnancy or the birth or the NICU experience.  We were mildly shaken.

But we reminded ourselves that we were sacrificing everything and transplanting to Arizona so that we would do everything possible not to find ourselves in that category.  And that logic pretty much dispelled any worries that we might have had at that time.  And besides, we had to get back to packing.

Black Friday

Friday, October 28 was the beginning of what we believed to be our seventh uneventful Arizona week.  We were two weeks past the all-important 24-week mark, with one excellent fetal fibronectin test under our belts and the second to be taken that morning at a routine doctor’s appointment.  Contractions were ridiculously few for this stage of the pregnancy, and we saw no reason—even if they started to pick up—why we wouldn’t make it well into December, if not to our optimum 34-week date of December 26.

The doctor’s appointment that morning was fairly routine, with an excellent ultrasound showing four healthy-looking babies (with the identical twin girls still showing no signs of twin-to-twin transfusion), and everyone close to the same size.  We found out later that the fetal fibronectin test taken that morning would come back negative yet again, a virtual guarantee of another two weeks of gestation.

But blood pressure at the appointment tested high, and proteins in the urine were a second cause for some concern about potential pre-eclempsia.

We were sent to the hospital’s OB triage for the afternoon just to get things checked out.  We had no concept at that time that we would not be checking out until well after the babies were born.

The Longest Week

The afternoon of October 28^th turned into a one-night admit, which then turned into one day after another of bad news turning into worse news.  The diagnosis was pre-eclampsia, which had not been a factor at all with our previous 40-week pregnancy; this time around, it was definitely there, and lab results indicated that it was severe.  The doctors braced us that they as well as we were helpless against this complication, and that we would be fortunate to keep the babies inside for even another week.

The prospect of eight more weeks of gestation was suddenly gone from our radar, as the “ideal quadruplet pregnancy” quickly digressed into a nightmare of swelling, fluid in the lungs, oxygen masks, anxiety, liver and kidney issues, and devastation.

Would the babies and their mother be okay?  The doctors and nurses had a busy week walking a very fine line between protecting the mother’s deteriorating body, and keeping the babies in for as long as humanly possible.  Two near-deliveries within six days yielded a definite plan to deliver the babies on Friday, November 4, exactly one week after our “routine” doctor’s appointment, and on their father’s birthday.

We were scared, and yet optimistic.  The babies all looked wonderful on the ultrasounds.

Really wonderful.

And tiny. 

The Week of Almost-Insurmountable Challenges

They came out one after the other—Benjamin Ronald at 1 lb. 15 oz., Emily Anne at 1 lb. 7 oz., Casey Philip at 1 lb. 11 oz., and Danielle Patricia at 1 lb. 10 oz.  As tiny as they were, they were incredibly beautiful, and did incredibly well with a few cries and no delivery room trauma of any kind.

Their mother didn’t do so well.  Thirteen hours after delivery (delivery is often referred to as “the only cure for pre-eclampsia”), she was definitely not cured.  Everything that had been happening was still happening, and worse, and at 1 a.m. she appeared to have a stroke and to go into a coma.  Fortunately, she came out of this within half an hour, and was diagnosed a day later with peripartum cardiomyopathy, an apparently random post-pregnancy heart condition that takes the lives of 20-60% of those it strikes (and her case was on the more severe end).  Through the grace of God, the treatment she received in the adult ICU accomplished its goal, and she would bounce back completely.  But five days were spent in the ICU, mostly in a fog, before she was able to even see the babies for the first time.

During that foggy period, two days after the babies were born, a call from the NICU to the adult ICU alerted us that Danielle was suffering severe bleeding into her airways.  The hard choice was made to tell Lisa about this even in her cloudy condition, with the sobering message that Danielle might not survive long enough to see her Mommy.

But Danielle did survive.  Barely.  She suffered a bilateral grade 3-4 brain bleed, with severe damage to her lungs.  On day six, after she underwent PDA surgery, her heart surgeon felt compelled to warn us that the surgery went well and that her heart looked fine, but that Danielle’s lungs looked so sick that he wasn’t sure that she would survive for long.

By the end of the week, we were grateful to all be alive, and we felt convinced that if Danielle could somehow overcome this, we would all manage to make it out of this experience fairly intact.

But our phones were always on, and close by.

The Early Morning Calls

About ten days after their birth, when Danielle was stable and Lisa was home recovering, everything seemed to be right on track.  And then the phone rang around 4:00 a.m.  Emily appeared to be suffering from some kind of infection; antibiotics were being administered immediately.  They wanted us to know.

We had an interview and pictures with a Phoenix newspaper scheduled for that morning.  We were advised to postpone photos and to meet with the reporter in another part of the hospital.  The babies needed solitude.

We arrived there that morning to find all four kids cordoned off in one corner of the NICU.  Emily had a dangerous infection called MRSA, Benjamin’s skin was colonized with it, and the nurses who cared for our kids wanted to be sure that it didn’t leave our family and get spread to any other baby in the NICU.

The day was touch-and-go, but Emily seemed to rally.  The following morning, when I talked to the neonatologist who had first called me, she admitted that she was not certain that Emily would still be alive when she arrived for her shift that night.  We were shocked to find that things had been that serious—and relieved that she had bounced back.

Two mornings after the first early morning phone call, another one came.  This time Casey had an infection, and antibiotics were now being administered to him.  He had group B strep that turned into meningitis, leaving his future equally uncertain.

The following morning yet another phone call came, this time alerting us that Emily had taken a turn for the worse, and that she had meningitis, and that the MRSA was back in full force.  We hated even the thought of our phone’s ringtone.

As that week continued, Emily’s condition worsened, and the two of us found ourselves on the edge of tears at every moment.  Her kidneys were failing, her brain had been devastated by the meningitis, her little body swelled up, and the danger of heart failure began to close in.  We have a very strong faith in God, and we believe in and prayed for miracles with all of the babies, but it seemed increasingly clear to both of us that we were not ever going to take Emily home from the NICU.

On November 23, at 2:00 in the afternoon, Emily did go home.

In a quiet garden just outside the hospital, we held Emily in our arms and sang to her and read from the Bible to her and prayed with her and kissed her and told her just how much we love her.  And then we told her goodbye.

A funeral service at the hospital was attended by some family and many of her medical caregivers, and was followed by the transport of her body to Georgia, and by a small graveside service attended by friends and their children.

Meanwhile, we pressed forward in the NICU there in Arizona, longing to get everyone recovered and home and to visit the place where our little girl’s body was buried.

The Long Journey Home

Almost three months in Arizona passed after Emily passed, and then we were finally able to get Benjamin and Danielle discharged, and to get all of us on planes out of Arizona, one of which was a medical transport for Casey so that he could spend his last few hospitalized days in the NICU in Georgia.

Just two days after Casey’s full discharge, we loaded up the entire family in our newly acquired used conversion van, and we headed out together to the cemetery where Emily’s tiny body is buried.  There we placed three babies in three car seats next to her little grave, and big sister Ashley joined her little siblings as we told them through tears that their sister Emily was okay.  And then we prayed together.

A few days later, our third issue of the MOST Magazine arrived.  This time, in that Lost Angels column that we had so desperately tried to avoid, we found Emily’s name and story and a poem that we had written.

We had come full circle.

Where Did You Go?

At this very moment, Mommy and some wonderful volunteer are at home doing bottles and diapers and cleaning up “’pit-up” (Ashley’s term).

And I’m sitting in a camping chair with a laptop computer in a quiet cemetery.  Tears are streaming down my face, because I’m not just the Father of Super-Twins.  I’m Emily’s daddy.  And I miss her so much.

Every time I get here, I look at her little marker and the flowers around it, and I ask the question, as if she just might answer me:  “Where did you go, baby girl?”

(It’s not that I don’t know exactly where she went.  I picture her very vividly in the arms of Jesus, having a much better time than she would if she were here dealing with spit-up and tantrums and mean boys and acne and heartache of various kinds.)

I ask her rhetorically, “Where did you go?” only because I still just can’t believe that she’s not here with us.

And I would give almost anything to have her here, and to spare ourselves the grief and the decades-long journey home that we must take before we’re reunited with her again someday.

Why Not Us?

The “Why us?” question never really goes away, as hard as we try to avoid it.  And it’s one that has no good answer.

(The futility and subjectivity of the question are even more obvious when we look at the big picture:  After all, why did we get to have any kids at all?  Why did we get to have four that did survive?  Why aren’t we busy right now trying to go to China to adopt a baby from there?)

Maybe a better question is “Why not us?”

Why wouldn’t we experience the heartbreak of losing a child?  Why wouldn’t we get to fulfill every previous generation’s expectation that they would have to bury at least one of their children at some point?  And why wouldn’t we have something to give to the whole HOM and NICU communities that we wouldn’t possibly be able to give if we had not experienced the pain of losing Emily?

We are currently working on a memorial project in Emily’s name that’s called Project Seahorse (there was always a beanie baby seahorse by Emily’s side, and it’s in her casket with her body right now).  By the time this is published, you can find out all about it at www.projectseahorse.net .

Already her loss has positively impacted more people than we are able to count.  Beyond that, maybe Project Seahorse will be an ongoing help to hundreds of families.  (Or maybe it will just be a good idea that never really made it too far.)

No matter what, we would never want to dwell on our loss to the point of losing out on the life that the rest of us have been given.  But at the right points along the way, we will continually work and cry and rack our brains and reminisce with her photos and do whatever it takes to keep Emily…from fading out of our family’s memory.

This kind of grieving is the lowest of all the possible low points of the HOM experience. 

But somehow this low point is also our family’s greatest privilege.

As I get ready to pack up my computer and chair and drive back to join Mommy for the next round of diapers and bottles and ‘pit-up, I am eternally grateful—as much as it hurts—that for nineteen days we got to meet and and know and hold and love and celebrate the little girl who is Emily Anne Roberts.

She stands as a reminder of what we had already discovered on our journey as Christians:  that God loves us, that He Himself demonstrated that most vividly through the death of His Child, and that sometimes His greatest grace comes to us in ways that we wouldn’t have asked for, and certainly don’t understand, but wouldn’t trade in for the world.  In the end, all we really understand is that the day we get to see Jesus for the first time is also the day that we get to see Emily again.  And the painful parts will be redeemed on that day. 

For right now, her absence, and the place she has in our hearts, somehow make our highest points seem even higher, and make the future seem even brighter.  When Ashley says “Hi, Daddy” and when Benjamin and Casey and Danielle flash their chubby-cheeked baby smiles, I know that a part of Emily’s mystery and innocence and legacy is right there with each one of them.  And with us.

“Where did you go, baby girl?”

“Not so very far away at all, Mommy and Daddy.”

One Year Removed

Even if you’re dancing with King David

And even if you touch the Savior’s Face

And even if you walk right next to Abraham

In a world that’s marked by joy and peace and grace….

And even though our lives are filled with laughter

And even though we celebrate each day

And even though we can’t believe how good things are

In this life that’s oh so rich in every way…

And even if our longing makes no sense to you

And even if you know no death or pain

And even if you’re happy every moment

In a place where all life’s problems leave no stain…

And even though we’ve had some time to catch our breath

And even though death’s sting does start to leave

And even though the future seems so bright to us

In this dwelling where it seems so odd to grieve…

And even if you’re smiling down upon us now

And even if you wait with open arms

And even if the thought of time seems foolish

In that realm that’s free from all our cares and harms…

Oh, even though we speak of you with fondness

And even though we proudly say your name

And even though we send your kisses skyward

One heartfelt thought still lingers all the same…

we just miss holding you

--written by Daddy, 12/31/06, after one full calendar year of missing our little girl

  Please feel free to contact us at roberts99@insightbb.com