Here Comes the Sun

I have been preparing my heart to accept the idea that we may never have living biological children. To be clear, there is no actual reason to believe that we won't; I am 30 and healthy and all of the tests that the doctor was willing to do before the one-year-of-trying mark came back normal. For me to be sane and enjoy life, I need to be able to accept the possibility that I may never conceive again. It is pretty hard for me to believe in happy endings when our daughter has been in the ground for 18 months and our second chance baby, our Grace, was gone before we got to know him or her. This is our seventh cycle trying to conceive and we weren't exactly careful for the three cycles before that. Why would we easily conceive twice, then struggle, unless something was off?

Lately, I have a love-hate relationship with the baby loss community. On the one hand, I think it is important to have connections to people who know how you are feeling, but on the other, it seems that most of those communities have only half the story in common with me now. As much as I celebrate each new "rainbow" pregnancy or healthy newborn "rainbow," I am not anywhere near knowing what it feels like to find comfort in the warmth of a new life. I used to feel so encouraged and hopeful when I read those stories, but now I feel bitterness and loneliness as I think again and again, "why not us?" I try not to be resentful when the well-meaning rainbow mommies reassure me that my time will come. Though no one likes to talk about it, for many parents the rainbow baby never does come. I have met some absolutely wonderful friends and acquaintances online over the past 18 months, but I find myself withdrawing from that world to try and protect my heart.

I accidentally came across a wonderful blog today called Losing Lucy and Finding Hope (click the text to visit). The author, Bethany, and her husband have been through stillbirth, two miscarriages, and adoption loss and just welcomed their "rainbow baby" in July at long last. I wept as I read post after post; her story and all of the scripture verses she shared along the way touched something in me that I have been trying to squelch. Hope. Though I am a long way from being able to believe in a happy ending for us, it helped to read her stories because I realized that she must have felt how I am feeling at so many points along their journey.

What is hope, anyway? These days, I'm trying not to be so specific with my hope. My heart believes that, one day, we will have a chance to parent children, however it is God chooses to bring them to us. When Haven died, I thought that my redemption as a mother, a wife, and a woman would only come through successfully bringing home another baby, but I don't know now if that is where our lives are headed. I surely do hope so, but I am trying to keep my heart open for the other possibilities that God may have in mind for us.

Soon after Haven died last February, we treated ourselves to iPhones. I immediately downloaded the Beatles song "Here Comes the Sun" as my ringtone, because it spoke to me of hope after such a heartbreaking winter. I feel now that we are coming out of a figurative winter and into the sun. I'm looking forward to what this "summer" will bring.

"Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun, and I say 'it's all right.'"

You know, I really think it will be all right.

Sunshine

Since I heard the words, "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" I have been a different person. I stared at the ultrasound screen that showed my completely still daughter and the Brandi I was ceased to exist. In the weeks and months that followed Haven's death, I was afraid to leave the house and have to face a world where I was an outsider, where I would have to answer questions. The whole summer came and went and I barely left my house or office at work. I was constantly afraid that someone would interpret a smile or laugh as a sign I no longer mourned my child; I was afraid to be happy. I was afraid my baby girl would be forgotten, that I would be forgotten. I honestly could not imagine that my life could ever improve or that I would ever be able to be more than the woman whose baby died.

Before I continue, let's establish one thing: I'll never be the same again. Burying your child will shake you to the core, shake your whole world, and you'll struggle to pick up the pieces. I was a pretty carefree person before those words tore my life apart, but now I carry a heavy weight in my heart. These are scars that will never completely fade. I'm twice a mom with twice-empty arms. No amount of time or yoga or even future children will change this. My self esteem will probably never fully recover, or my faith in people, or in my old perception of order in the world. My heart will always walk with a limp.

BUT.

I've been working hard to free myself from the anxieties that weighed me down and I am starting to see that there is life after your child dies. There's life! And joy. And fun. Things aren't all sad days and gray skies forever (though I will viciously defend my right to a sad day when I need one!) Yes, life can grow bright again. You can make friends, grow relationships, and find new sparks with your love. I can't say I'm always content, but I can tell you I'm finding myself again.

I'm grateful. So very grateful. I can see the sunshine again.

Whiplash

I always struggle to put into words how it feels when your child dies. It is life-sized whiplash. One day you are at the top, moving forward, your life is planned out, you know what is coming. You're suspended for a moment, but you don't even know it until it's over. Suddenly you snap back, you find yourself at the bottom, lower than you ever dreamed the bottom could be, and you stare and strain upward, trying to glimpse what you thought was your reality. Surely this isn't real? The denial takes months to lift, and even a year later, your mind has moments of stubbornness and refuses to believe.

Eventually you climb your way up, up, up, but you never reach the top. You can't. The top was for Before You and you will never be that person again. 

As I end cycle 4, feeling that it has also been unsuccessful, I am a little melancholy thinking of Before Me with her baby alive and kicking, her nursery set up, baby clothes hang-drying on the rack, the bassinet sitting smugly next to the bed. What I wouldn't give for an hour in her shoes, not a real care in the world.

Month Four and the Kicks

I think one of the cruelest physical symptoms left over from my first pregnancy is phantom kicks and flutters. I have mentioned this sensation before, but this just really, really gets to me. I've had them almost every day for the past week and every time I catch my breath for a second and think, "what if I am actually pregnant?" even if I know for sure that I am not at the moment. My mind goes wild for a few minutes... "maybe I am one of those rare cases where I continue to bleed every month but am actually pregnant, and maybe I'm also one of those rare women who doesn't get a positive pregnancy test for one of her pregnancies." Geesh.

It's just a cruel symptom. I don't know what causes them; I know it's not trapped gas, because that feels different. I wish they would end or, better yet, that there would be a real baby in there sometime soon who would give me real flutters and the reassurance that they are growing.

I keep a mini daily journal - just a few lines to describe my day, or to include a quote or thought. I recently looked back on last fall when I got that second positive and we thought for a few weeks we might have a second chance. I was surprised at how hopeful my entries were, and how excited. I don't feel I can muster much of those feelings anymore after 15 and a half months of grief and disappointment, then hope, then more grief and disappointment.

The last little hopeful part of me thinks, "you got pregnant in month four of trying last time...maybe that will hold true again this time around." Who knows? It would be kind of cool, because I would be due just weeks from when I was due with Haven if I were to conceive this cycle or next. The idea of it being so close totally freaked me out when we were trying last year, but now I think it would be kind of comforting.

And on with the day. Stupid kicks.

Recognition

"Boy, your body is just not the same after having babies, is it? Your abs just don't go back the same."

We were walking out to our cars after our Pilates class, where we'd both laughed as we failed at trying to do a full sit-up. I don't know her name, but she is quiet and nice.

I mumbled some kind of agreement and thought, what if she asks? What will I say? Does she know? I never know what to say.

I said, "yeah, it is just not the same." Dang, she is gonna ask...

"So you have a very young baby, do you?"

Pause. Panic. "Uhhhhh, I did, but she died. Oh goodness, that sounded terrible, I'm sorry... yes, I had a baby daughter, but she died."

She kindly said, "I am so sorry, I didn't realize."

"No, of course, it's not your fault. It just comes out so awkwardly sometimes."

We said our goodbyes and got into our cars.


On the way home, I thought, how did she know I was a mom? Then it dawned on me that I have a mommy body now. She could see my baby pooch and the same weaknesses presenting themselves in my body as in hers. It made me proud and sad at the same time to be recognized this way. I'm part of the club, but not really part of the club. My body was a baby home, but my arms stayed empty.

I drove home to my quiet house and now I am sitting here intensely missing my little love, wondering what she would be like now. My 15 month munchkin, drooling and giggling and causing beautiful chaos for her mom and dad. I know she would have been a character - she already was, even in my belly. When a child dies, they leave such a void. A lifetime of I wonders and memories you don't get to build. I have been thinking a lot about our second baby lately too. We would be in the final stretch now, just about ready to bring home Haven's little brother or sister.

I really took it hard when my period came this month, especially with Mother's Day right after. I can't help but wonder when? or...if? My arms just ache to hold, my body to give, my lips to kiss. I yearn to see my husband fulfilled as a dad, finally able to give way to all of that love inside him.

I wonder where we will be this time next year? Will we have a house that is alive again, or will I still be listening to the refrigerator hum? Will we be facing a life without biological children or will my womb finally be blessed again?

Grief is a winding road with no destination...

How to Let Go?

As I sit here facing the disappointment of yet another cycle where we didn't conceive, the seventh such cycle in a year, I can't help but think how hard it is to let go. I know that I need to let the hope die and just live my life, because the heartache every month is too much to bear. It is always a reminder of how much we have lost.

I often drive past an abortion clinic on my way to work and think, "what I would give to have those babies." On that same stretch of road is a pharmacy which I remember walking to when we were first married where I bought a pregnancy test; I was worried that I might be pregnant. How I wish now that I could shake myself and tell that version of me how wonderful it would be and to not be afraid. I can't believe this is my life sometimes...

How do I let go of the dream of a family and live my life? I wish I knew. For more than a year now, my daily focus has been on bringing another baby into the world, hopefully one that is screaming his or her lungs off. Even though a part of me feels that I will never have more babies, my mind can't wrap itself around that possibility. I watch the pregnancy announcements roll on with a numb feeling and wonder, "will it ever be me?" 

How the heck do I let go?

Swallow it Down

Some days it is very clear that I have a choice whether to be bitter or to embrace life. Some days I just want to give in, but...I usually just swallow it down and try to look forward. Other people's decisions and circumstances can't determine my own.

Yup, it is a choice, but it can be a very hard one to make.

Mother's Day and Empty Rooms

I can feel Mother's Day lurking around the corner. Last year, I felt something like panic in anticipation of it...facebook was thick with sappy memes and posts (which are, without meaning to be, very exclusive), stores were oozing with merchandise, the radio and TV blared its soon-coming arrival, and everyone soaked it up. My broken heart was filled with bitterness and anger instead.

I avoided church last Mother's Day, knowing they would have all the mothers stand to be presented with flowers. It never occurred to me until Haven died how many women that tradition hurts - the infertile, the single women who want to be mothers, those whose family is broken for some reason, those who have come so close, like me, only to have their babes snatched away...and the list goes on and on. I won't be taking part this year either. Honestly, I don't think I would even if I was holding a new baby in my arms or my belly right now.

I don't feel the same level of panic this year as last, but there is an ache in my heart all the same. 

An order from Old Navy was the first time I bought anything for Haven. I was only a few months pregnant but found these cute onesies that said "I love my mommy" and "I love my daddy" for Mother's Day and Father's Day. I hope one day I can fill them with a new life. Right now, they are squashed together with all the rest of Haven's unused things in a big tub in the nursery closet. The nursery is still a reminder of what is not. I may finally work up the courage to dismantle it in the coming weeks. It stands as a symbol of expectancy and it crushes me every time I look inside.

Always, With the News

Today, some good friends told us that they are expecting their first baby. It is the second friend's pregnancy we've learned of in a week. The third announcement in two weeks. I expect there will be many more in the coming months as many friends' babies who are Haven's age hit their first year. I'm not sure how many more facebook profiles and posts I can "unfollow" on facebook - I already shield myself from a lot of other people's joy.

I always feel both elated for our friends upon hearing this kind of news, yet completely distraught and empty at the same time.  Every pregnancy announcement is a little like a punch to the stomach. It's hard to not be jealous of the innocence of pregnancy that they are experiencing...which I will never take part in again. I always think (with a little bitterness, I will admit), "when will it be our turn? We've waited long enough."

I wish our friends all the happiness they deserve. I just hope it is our turn to be happy someday too.

Bumpy Road Behind, Bumpy Road Ahead

I've been thinking a lot lately about the last few years and how life has changed since Haven. When she died, I felt that I had died too; there was a Before Haven Me and an After Haven Me. In a lots of ways, I would say that is still accurate, but the more time that passes, the greater my acceptance of what happened.

I do not want Haven's death to define me; I have seen where that leads. There are moms in the online forums I used to frequent who live in the depths of grief every day, years out, and I don't want to end up that way. Yes, Haven is irreplaceable and I will always mourn her death and feel her gaping absence, but I believe life can be good again with or without the children we long for. We are still a family no matter what happens.

I feel in some ways as though the trauma we have been through has set me free. I lived in so much anxiety in the aftermath that I felt paralyzed, but now I can see that it can be a gift to embrace the fragility of life. We only get one crack at today and I want to make the most of it. If it means a change or a risk, so be it.

A friend of mine was talking about her own anxiety and how her husband stopped her one day and said (about her particular fear), "well, what if it does happen? Then we will just deal with it." Hearing that made me stop and think... I have already had the worst happen; I have held the body of my child and I am still getting out of bed every day. Whatever may come, I will deal with it. I made a promise to myself that I will really live, so...here we go.

Pitter Patter

I was writing in my journal yesterday and found myself writing, "Who am I now? What will my life be? I can't see into the future anymore."

If you had asked me before I became pregnant with Haven what I would like my life to look like, I would have had no trouble laying out a 5, 10, 20 year plan for you. But now that she was here and is gone, I can't see ahead anymore. Sure, I want children, I want to pursue my dream of working with endangered languages abroad or find another way to help people full-time, I want to grow old with Danny...but I can't picture any of it anymore. After so much disappointment and grief, none of my dreams feel possible. I feel stuck and unhappy in the life we find ourselves in. I guess it is just empty now. There is a line from an Iron and Wine song that sums it up: "we both learned to cradle then live without."

Anyway. It is an early, melancholy morning at the end of a terrible week and it is raining cats and dogs outside. I am sure I will feel motivated and okay again later, but for now I am listening to the patter against the window panes and longing for the sounds of new life instead.

Missing

There is always a piece missing from our lives; the little dark-haired girl who would be finding her legs and warbling out her first words. Well, two pieces; the little one we never got to know. There aren't words for how hard it is to be a childless parent. Because no one can see you are a parent, it is easily forgotten that you are constantly navigating a present that is drastically different from what it should have been.

I should have my hands full with Haven, big and pregnant with our second baby. We had talked about getting pregnant again right away so our kids would be close in age and so I could be home with them for as much of their early lives as possible. Yet here I am, nearly two years from when I first became pregnant, three negative pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage, laying on the couch listening to the silence. One baby in the ground and one...I don't know where. 

I have been trusting God and choosing to believe that my time will come, but when months pass without another pregnancy, I feel like I am losing them again and again. When my period comes, it always feels so final. A friend of mine was talking about how stressful it can be to try and conceive and I felt like saying, "just imagine if both of your experiences with pregnancy ended in death." It's so hard to believe I will ever know the joy of parenthood.

As selfish as it is, I get anxious and angry when I think about the fact that some of my friends with babies Haven's age are probably already pregnant again and will have a second child before I bring home one living baby. I selfishly feel that it is my turn now. Anytime. 

I miss my babies so much tonight. I miss the life I should have had. 

Not Forgotten

Around two years ago, I was sitting in church and a lady whose name I didn't know at the time came up to me and said that, if I didn't mind, she would like to share something with me that she felt God was telling her regarding me and Danny. Inwardly, I was a little turned off and skeptical - I had attended a few extremely charismatic churches when I was younger and found myself a little leery of that kind of thing.

"Sure," I said, not wanting to offend her.

What she said has stayed with me. She said, "I feel that God is asking me to tell you that you have not been forgotten. You and Danny have not been forgotten."

At the time, it had significance for me - I was newly pregnant with Haven, which had been a welcome but scary surprise, and we had a lot of worry surrounding our finances. We had dreams which were hanging so far off in the distance that we never knew if we'd ever reach them. It was definitely applicable to us, as we had often felt forgotten. I was touched; I wept and thanked her for sharing with me.

Just a few months later, I was laying on a hospital bed having just heard that Haven had died. My heart was shattered. Suddenly, those words came to my mind and filled me with peace and the assurance that, somehow, everything was going to be okay. As I have seen many times in my life, sometimes we don't understand the significance of something until much later. This moment is when I needed those words the most.

This memory came to me again this morning as I lay awake in bed, depressed about our situation and wondering if we will ever know the joy of raising children of our own. As we step into the unknown and into another cycle of trying to conceive, I am going to hold onto those words, which are a promise.

"I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." (Matthew 28:20)

"I will lead the blind by a road they do not know; I will guide them on unfamiliar paths. I will make darkness into light before them and the rough places into level ground. These are the things I will do, and I will not forsake them." (Isaiah 42:16)

"And we know that in all things God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28)

Crystal Ball

There has never been a time in my life where I have so wanted to know the future. If I could just look forward two years and know what becomes of all this, I could make decisions and find a way to be content with whatever our lot is. Instead, we are back on the trying to conceive wagon hoping that this time is different.

It's so weird to be in this place. My pregnancy with Haven was a blessed, unplanned surprise. I was totally happy to wait to start trying, but she just...happened. I was sure everything would be okay, and everything pointed to me being right. Even after she died, I felt positive that, once I conceived again, that would be it, our second chance. I was worried about the end, not the beginning. Again, I was wrong. 

My mind is full of worries over my reproductive health and whether I will be able to bear living children. My body has changed so much since birth and even more since the D&C and I am worried it has been damaged.

My confidence is in tatters.

Ugh. Down day.

The Ol' What Ifs

I don't often give in to the What Ifs, but every now and then my mind just can't help itself.

Ugh. I miss my babies tonight.

Last First

When you are expecting a baby you can't help but make plans, especially for your first year. It's like a script that has already been written for you with the specific details left to develop. First time sleeping through the night, the next size up diapers, teething, weaning, babbling, walking, words, etc.

When your baby dies, the script goes out the window. There is unfortunately not a handbook out there that can instruct you how to not feel like you want to die that first Mother's Day, or how you will push away fellow moms whose babies were born near yours, all living while your sweet one is underground and their nursery quiet and dusty.

The first year is a minefield of firsts and unfulfilled dreams, especially when facebook cruelly shows all of those babies hitting milestones that your baby should be experiencing. Your heart will twist and shrivel at the joy on their parents' faces and the unintentionally shattering comments that people tend to leave. "You deserve this more than anyone!" "There is nothing better than baby snuggles!"

Holidays and parent celebration days are the hardest, I think. You can't help but remember on those days that your life has been pulled apart and scattered to the wind. 

I was afraid of Haven's birthday, especially so soon after our miscarried baby and Christmas so fresh in our hearts. But thankfully (and surprisingly), I found this weekend peaceful. Rather than be sad at home, we stayed at a friend's cabin (he is out of the country). On the way out, I picked up a rose for Haven to quietly remind us of her. I lit a candle on her birthday (February 16th) and let it burn all day next to her rose. Danny and I relaxed, played games, watched movies, and enjoyed the quiet time together. On the way back into town today, I placed her rose on her stone. 

Yesterday was our last first. It is with some relief that we pass this milestone. I don't believe there is closure when your child dies - how can there be when you are constantly aware of their absence? But there can be peace and healing. I hope that both of those things continue to grow in us. 

Happy birthday, Haven. Mama and Dad love and miss you every day. I hope that wherever you are, you are warm and happy and laughing. 

The End, the Beginning

One year ago today, perhaps to the very hour, I felt my daughter kick inside me for the last time. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that night and savour it. Just soak in the magnificence of my big belly and the beautiful life inside.

We stayed up late even though the next day, Valentine's Day, was my last day of work before maternity leave. We were in a good mood, I remember. High on life - our family was about to be made complete. The next day was the final step toward parenthood - once maternity leave started, it was just a matter of days or weeks before our baby was here. We went to bed like any other night. Our lives as we knew them were over...we just didn't know it yet. Sometime between Haven's last kicks and the morning, she died.

I remember thinking the next morning that she must be sleeping in; usually she was pretty active in the morning. I even poked my belly a few times and said "wake up, sleepy-head." A coworker wanted to feel her move, but my belly felt soft. I was having Braxton Hicks contractions all morning, which felt sometimes like she was stretching inside me, so it wasn't until I returned from my farewell lunch that it dawned on me that she hadn't kicked yet that day.

I called Danny and waited for him to pick me up from work - I was distracted and a bit worried, but the possibility that she was gone didn't fully sink in. Someone handed me a big gift on the way out - they had missed my baby shower a few days before. It would sit in the back seat of our car with the car seat while I laboured to bring Haven into the world, silent.

Those days haunt me. They have played on a loop so many times in my mind since then and the sting has never left. I remember so much of that day in excruciating detail - what I ordered at lunch, what I was wearing, that I accidentally ripped my purse as I sat down, the winter storm raging outside. Later, my clothing piled on top of my winter boots next to my hospital bed as the look came into the nurse's eyes...

I wish I could let go of this trauma. I live with it pretty well most days, but it is always there under the surface. 

One year. I should be planning a birthday party, wiping up drool, trying to get some rest. I should also be halfway through a second pregnancy, but I am laying in bed typing this with an empty womb and an empty, quiet house.

I hope it is not always so.

This Year, I'm Gonna Live

Around 5:00pm on Valentine's Day, 2014, my old life ended and a new life began. When your child dies, you start from scratch. The house is burnt down, torn down to the foundation, and you rebuild. You look the same and you'll eventually seem to be the same, but under the surface and in the most vital ways, you are altered. How could you not be? You birthed, then held, then kissed, then released your dead child. Your life was one thing, then it was another, and you had no choice in the matter. It's a horror that you will never get past. You will learn to live with that grief, like a missing limb or chronic pain, but it's a one-way trip; you can't go back to being the person you were before.

I won't deny that this almost-year has ripped me apart; I feel a little like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, pieced together but threatening to tear apart with pressure. It's one of the paradoxes of grief that what breaks you also builds you. There are days when I feel like my shoulders are a mile wide from the burdens they've born and others where I am crushed under the weight.

New Year's Resolutions are not something I do, since exercise and diet plans usually end in me binge-eating cookies on the couch, and most of the things in my life that I want to change are not measurable, thus doomed to failure. I spent so much of my life prior to Haven's death waiting for the next big thing, waiting for life to happen. Wake, work, eat, TV, bed...rinse and repeat. The thing is, life is already happening. There may be some significant things that I wish were different, but if I have learned anything, it is that I only have today; I have very little control over tomorrow.

So if I only have today, I think that I should make the most of it. If I could choose something to change, it is that I want to start living fully. I want to wear the clothes I save for special occasions, learn to swim, get fit, grow my relationships, have fun, spend time thinking, read lots of books, and begin to be creative again. I want to try again, then again and again if necessary, to grow our family. I want to not give up and to rise above my bitterness and grief. I want to, and I will.

This year, I'm gonna live.

Not Your Typical Fast

I have a confession to make:

I am a research addict.

When Haven died, I spent literally 2 months, morning to night, researching everything relating to stillbirth. And I mean Every. Single. Day. When her autopsy results came back, I again researched every day for several weeks so I could understand as much as possible about her cause of death. I am now a veritable encyclopaedia of knowledge on the topic. 

The problem? It turned me into a total basket case. It took months for me to figure out that the research was causing me intense anxiety. So much so that I fought insomnia for about four months and was having symptoms like shortness of breath, attacks, and heart palpitations.

Fast forward to the night of my D&C. I was only a few hours out of surgery and the search engine on my phone was being worked overtime.

Hubs has suggested (or told me sternly, perhaps) that I need to cut out the research completely. I think that he might be right. If I don't, there is no "cross that road when we come to it" because in my fearful mind, we are at ALLOFTHEROADSRIGHTNOW! I don't think I can handle much more of the constant panic (or the palpitations which have now been my friend for the last month and a half or so).

I hate to admit when hubby is right, but I have been slipping down that slippery slope again. I had a total meltdown this evening after finding out some really scary things I was unaware of and the fear and pain just swallowed me up without warning. See, though I am partly grateful for my extensive knowledge and understanding of the things we have gone through and now face, all of that research coupled with my fears has pretty much turned me into a fertility hypochondriac. If I read about something that is a scary cause of pregnancy loss or a side effect of the procedures I have had to go through, I am immediately convinced that I have those things. My hope is in tatters and I don't know how to overcome this.

So, dear husband, who reads my posts, I am going on a research fast...for now at least. You are permitted one free "I told you so" on the house.

Welcome, 2015

I've been thinking for a few weeks about what I wanted to say today, here in the waning hours of the year that has taken so much. It's hard to put into words what I want to convey, but I'll give it a go.

In 2014, grief was our constant companion and teacher; tears have wet our cheeks, our pillows, each other, and there have been many days when we couldn't see our way forward. We've paid dearly in hope and peace - these things aren't easy to grow again.

It is hard in our situation to see beyond our heartsickness and confusion, our empty arms and quiet house. But today, as I went about my tasks, a few thoughts and moments made an impression. I soaked in the sun when I went out to buy our New Years' feast and reveled for a moment in the beauty of the world we live in. I noticed that I have learned to be still and really see what and who is around me. I gave thanks more than once for the amazing man who I am so proud and grateful to call "husband" and for the beautiful years we have weathered together. I thought of all of the relationships which have blossomed in the shadow of our grief; we learned this year how not alone we are.

Our plan is to flip the bird to the passing year during the countdown to 2015, then kiss in the new year, but I know that I won't look back on this time with only a feeling of loss. If I have a resolution, it is to not squander the lessons we have learned, because they came at such a high price. I want to honour our daughter by living fully and not letting any precious time slip past.

Here's to new beginnings, clean slates, fresh starts. Here's to an increase of hope, love, joy, peace, kindness, and growth in the new year for us and for all of you.

Happy New Year!