LG

Danny came home from a trip a few days ago and I have been soaking in the sight of him since then (I am a big hubby sook). I've been thinking that, despite it all, life is good. Despite my hurting heart, my anxieties, my fears, life is good.

I hope I can remember that in the coming weeks and months and years. What a gift for me and my loved ones to be mostly healthy. For Danny and I to have good, stable jobs and a decent place to live. To be able to buy groceries without eyeballing the price (after years of having to!) To be loved by my friends and family. 

Yeah, life is good.

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. 

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!

Journal

I keep a daily journal that has space for only a few lines a day. The idea is that this diary will take you through 5 years. Each page represents a date; for example, March 5 has its own page with five sections so you can compare five years' worth of March 5 experiences. My first such journal was given to me when I was pregnant with Haven and was intended for mothers (click here to check it out). I couldn't bear to keep it up after Haven died, though now I wish I had. I started a new one (not mom-specific) a few weeks before we found out we were pregnant this time.

I decided to look through my current journal the other day...I missed Haven and I missed being pregnant. I noticed two things:

1) A few days before this little baby died, I had expressed to him or her that I loved them. It was a big deal for me, as I was so afraid to bond this time around. I am thankful that I said it before it was too late. Even though this little person couldn't hear me, I hope that the love was felt somehow. I've realized that no matter how I tried to deny my feelings, I was bonding anyway. I hope that, next time, I will open up my heart right away, no matter how hard it is. Life is delicate and too short to not love fully.

2) Around the time this baby died, there was a wicked winter wind storm and I noted in my journal that it reminded me of the weekend Haven died and was born. From the day we found out she had died to the day she was born (Friday-Sunday), the wind was violent, spewing ice pellets and freezing rain from an angry gray sky. It is fanciful, but I remember laying in my hospital bed watching the chaos outside my window and thinking with pleasure that she didn't go quietly. That the gale bore her up to heaven. Perhaps, my imagination says, that same wind visited and whisked this little one up too.

I have been reminded this week of how much I need this blog. Writing about my experiences is one of the only ways I have found to process this grief. Friends have told me that I am "brave" for sharing it publicly, but I only keep it public because I know how desperate I was to relate to someone after Haven died. If my blogs can provide that even on a small level for someone else, then it is all worth it.