Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Happy Birthday, Baby Sister

As lovely as our celebration is today, it doesn’t take away any of the pain of missing our sweet girl.

birthday cake and the blessings jar

Alaska's quilt from Grandma Dawn

building a shelter at the museum

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Borrowing Your Love

#writeingrief Day 23--On borrowing love and seeing myself as they see me


How would you love me in this? 


First I imagine holding you as you look up at me with (probably) blue eyes. Maybe a milky smile. Maybe your tiny hand would reach up and touch my face. But if I were holding you like this, I wouldn’t be this me. I would be Before me because you would be my little girl who lived, and I wouldn’t know After me. We wouldn’t be preparing to celebrate your birthday tomorrow because December 31 is the wrong date for your birthday. We would be buying snacks for New Year’s Eve not birthday cake ingredients. 


How would you love me in this?


If I imagine borrowing your love and looking at me through your eyes, I imagine tiny Auburn. My baby who was due on New Year’s Day. I imagine similar (probably) blue eyes for you and that you are (maybe) a boy. You would have known After me. You would have seen my face bursting with love for you and your big brothers and your angel sister. I would have smiled at you through tears sometimes, but you would know my love. You would give me the best snuggles, and you would cry and cry. That sound would be so very welcomed. I would tease you about trying to cry for two. Trying to give Alaska a voice. You would see me as one of your favorite people. Your milk machine, full of cuddles and kisses for you. 


How would you love me in this?  


As your brothers do. First they are silly and wild. Those two boys are best friends and dramatic opponents, and they swap roles multiple times a day. I can usually tell by the tone of the yelling, but sometimes, like today, the squeals of pain are from hilarious pranks. They are also helpful and caring. They clean and cook and want to play family games. 


Your brothers are sincere in sharing how they feel about you. They ask questions and tell me when they can’t sleep because they are angry that you died. They debate what kind of cake to make for your birthday, Alaska, and what outfit to buy in your memory that we will donate to a shelter and hope it will find its way to a little girl who needs it. They wonder at how to celebrate your birthday and how to celebrate Auburn’s due date without you here. They share their love for you and for our family, and they miss you, too. 

Dear Mommy, We're ok.


Dear Mommy,

We’re ok. We found each other, and we are ok. We love you and Daddy and Elliott and Asher. We love each other. We wish we could have joined you, but we can’t. I’m a big sister now, so I will take care of us. (We are in a place of peace, though, so don’t worry.) I want you to know that we are a family. We will stay together. We know it hurts you that we can’t be there. We know that you long for us. We want you to know that you’re ok, too. You and Daddy and Elliott and Asher. You’re ok. You have our love. Our family is strong. You are the best mommy. We know how much you love us and how much you have loved us for every second of our forever. Keep loving us even when you feel like the world is telling you to let us go. (We know you will love us forever. We know your love has never been a question.) We will see you someday. Our whole family will be together again. First you have to live. Breathe. Stay. Love.

We love you forever, Mommy.

Love, Alaska



#writeingrief Day 22


Sunday, December 28, 2014

What Matters

#writeingrief Day 20


The time doesn’t matter. This is about the loss and the love. We can’t control our human reactions or constraints. We can’t control our reality. We can’t control much of anything, can we? Perhaps just how we respond to our reality. I don’t know why I have the urgent desire to fix every little problem, especially when I know someone who is in pain from grief or illness. I don’t have that same reaction to my own pain. I know undeniably that it cannot be fixed, so why do I have this weird instinct to tackle and tame another’s pain? We have this way of measuring time with our clocks and calendars. Our sun and moon. Our sky. But is what matters how many days that we had with them? How many months since they have been gone? How many minutes until we will be with them again? Is it the time that matters? Last year I wrote a blog post called 19 Days: A New Calendar. And I ticked those dates (still do). How many weeks pregnant I Should Be (Why, hello, little unicorn! It’s been a few days since I wrote about you). How many hours. Days. Months. Whatevers since Alaska’s birthday. Since Auburn’s. But none of that matters. I don’t love Elliott more because he has been my son longer than Asher or their baby siblings. Love cannot be measured like that. Yes, we forget details. We just lose them in the maze of thoughts. The lost memories can potentially be found, right? Those memories are still there even if they are stuck under a heap of useless information. Even if we could rewind back to the moment just after the loss, our person is still dead, and we still love them. And if we jump ahead to the moment just before we die, our person is still dead, and we still love them. This love and loss is more than our human realities of forgotten moments and counting minutes. This love and loss cannot be diminished by memory or time. 

Friday, December 26, 2014

Need to Remember

#writeingrief Day 19-What do you want to remember? What do you wish to forget?


It’s not what I want to remember. It’s what I need to remember. The need to remember everything is a desperate feeling that all of it will be lost. These last few months have been full of flashbacks of my time that I had with Alaska when she was alive.
Telling the boys that they were going to have a baby sibling.
Pushing people away when they tried to touch my bump.
Debating names and finally deciding.
Telling people our name choices.Not caring when they said things like, “Don’t name your daughter Alaska.”
Waking up starving in the middle of the night and eating a sandwich.
Making guesses about whether we had a new son or a daughter.
Seeing our healthy, alive baby during the first ultrasound.Buying dresses that had plenty of room for a growing bump.
Feeling the tiniest flutters of movement from baby Alaska.Feeling her move for the last time that I remember. (And now wondering whether she was distressed, perhaps dying in that moment.)
Snuggling in bed with my family, watching a movie on Christmas night. Perfection in that moment: Putting my hand on my little bump and holding our boys.
Wondering whether I would need to get a new winter coat.
Taking pictures of my small bump.
Watching as my doctor moved the Doppler around on my belly.
Joking that we must have quite a stubborn little one who would be giving us a run for our money.
Taking the phone call that told us we had a little girl. A daughter. Deciding for sure that her name was Alaska Eileen.

This need to remember the happiest times in my life is answered with the need to remember all of it. The rest of the story.
The still baby on the second ultrasound screen.
The “no heartbeat” and “we can’t find the heartbeat” and “your baby died, I don’t know why.” 
The six failed attempts at starting an IV and the bruises left behind. 
Holding my belly in the hospital bathroom. Grasping it from every angle. Trying to commit the feeling to my memory. Knowing that in a few moments or hours that knowledge would begin to fade. 
Searching for pictures of babies who would be the same size to prepare for what we would see. 
The contractions that didn’t work.
Flipping out at my own mortality.
Quitting so that I could just get home to my alive family.

I don’t want to forget any of it, but I know I have already lost details. I can’t remember what it was like to be pregnant with Alaska. I have these little snippets that are covered in her ashes. I will take these grey memories, though. I will cherish them for as long as my mind will let me.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

December Special (or Holiday Delivery)


Your choice, she said.


Expert advice: First, delivery.
Let us help you, they said.

We reach down, she said.

Concentrate, she said.

Calm down, they said.

Rest, they said.


24 hours later
Expert advice: Problematic delivery.
Choose, they said.
You’ll stay safe, they said.
Calm down, they said.


Expert advice: Tools and suction, they said.
To protect you, they said.

Another choice, they said.
Box or burn?

#writeingrief Day 7-This was an exercise in found poetry. I used a newspaper from December 9, 2014.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Dear Sunshine,

I texted my sister Sunshine a picture of the moon tonight just before I sat down to write. My writing turned into a letter to her that has been brewing for many moons.


Dear Sunshine,


My sister, you have been on my mind even more than usual lately and especially tonight on this fat-moon night. I know that many miles separate us, but wherever you are, the same bright moon hangs in the sky. I have been thinking about what you did for us last year when you visited on the last days of 2013. It was your first time staying with us. It was the last best day of my Before.


I haven’t allowed myself to fully process what you did. I have thought about it since we lost our sweet Alaska Eileen, but each time I go there, I just skim the reality. Lightly, quickly. Unable to face the role that I forced on you.


On that day, you had the boys at the library when I just texted you that our baby had no heartbeat (there was no way I could have spoken those words yet). You had no corner to go to, no way to even process this with the boys there. You just continued to love them and entertain them and feed them while you waited for our official news. We told the boys that their baby sister died and then we left. You kept them safe, you helped them begin to understand what had happened, and you made it fun. HOW did you do this? Thank you. I know it was unfair and impossible, but you did it anyway.


I’ll never forget those moments where you just sat with me and held me. No words were needed. You are light and beauty and so aptly named. I am forever grateful for you.

Sending you love under the same sky!