Correction: Was

#writeyourgrief into a monthly prompt from Megan Devine at Refuge in Grief. 

When I first read this prompt I had a much different line to pull, but I couldn’t get this one out of my head--an animal who runs and hides. That’s you. Was you. Was.

When we spoke on the phone, I could feel your anxiety building until you panicked and ended the call as quickly as possible. My own anxiety appreciated the end of the conversations because while I always knew that you loved me, you didn’t know me like you should have, so sometimes I just didn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t make myself go through the whole routine of mostly small talk which makes me uncomfortable especially when I’m small talking with my own dad. Correction: When I was. Was.

I know how terrible this sounds, but I did not treasure those phone calls. It was a gauge of how you were doing and a reminder of your absence. The phone calls weren’t easy.

We had more quality time in these final months than we’ve had for probably a couple of decades. But--again--I suck at small talk, so I didn’t have a lot to say. We were together, though, and that counts for something. You got to see Sunny Lou, your little prizefighter, and see how your description of her name definitely suits her. You got to play cards with Asher and talk football. You got to see some of Elliott’s art, but I don’t think you got to talk music. This shouldn’t have been a whole event. All of our memories with Grandpa Gregg should not fit in a neat little paragraph.

I was hopeful after your first hospital stay. I knew you were very sick and that your time was ticking down, but maybe you’d get years. Maybe some really great years. But no.

Call 1-800-662-HELP (4357) -- treatment referral and information for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.

Four Years

Happy birthday, Alaska Eileen. Four years. Four years a forever baby. We love you.

Habits

#writeingriefDay 6-Again, this was written some time ago. 

Write into habits. I’ve sat down with this prompt three times this week but haven’t written a word. 

Write into habits. Habits. Habits. 

Checking my bump. First it was bloat and then it was baby. And then she died.

Habits. Waking up in the middle of the night for a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk. Until I didn’t. I didn’t wake up one night just days after Christmas 2013. I noticed, but I didn’t think much of it. After I found out she was dead, I realized that not waking up starving meant something. Of course it doesn’t matter because Alaska died, so it doesn’t matter that it took me a few days to catch on. 

Peanut butter sandwiches never tasted so good those days. I don’t eat those anymore. 

For a while I thought maybe the peanut butter sandwiches killed her. Or maybe it was my hairspray. Or toothpaste. Or maybe I shouldn’t have worn tights. 

Now I know that isn’t true. I mean I don’t have proof or anything, but I know that peanut butter sandwiches didn’t kill my little girl. 

And I know that whatever did kill her doesn’t matter. Why doesn’t matter. 

And habits. I’m having some major delays with this prompt. I just stop and hold my breath for a few seconds and don’t write anything.

Habits. Write into habits. Pregnancy comes with many habits. Take your vitamins, exercise, eat healthy snacks. 

What habits does Empty have? Breathe. At least try. Eat. Just enough. Feel. Try not to feel. Feel every bit.

And After? I’m not sure. I’m still stumbling around out here. 

The Beauty in After

#writeingrief Round 2 Day 5-This post was written moons ago.

"We are broken but not damaged." -Megan Devine

Writing into the beauty is intimidating. We do certainly have a beauty that is unlike anything I have ever known. I couldn't see it Before. I didn't want to see it. I knew it was there but was afraid to look too closely. maybe it wasn't mine to witness yet. I don't know, though. I don’t want to say that I had no right to witness Before. I just couldn't, wouldn't. 

We are broken but not damaged. YES. How does this work? How are we broken but not damaged? I don't know HOW. I just know that this is the way it is. This is the truth of After. We walk around in the shell of Before. We do what we need to do and people may think we are doing it wrong. They may tell us that we shouldn't talk that way or write those ugly words. We should be grateful for the blessings that we do have and should focus on the positive. 

We are not damaged for feeling so deeply. That is not damaged. 

"Do not medicate away this melancholy." -Jeff Foster

Jeff Foster tells us to feel all of our feels, tells us to go into the melancholy. 

But how often do people see the bereaved as damaged? How often do they inflict damage upon the broken? We are broken not damaged, but we can be damaged. Even though whatever is said or done cannot compare to the reality of living in After, we can be damaged. By words. By thoughts. By actions and inactions.

I wish that I could protect us from being damaged. 

Do we have to learn how to protect our own heart? I am walking around with this armor up trying not to let in the poison. I can't really protect myself from those chemical burns, though. If it isn't dumped on me by another person, I find the bottle sitting on the sidewalk and dump it on myself. If I don't do that, it comes flying at me from nowhere, poison dousing my clothes. Dripping down my arms. Sizzling a new path over my skin.

Is this beauty? 

What is the beauty in After? It's the community. The support. The understanding. The witness. It's the vulnerability explored through words that cannot ever fully reach the truth. It's the trying to reach the truth.

What is NOT the beauty in After? It is not a lesson learned. It is not being grateful for what we have. It is not loving harder. It is not a gift or blessing. The beauty in After would be traded for our living love.

I would trade it for just one breath. I would trade it for one moment of her voice. I would trade it for a kiss, my lips to her cheek. I would trade this beauty for just one sleepless night with my girl and her beating heart. 

It Just Is

#writeingrief Round 2
Day 4-

I couldn't write this yesterday. I felt frozen. I couldn't even sit down and write into feeling frozen. Maybe I was just being lazy.

So today I am forcing myself to sit with this prompt. 

I was instantly hesitant when I read that we are supposed to go into this seeking comfort. I don't wanna. Why? Just because. No reason. I don't know. I'm scared. I can't think of anything. It's too much pressure. What do you expect? 

And of course there you have it. A list of excuses. Empty ones. And no one expects anything. Except that I just show up to these words. I don't even have to write into them if I can't. I can just read the prompt and leave it at that. 

What is it about choosing weather that has me incapable of stringing a few words together? Maybe it's that weather feels like a stranger lately. Winter means running from the house to the car to the school to the car to the house. And an occasional walk when the windchill isn't too ridiculous. 

And those walks in the winter weather are refreshing. It's the air. Crisp to the point of painful some days. But breathing in the frozen air helps me center somehow. The road under my feet and stretched in front of my path guides me, propels me forward even when I don't wanna go for a walk. (I don't wanna.) 

"What kind of comfort do you find in such impartial Nature?" -Megan Devine

Spending a few minutes out in the weather reminds me that nature does not care whether I am pissed or sad or happy or confused. Nature doesn't care about my emotions and doesn't judge. It just is. It just is hot and sunny. It just is cloudy. It just is a blue-sky, cold-ass day. It just is. What I bring to it matters not at all. Why is this comforting? Maybe it's the reliability that you get what you get. I can tell Nature that I'm over winter. I could request a blizzard. And each would go ignored. The weather could come along and claim an entire town but leave one tulip standing. So I'm comforted by the reliability of my lack of control over the weather. I have no idea what to make of that.

Death: You get what you get. (I just wrote that and would like to delete it.)

On Badass Moments

Since the session of the Writing Your Grief course was over last week, I have been writing from random pages in Looking for Alaska. Reading has been difficult for me since Alaska died, and in the last few months, I haven’t been able to finish any books that I have started.

It’s not you, books, it’s me.

Audiobooks help bring me the stories that I crave while I can busy myself with cleaning or cooking or playing solitaire so that I focus on the story rather than read several pages and have to go back (or more likely quit). Tonight I chose my page by turning on a timer and stopping it quickly .48 seconds meant that I would turn to page 48. This turned out to be one of the pages that I don’t have marked; it’s a fun scene in the novel, though. This book makes me laugh and cry (always has), and this is one of those pages that had me laughing. Two words stood out when I read it the second time tonight: badass moment.  

It seems a bit silly to write about those words, and I’m not entirely sure why they stood out. When I think of badass moments in my life, I come up blank. I could maybe find something if I really let myself go there, but tonight I want to say that this community of writers that I have come across through WYG is full of beautiful badassery. Really the simple act of breathing during grief is badass some days. The simple act of breathing. Did I just say that? Breathing used to feel simple, a natural process that could become laboured with stress or exercise. Breathing with grief is a new task altogether, and sometimes it’s the only thing that gets done in a day. Just breathe while the heart goes boom (like in that terrible, awful, icky “Sledgehammer” song). That song. I’m not sure I’ve heard a worse song. Sorry. I’m a hater.

Sledgehammers are badass, and I don’t think they actually go boom boom boom like a lust-struck heartbeat. Sledgehammers tear through walls. Sledgehammers destroy and clear a path to build something new. Is that what we’re doing here with our grief writing? Tearing through walls that will keep coming back? Sometimes with ugly patches and sometimes made with better materials but always, always destined for the sledgehammer.

(Maybe I’ve been too narrow with my opinion on uses for the sledgehammer; apologies to the sledgehammer operators out there.)

Empty Persists

“Do you know what happened to you?” (from Looking for Alaska by John Green) 

I just read about this character who experienced a concussion, and it makes me wonder whether there are any similarities to when I found out that my daughter was dead.  He suffered a physical trauma that was intense for a couple of moments, and he knew that he was concussed. I suffered the emotional trauma first, and then the physical trauma, and finally the trauma of Empty. The trauma of the blank space where there--just moments before--grew one of the most important people in my life. And Empty persists forever. This Empty cannot be filled.

You ask whether I know what happened to me. I do. But I don’t know why or how, and I know that why and how don’t matter. Why and how don't change anything. Perhaps knowing those answers would help in the trek to have an alive baby, but why and how do not bring my daughter back. My babies back. I don’t know when either. I don’t know when she died. 

When doesn't change anything either. When is not what matters.

Invisible and Visible

#writeingrief Day 28-I will be posting out of order. I'm not reading to post what I wrote on Alaska's birthday or on Auburn's due date.

"The invisible causes changes in the visible.The visible gives evidence of the invisible." ~Megan Devine

This. Yes. I am forever changed by my sweet babies who were all but invisible to the world. How do I give evidence of the invisible? This is where I’m blocking. I feel like I don’t give evidence. Strangers look at me when I’m out with my boys and see a mom of two. People who know about my daughter, my babies even, probably mostly see me as the mom of my boys, the teacher, the wife, the whatever I am.

The world can see the shape of you in me by the shape of my flabby tummy. My empty bump that persists thanks to my wavering motivation to exercise my body. Sometimes I want to sweat it all out, and sometimes I want to stay in the hole. Screw this body. This failed temple. This burial ground. This mass of bones and blood that does not quit. Just sometimes.

The world can see the shape of you in me by the way your brothers wobble in orbit. Do we call them bereaved brothers? I suppose so. Words are difficult for me in this space. Your brothers are resilient. They thrive even as they miss and love you. That’s all. (It’s not, but words aren’t sufficient here.)

The world can see the shape of you in me by the way I interact. It’s not a new development that I much prefer a quiet gathering of close friends or family to anything to do with a crowd, but I think missing you has made me more protective of this preference. I have no guilt when I choose to stay home and offer no apology for saying no.

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

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

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. 

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.

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.

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!

On Signs and Hope

I went for a walk one day last spring after I found out that I was pregnant with our baby Auburn. It was a beautiful blue-sky day, and one of those walks that felt like a prayer. Thank you for this new baby. Is this really our rainbow, though? Could you tell me for sure that this is our rainbow? Maybe give me a sign...yeah, I know. I probably don't get to just request a sign. I realize it doesn't really work that way.

Scolding myself for being so stupid, I continued walking. You've probably guessed where this is going. Two birds flew out of the trees ahead of me. I noticed them but didn't think anything of it until a third bird flew out and followed close behind the pair. Is this my sign that this little one is our rainbow who will be born 7 years after Asher? I wasn't convinced, but these three birds gave me hope. I held on to that image for weeks hoping that I could write about this sweet "sign" after we met our baby. Of course sometimes a bird is just a bird.

I'm wrestling with that "sometimes" word up there. It really is ok to hold on to signs or other comforts. It's ok to think that a bird is just a bird one day--that there is no such magic in our world--and then it's also ok to turn around and see a butterfly or a blue jay feather and think that maybe it's a little bit of love from our angels.

10 Things About Me (Grief Aside)

Carly at Still Standing Mag posted her latest article this morning. It's a link up called "10 Things About You (Grief Aside)" where you're supposed to write just what it says in the title, and then share it with the community. I thought this was a lovely idea but didn't do it right away. Tonight when I started writing, I thought about Carly's article and decided to go for it.

Let me take you on my journey of trying to set my grief aside and come up with 10 things.

Grief Aside...10 things about me.

10. I love tomatoes. 

9.

But I don't know who I am anymore. I mean. I still love tomatoes, but I recently threw away two containers of cherry tomatoes that I didn't even touch (the whole Dead Baby: Take Two thing is to blame). I have to admit that I haven't bought more tomatoes, though, because what if I don't eat those ones either? It's not really fair to the tomato.

I don't read in the same way. I love books, but I can't devour them like I used to.

I write because I have to. I enjoy it for the release and discovery, but I haven't tackled any new characters or revisited old ones since Alaska died.

Pizza is good, but food isn't the same. Breathing isn't the same. Nothing at all is the same. (Dramatic! Yipes...but it's true.)

I love my family, but my love is different now. (Here is where words will fail again.) My love is bigger, more fearful, it had to grow because it contains two more people. I don't love anyone more than I did before--that's not possible with unconditional love, but I do think that it can get bigger (which is different than more...at least in the sense that I'm trying to describe).

Even something like my favorite show, The Walking Dead, is not the same. I am still drawn to zombie lore because of the exploration of how humans react to and interact in that world, but I relate to the characters in a new way. (The new way of relating to them sucks.)

****

At this point I realized that I should go back and cheat off of the list that I wrote last December just thirteen days before my grief started. My sister had posted a "10 Things" challenge on Facebook that I decided to use as a fun way to announce our new baby to the friends and family who hadn't heard our news.

1. Of course I started my list with tomatoes. I did that today, too.
2. I still suck at taking naps (and sleeping in general).
3. The sky! I will never tire of the sunsets and sunrises and rainbows and clouds. It's a new experience, though. Rainbows remind me of Auburn. He was supposed to be our rainbow baby. Before the boys knew about Auburn, they both made several art projects with rainbows. It was exciting. Rainbows are still lovely, but they. aren't. the. same.
4. Afraid of public speaking? More than ever. Afraid of crowds? Yes, but I can handle strangers better than acquaintances. I also have several wonderful friends who have truly helped me survive the crowds I couldn't avoid. Afraid of flying? I don't think so. My fear of flying started when I had my first child, and it ended when I lost my daughter.
5. Asher had to deal with a few people who told him that he wasn't a big brother because his sister died, but I think we've worked past that obstacle. My boys are big brothers to Alaska and Auburn in a different way than what we had planned, but they continue to come up with new ways to include their baby siblings in our family.
6. I still have the best husband. We celebrated 10 years of marriage a few weeks ago.
7. Yep. Zombies.
8. Now I have all of these major writing projects that haven't been touched since December, but I have been thinking about them lately. I will go back to them someday with my new eyes and see what happens. This blog is a major writing project that I have added to my list.
9. I hope I still have my book finding powers...I think I do.
10. As for choosing a special power, I would certainly go bigger than the ability to apparate. So much for my old magical thinking.

Now I feel that I have failed to do this task correctly because I couldn't put my grief aside.

Try, try again...

1. Yoga is my favorite stress reliever.
2. Harry Potter nerd for life
3. Speaking of nerds: #dftba
4. I am the mom in a family of 6
5. My mom used to tell me that my freckles were angel kisses and that for every freckle I had a friend. I still disliked my freckles, but now I wouldn't erase them if I had the chance. (Asher wishes that he could get freckles.).     :)
6. Fish are creepy to be around unless they are contained in an aquarium at a zoo (or filleted)
7. I prefer the chill of fall
8. My hands laugh at the most inopportune times (like when I need to use them)
9. I love to look at dead trees
10. When I say that my hands laugh, most people think I'm crazy, but a few will admit that their hands laugh, too. It's a special kind of connection when you find a laughing-hands-friend.

I am Still Standing in memory of my daughter Alaska Eileen and my tiny baby Auburn.

There. It was a wordy road, but I got here.

Sleep Now

Sleep.

On my stomach first, just after I close my book because my eyes are ready for the break. As soon as I settle in my mind wakes, showing me pictures of everything I want but can't have and then (because there are no guarantees) of losing everything I have now and might have in the future.

Now on my side, clutching Beary by my face, I try so hard to change the story. Something happy--maybe with made-up characters that I could write about, some fun family time, or preliminary plans for my prayer flag design. I kick my legs and stretch trying to quiet their crawling but instead I imagine my blood cells with flailing limbs trying to burst through my thighs and shins.

Wishing I had a giant with a pancake turner who could flip me onto my other side, I wrangle the blankets and try to gently roll toward the wall where I will shut it off. Just stop thinking. A blank mind that will drift away into a dreamless sleep. You can imagine where this is going, though. Still stretching my legs I start to hear what I can't have--I mean I hear it in my "mind's ear" or whatever. It's the gentle breathing of my daughter followed by her cries (best sound ever) and then more quiet breathing with an occasional baby grunt or squeak. It's as real as a dream can be, and the loudest absence I've ever heard.

Over. Over. Over. Read to sleep but don't close that book.

Little Sister Moments

"I wish Alaska and Auburn were still here."

Elliott said this to me a few weeks ago as we drove home from his baseball game. That sentence, the fact that my son shared it with me, the truth and reality of it, hold an explosion of emotion that I can't really describe. The words simply fail.

Pain.
Gratitude.
Love.
Hope.
Truth.
Grief.
Heavy.
Happiness.
Anger.
Brave.

I swallowed and smiled and said what I usually say: "Me, too."

He went on to tell me how he felt when he helped his friend's little sister with a toy. He was laughing as he told the story and then he said that it made him miss Alaska. And if I could break any more, I did right then, but I also healed. We talked about how it must make Alaska and Auburn happy to see what a great big brother they have. And about how it's ok to be sad and miss our babies while also enjoying our time with friends and family, especially the little ones who might make us imagine what could have, should have, would have been.

Ultimately I feel gratitude around this experience. I am grateful that Elliott shared it with me and that we could heal a bit knowing that these little sister moments are a gift.

A Song

We know full well there's just time. (Birdy) 

I went to The Fault in Our Stars twice this weekend and had to download the soundtrack immediately after my first viewing. I've been listening to "Not About Angels" by Birdy since I drove out of the parking lot. This is one of those times (as a former student reminded me today) when the music says it much better than any words I could write.

If your heart was full of love, could you give it up?

I have to thank her for reaching out and bringing me a bit of light at just the right moment yesterday (I was in the middle of my unsharable rant when her message popped up). She shared a song called "Alaska" with me and sent her prayers. Later she told me that she imagines Alaska and Auburn to be great like their brothers. I wish I had a song to express how much this gesture really means.

How unfair it's just our love.