Wishes For Everyone

Miranda, like any five-year-old, makes wishes all the time. She whispers her dreams when we throw a penny into a fountain or when she blows on a dandelion freshly plucked from the grass.

Up until recently, her wishes have been for a "real live unicorn" and "a pet jaguar." In the last few weeks, her wishes have changed.

Now my daughter wishes for Allie to come back to life. She thinks if Allie was here with us, she would like Miranda the best. She's probably right.

Lately, she also wishes for all the people that have died to come back to life and to never again die.

At five, she is just as comfortable talking about death as she is life.

Honestly, she talks about her sister more than we do. Today she wanted to go to her creek to bring her a fresh flower. The other day she asked me what grade she would be in this year if she were here. She also asks me often when we are celebrating her birthday.

I wish I had two daughters starting school next week. Not just one.

I wish I had two daughters sitting in the tub right now. Not just one.

By definition, a wish is to feel or express a strong desire or hope for something that is not easily attainable; want something that cannot or probably will not happen.

Well you can guess what I think about that!

And yet, it's ok to wish. It's good to dream. I think it's healthy to want something that's unattainable. It's a good lesson. I just wish that lesson was not at the expense of my first child.

A rainbow baby was born to a friend of mine a few short days ago. I was miles away when I heard the news, and yet I broke down in tears. Happy tears. Tears of relief. To have a rainbow baby is so so sweet. I am thrilled my friend will be able to experience that joy.

I am going to take this opportunity to wish for a few things that I think can come true. An easy transition to kindergarten for Miranda and her friends next week. A happy and joyous start to the school year for all the kids. More rainbow babies for the moms and dads that so desperately want them.  Blessed memories of the babies that wear wings. 

Maybe some wishes can come true after all. But so help me if I wake up to a real live unicorn in my house tomorrow!!

Just Thinking About Tomorrow

Tonight, I am having trouble with my words. There is so much I want to say, so much I want to convey. The windows are open for the first time all year, and the sounds of Spring are permeating our home. And yet, I am sad.

Seven years ago on the night before Good Friday, we had our last Labor & Delivery Class. I mentioned to the nurse that I hadn't felt my daughter move as much as I liked. She told me to go home and relax and eat something sweet and start to count kicks. 

The kicks never came. The next day, on Good Friday, I delivered the most beautiful seven pound, 2-ounce angel. With my hair and Gary's long fingers and toes, she took our breath away. Although to be honest, I think we stopped breathing the day before.

Every year, I struggle with the fact that I have to mourn twice - once on Good Friday and once on Allison's actual birthday which is April 22nd. 363 days, I celebrate her. Two days, I grieve her.

Tomorrow night, I am hosting my first Passover Seder. Just my immediate family, but with all the kids, it will be a full house. The focus on cooking all day and the attention to all the details will surely keep me preoccupied. I think that's why I offered to host this year.

Tomorrow is also the anniversary of my father's death. He died the day before Miranda turned one. I think about him often. Who would he be now? Who would I be if he were still here?

Saturday is Miranda's fifth birthday. We are excited to celebrate this milestone together and rejoice in all that is good. It's hard to believe this very weekend, two years after her sister's death, our rainbow baby was born and changed the course of our lives forever.

Sunday is Easter with Gary's family, and it's been a long time since we have all been together. I can hardly wait.

So much has changed in our lives in seven years. I miss my innocence and my naivete, but I am proud of my strength and perseverance.

In my new job, we often talk about "trauma-informed language." I was told in my interview that I speak it well and have been told that a few times since. I think it's from the grief counseling and support groups that I have learned how to speak and listen in a way that is soothing.

Miranda is starting to understand bigger concepts as she is getting older. Twice in the last month, she has told complete strangers that she had a sister who died before she had a chance to live. It GUTS me to hear her say that. But she says it with a smile. To her, she is keeping the memory of her sister alive. And I guess to me, she is, too.

During Passover, we ask "The Four Questions" as part of the Seder. One of them is, "Why is this night different from all other nights?" Well, for me, the answer will be simple. "On this night, I mourn those who I have lost, but I celebrate their memories, and I am embracing all the love that is around my table."

Now please pass the matzo ball soup!

We Remember

This past Friday, heaven gained another angel.

I only met this sweet girl once, back in August of last year. She was just three months old. It never dawned on me as I cooed at her and made silly faces that I would never see her again.

She lived in Canada so it's not like I thought I would see her often. But her mom and dad and her older sister were not against road trips and I knew the would make the trip to PA at least once a year or once other year.

We met because there is a group of us that have lost our babies and connected as a way to stay sane / share stories / commiserate / yell / laugh / brag...and the list goes on.

Miss Chelsea died before she even had her first birthday. She spent more time in SickKids (comparable to our CHOP) than she did in her nursery at home. She had a genetic disease that no matter how hard she tried to fight (and fight she did), she simply could not win.

Her mom and dad and sister knew that the end was coming. Originally, they had hope and optimism but as the days turned to weeks and then months, they had to face the inevitable.

Burying a child is unnatural. Everyone in our group has done it. Burying two children is barbaric.

Chelsea's mom and dad had to say hello and goodbye to their first daughter, too. They did not get the time they had with Chelsea and I am not sure if that is a blessing or a curse. Do you want it to be fast and quick or do you want it to be slow and drawn-out? There is no correct answer.

This couple, who has been though thick and thin, have created and delivered three precious daughters. They are now raising one.

What am I to do with that?

I wrote a blog about Chelsea's story at the end of last year. As a group, a support group, we found comfort in collecting stuffed unicorns and taking pictures of them and posting them on our shared Facebook page. 

Individually, we are all floundering. Canada is simply too far for many of us to go and so we have to pay our respects from afar. We wanted to send flowers and trinkets and buckets of whatever we could to make our feelings known, but in the end, we are doing something that is right for her and right for us. 

I will never get used to death. I will never accept that sometimes "it is what it is" or "it's better this way". There is a family grieving the saddest possible grief for the second time in under a decade. There is a sister who now has a big sister and a baby sister in heaven. There are aunts and uncles and grandparents and friends who were robbed of the chance to get to know, really know, both girls.

So. Not. Fair.

The takeaway from all of this mess? Love hard. Love often. Love with your whole heart. I am not embarrassed to pick up my daughter in the middle of a store and shower her with kisses. I am not worried about putting her in time out or taking away a favorite toy for a day or night if it will teach her discipline and respect. I am not afraid to speak my first daughter's name and share with the world how much I loved her (and still do!).

Fly high, sweet unicorn Chelsea. Tell your sister and all her many friends that we love them all so and we might just see them again some day. 

We can't do it all, but we can remember. And we remember you all.

Our Chelsea-corn at the local comic book store

The Rainbow Connection

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with a bunch of moms just like me. Moms that talk about their babies in terms of weeks that we had them growing inside of us because that is all we  had with them.

37 weeks...42 weeks...39 weeks... 

It does not get any easier to hear the tales of loss. In fact, it gets harder. How can it be that this many people have had babies born still? And how can it be that we are just a fraction of the parents out there?

Many of us are in the "5 Year Club". Our children should be begging us for new backpacks and pencils and other back-to-school items and yet they are not here. It just so unfair.

There is a silver lining, though. We are not alone. While many of us have terrific spouses and support systems, there is something almost poetic about talking to other mothers who know the agony of a delivery room that echoes silence. Who don't hate the stretch marks on our bodies because they are a sign that our child was in fact once here. 

We are alive. The rainbow babies that came after them are alive (and loud!). As long as we are around, so too will our friendships be. It's too important to not have these women in my life.

It's also important for Miranda. She needs to know these kids are just like her in some ways. They have siblings that they cannot play with but still very much love. They have parents that get sad from time to time but can't really express why.

I am so grateful for what I have. I am so grateful for what I am. To the other moms out there (and dads!) thank you for helping us break the silence, stand together, and live our lives. #time2momup