What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

In my head, I have written this blog at least four different times. 

It's one thing to mentally think it through and entirely another to let the words escape my body and put them out there for the world to see.

It's been quite a month.

Miranda has become somewhat obsessed with the concept of Allie. She talks about her all the time. She had her first Girl Scout (well, Daisy Scout) troop meeting last month, and all the kids got together to create pottery. They were able to design their very own plate! It was pretty cool. From what I could see, most of the girls designed a plate with their name or with a single word like "love." Miranda wrote "Allie" on her plate. I asked her why and almost begged her to reconsider. She stood firm and said sometimes she forgets Allie, and if she had a plate with her name on it, she was less likely to forget her. How could I say no to that in a room full of strangers on a cold fall afternoon?

On Halloween, about ten days after the pottery lesson and about an hour after I got to my office after being "homeroom mom" for the morning with Miranda at her school, the guidance counselor called my cell. She said Miranda started crying at lunch and saying that she missed "Allie the butterfly," so her teacher brought her to the nurse. The nurse then called the counselor, and the counselor called me. 

I had not told anyone in Miranda's first-grade class about Allie for a few reasons. The main one was that how Miranda chooses to deal with her grief is entirely up to her, and it's not my business to tell people facts about her life. We have not yet had a parent-teacher conference, and there was no real way to bring it up anyway. Conferences are around Thanksgiving, and that would have been the first opportunity I had. Certainly not as I was helping change twenty-one excited six-year-olds into their Halloween costumes!

When the counselor called me, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. She reassured me that Miranda was ok now, and she was resting in the nurse's office. She was just about to go back to class. Over the phone, while choking back the tears, I explained that Allie was my first daughter, she was stillborn at 37 weeks, she would be two years older than Miranda and that when we see butterflies, they remind us of her.

The counselor was compassionate and warm, and all the things you need to be to have that job. She said she was so so sorry for our loss and that she could not imagine how hard that must have been for us. She commended us for sharing Allie's story with Miranda and said it was a positive thing that she will always grow up knowing about the daughter that came before her. She told me that if Miranda or even I ever needed to talk again, she would be there.

I hung the phone up and sat at my desk and just started to sob. I have never cried before at a job that I like!! I was so blindsided! My kid needed me, and here I was miles away. And my kid needed me because I had been open and honest to her about our family's history.

It took me a good twenty minutes of walking around my office parking lot until I could call Gary and fill him in. Always my rock, he calmed me down, and we decided we would talk to Miranda in-between trick or treating and all the other festivities of the day.

When we did have the chance to talk, Miranda asked if she could have lunch with her counselor. She said some kids do that and they really like it. It sounded good to us! I reached out to the counselor, and she was totally on board. Miranda and she would have lunch together and chat, and that way, Miranda could have a safe person at school to talk to if she ever felt sad again, and we would still be her safe people at home. 

Lunch went great! It was on Tuesday of this week, and Miranda told me the counselor read a book to her about a little boy who was expecting his parents to come home from this hospital with a new baby, except they did not. They talked about how that situation was like Miranda's, and I think they also did some crafts. She loved it.

Allie is my sister who died when she was born.
 We love her anyway.

The next day, she was crying on the playground again. Then I found this note in her room.

I emailed the counselor asking for advice.

She offered to see her again but also suggested an outside therapist. One who deals with grief.

One that Gary and I saw back in 2011 when Allie died.

So here we are. Back in 2011, but this time with a live baby that needs our help. 

We will do anything to protect her. It's our job. I just wish it did not hurt us so much to see her struggling.

I feel badly writing this all down because this is no longer just my story to tell. However, for me to be the best mom I can be, I can't hold onto it anymore.

We got in touch with our grief counselor on Friday. She would love the chance to sit down with Gary and me and make a plan (if we even need one!) for Miranda. So that's what we shall do.

Earlier today at a pool party, Miranda lost an earring. Without thinking, I gave her one of mine.

Why can't all our problems be fixed that easily??

To be continued...

Listen to Your Heart

Life has gotten to be one big series of going here and going there, and before I know it, I always run out of time to write. I miss it, but I have found other ways to be creative and express my feelings. Often through the eyes of my daughter.

At the end of every day, we try to ask Miranda to tell us her favorite part. That usually leads to a story or two. From there, other stories take form. We do the same thing before bed some nights. We set out a series of cards and have them aid in telling us a story. The imagination of a six-year-old is quite expansive, and she has a lot to say if you know how to listen.

I say "know how to listen" because while I always hear her voice, I sometimes do not listen to the context. There are only so many "mom, mom, mom, mom" prompts that I hear before I just nod and agree before I realize Miranda is putting something on the belt at the grocery store or trying to convince me to buy her a boa that she simply must own. I hear her, but I do not always HEAR her.

Miranda started first-grade last week, and we had such a fun time doing a photoshoot in the driveway before the bus came. We are so proud of her. Her milestones and accomplishments feel like "wins" to us, too. I know they are hers and she has earned them, but we burst with pride nonetheless.

I can't help but wonder what our lives would be like if we had a third-grader in the house, too. So much of Miranda is like me, even though there is no shared biology. Would Allie, who had my blood running through her veins and my curls upon her head, also be like me? Would she be more reserved like Gary? Or would she be like her sister, because so much of who you are is who you are raised to be?

Alas, we will never know. And that pain never goes away.

We were at the beach this past weekend with some family for a last hurrah of the summer. My sister-in-law overheard Miranda tell a complete stranger that her sister had died. I have to assume the stranger saw Miranda and her cousin in matching bathing suits and asked if they were sisters. It breaks my heart that at her young age, she knows so much about death. My sister-in-law said Miranda was very matter-of-fact about it and did not at all seem bothered. So that's a plus.

At the end of the day, we are who we are. And we are who we were meant to be. If we are not, we make plans to change it. In the meantime, I have to hope that the foundation we are giving our girl is solid enough that she can determine who and what she wants to be when the time is right. I also hope that I can take a small amount of credit and a large amount of pride in whatever path she chooses. I just have to make sure to listen to it all. Her hopes, her fears, her dreams, and hopefully, just a few tears.

"Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?" - Hamilton

"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?"

We finally saw the musical Hamilton earlier this year, and I was every bit as moved by the performance as I knew I would be. There were so many scenes and characters and lyrics that made me shake my head yes and nod vigorously and clap loudly, and in the end, jump out of my seat to give a rousing standing ovation.

In the time since we got back from New York, I have been thinking over and over about the almost three-hour show.  It wasn't just the sets and the costumes and the crash course in American (and a little bit of French) history that I received that day. I was given a gift of words written by someone else that somehow, some way, deeply resonated with me.

I am scared of not being remembered. I worry that I am not doing enough in this world. I want to be sure that I am not forgotten.

Who lives, who dies, who tells MY story?

My family, that's who.

Who lives, who dies, who tells my first daughter's story? I am more scared of Allie being erased from history than I am of me. That is my biggest fear. I have no control. 

Who lives, who dies, who tells HER story?

Our family, that's who. And since she never got the chance to make her own legacy, we do our best to make one for her. We try to honor her by giving to others in her name and remembering her when we are all still here so that she will be remembered when we are not.  The doctors and nurses that took care of me, they might tell her story. The children who receive a backpack and school supplies each Fall, maybe they will tell her story. The bereavement center that gave us the skills to live without her in our arms, they may tell her story. 

Her sister. She will undoubtedly tell her story.

The Aunt of one of my closest friends passed away yesterday. So close that I called her Aunt, too. She saw me perform in our high school musicals. I had Christmas dinner at her house more than once. She was at my friend's bridal shower, and if my memory is correct, she helped throw my friend's baby shower. She was always such a positive force to my friend and her family, and I was lucky enough to know her and be a small part of her life.

As she got weaker and waited for death to come, her husband took charge of her social media account to let people know what was happening. Just a few hours before she died, he wrote that he was able to save every post she ever made. He has all her pictures and eleven years and one month of her thoughts and feelings. What a gift!

He will live to tell her story. 

"Have I done enough, will they tell your story?"

Yes, you did. They will. We will. 

I do not have to wonder what Allie was doing at 4:15pm yesterday. I know for sure that she was making a new friend. And together, they will tell many stories.

Musings of a Middle-Aged Woman

It's been a hectic few days here in my little corner of the world. I watched my friends bury their father, watched my niece take her first communion, and watched a young mother as she shared with me the agony she just experienced of burying her daughter who was born still.

For all the highs, there are the lows.

For all the lows, there are the highs.

What is in-between is the "stuff" that makes us who we are.

I was a pallbearer on Friday. I have never done that before. I was honored (and scared) to help carry the casket of a man I knew for most of my life to his final resting place. I grew up with his twin daughters and his son, and it was a freeing feeling to be able to do something for him as a way to almost repay for the years of memories his family gave me. A safe place to play. A father figure I could admire. A family unit that remained intact until the end.

On Saturday, I watched my niece participate in one of the biggest blessings of the Catholic church. She was bursting with pride at her accomplishment, and it was a joy to see her happiness. I am a firm believer that religion is essential to children as it gives them something to believe in, aside from their family. The traditions and prayers of the Catholic church were soothing and comforting and apart from Miranda in a LOUD whisper asking me why there was a guy on a cross hanging on the wall, it was a lovely day.  There are so similarities in Catholicism and Judaism, and I think Miranda and her cousins will grow up very well rounded having experienced both. We support them, and they support us. It's really amazing.

Yesterday was a shiva call, and it was so cathartic to sit around and tell stories and share anecdotes about the deceased. It does not help that he passed before anyone was ready. It does not help that my friends will never again hear their dad's voice, but the sense of community and the prayers sung in unison do give comfort that is unlike any other.

And then just when I thought the weekend was about to come to a close, I met a grieving mom and my heart burst wide open again. We went outside, amongst the kids playing frisbee in the yard and the clouds rolling in, and talking about what it is like to lose a child. What it is like to hold a baby in your arms that never cried. What it is like to want to shout to the world that you have two children, even if there is only one in the stroller. The agony and despair and love that was seeping out of this mother who had a due date of May 15th (and mine was May 11th). You never forget those dates as that is all you have. There are no dates of first teeth and first steps and first days of school. Just dates that were created before you knew that your world could shatter.

I stood before this mom as proof, though, that life goes on. I do not know how, but it does. She will smile again. She will laugh again. She will heal and take the memory of her baby with her as she grows into a different person than she ever thought she could be.

In spite of all the loss and tears of the weekend, I felt good when the sun peeked through my blinds and woke me up this morning. In reality, it was the sun as well as a perfectly timed pounce by one of my cats that woke me.

Time marches on. We all move on. Death is something I see far too much of in my opinion, so I try to see the joy in the life that is all around me. The giggle of my daughter which can make my heart soar. The pride of watching my family and friends succeed and do great things. The beauty in a sunset. The excitement of new connections and new friends. 

The way I look at it, I have lived half of my life, and I have about half left to live. I do not want to waste a moment!

Silent All These Years

Years go by, will I still be waiting for somebody else to understand

Years go by, if I'm stripped of my beauty and the orange clouds raining in my head

Years go by, will I choke on my tears 'til, finally there is nothing left

One more casualty, you know we're too easy, easy, easy

Silent all these years. 

I've been here silent all these years

Silent all these, silent all these years

~Tori Amos

For some reason, this song has been in my head all day. I used to listen to it over and over in high school. I would blare the tape in my car while smoking clove cigarettes and thinking I knew all there was to know about life.

Why did this song resonate with me? I am not one to be silent. I wasn't then, and I am not now.

On this night, eight years ago, we went to our last Labor & Delivery Class. Gary did not want to wear the pregnancy belly. I did not want to watch the video of a real birth. All I wanted was to ask the nurse who was teaching the class why I did not feel my daughter kick anymore.

On this night, eight years ago, we stopped for milkshakes on the way home. The sugar was supposed to make my baby kick.

On this night, eight years ago, our company was closed for Good Friday the next day, so it was worth it to call the doctor and then go to the hospital for reassurance because we didn't have to work in the morning, so it did not matter if we were tired.

On this night, eight years ago, I lost my innocence and naivete.

On this night, eight years ago, my baby died.

She may have died earlier in the day. She may have died the day before. There was no way to know. She was alive on Tuesday at our 37-week appointment. She was not alive by the time they did an ultrasound on this night, eight years ago.

I miss my first daughter. I wonder what she would look like today and what she would like to do. I wonder what her favorite color would be and if she would look like me.

On this night, eight years ago, I vowed to not be silent. My daughter would be remembered. And she is.

Happy almost birthday, sweet Allie. We love you more.

4 Days Till 7

My Dearest Allie,

Your birthday is this weekend, and yet we have no party planned, no presents purchased, no outfits picked out. Somehow, you would be seven years old on Sunday. I cannot wrap my brain around that. 

I just witnessed your cousin Ella turn the same age. She was born two weeks before you, you know. You two were supposed to be the best of friends. Well, your sister has made sure that the strong bond of friendship is there so don't you worry about that! They are adorably close, and Miranda idolizes her.

Speaking of Miranda, I like to think that you are someplace watching over her, but I will fill you in on her activities nonetheless. She just turned five, and we had a super fun party at Chuck E. Cheese. Miranda was glowing with all the attention that she got, and there was so much love in that room. Many of our family and friends were there to celebrate her, and she loved every second.

Your little sister is heading to kindergarten in the Fall! How can that be? I was not my best when I went to register her. I was feeling your absence pretty strongly, and kind of yelled and huffed and puffed when they told me I needed forms I didn't have. Oops. I guess even at my age, I am still learning appropriate versus inappropriate behavior. 
 
We are gearing up for the "adoption" talk. Miranda commented Grammy last weekend about growing in my belly, so we know it's time to really explain what adoption is and not just use the word here and there. I do not anticipate that it will be a hard conversation. The bottom line is that after you died, we knew we still wanted to be parents, and so we found the best way to do that. It's remarkable if you think about it.

Selfishly, I wish you were here to help us tell her. But then I wonder if she would be here at all if you were still here?

Daddy is doing well. He was traveling a lot for work, but that seems to have slowed down a bit. I am glad because we work well as a trifecta and I do not like it when he is not here. Your daddy thinks I am strong, but truth be told, he is what keeps me going some days. Lots of days.

Everyone else is also good. But I suspect you know that.

My new job is not so new anymore, but Allie, it's great! It's super fulfilling, and I feel like I am making a difference. It's nice to be in the non-profit sector again. For me, if feels more about the work than the bottom line. I fit in there, and I look forward to going in three days a week. I know, crazy, huh?

Well, the weather around here has been really off for April, so I am not sure how we are going to celebrate you on Sunday. If the rain and cold stay away, we will visit your tree. Miranda wanted to go to a playground and laugh and have fun on your birthday, and I have no issue with that! Maybe we will pack a picnic lunch. We will probably also release some balloons at the end of the day so be sure to look for them.

Alright, my sweet girl. It's time for me to go. I do not talk directly to you too much anymore because it hurts my heart, even after all this time. Today, though, you were exactly what I needed.

Allie, I love you more. I always will.

Love,
Mama 

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!

What National Adoption Month Means to Me

For over two decades, National Adoption Month has been celebrated every November in communities across the country. Many national, state and local agencies will help spread the word through programs, events, and activities that help raise awareness for thousands of children and youth in foster care who are waiting for permanent, loving families.

For us, it’s just another month in which we are so grateful that adoption exists because it was the perfect way for us to grow our family.

After Allie died, we were searching for answers and clinging to hope that we would be able to honor her and have another child. Nothing worked, and for a time, it seemed like nothing would. When we were ready, adoption was there for us. We turned to it not as a final straw, but as another avenue.

Our second daughter is now four and a half years old. She is a happy, carefree spirit that has dramatically changed the course of our lives. I barely remember a time without her, and I know my life is better having her in it.

This past Halloween, after we went trick or treating and the rest of my family was sound asleep in a sweets induced coma, I settled in to watch “This Is Us.” I enjoy the show very much and often find parallels to my life in it. 

One of the main characters in the show was adopted. His adoptive parents had triplets, and one of the babies was born still. So they adopted a third baby who happened to be born on the same day and needed a home. They brought them all home from the hospital together. When the child (Randall) grew old enough to ask, he wondered to his mother what happened to the third baby. Did that baby get lost and then Randall somehow got found?  

His mother replied, "We didn’t lose him. Not like that. He didn’t live. Sometimes that can happen. Sometimes a baby dies right at the beginning. But your dad and I had all this love in our hearts…and we saw you and met you. So yeah, you are a miracle. But you’re not instead of anything.  You are the way it was always supposed to be.”
 
My daughter knows the word adoption, and we have visits with her birth mother twice a year. She knows she has a sister who lives in heaven, too. She has not yet put together that her sister’s death is what lead us to know without a doubt that we wanted to be parents and ultimately led us to adoption and to her. She will learn it all soon enough. The few times we have tried to explain it to her so far, it’s just been too overwhelming.

In this same television show, same episode, in fact, they talk about the child that died, and that his name was Kyle. That is virtually unheard of, even now. To name a baby that has died makes that child live on and I think you can ask any loss parent and they will agree. It's so beautiful to see these nuances played out on the screen. 

I was meant to be a mom to my two girls. To the one who shares my DNA and only lives in my heart as well as to the one who looks nothing like me but shares my love of life.

I am glad months like this one exist to spread awareness, and I am glad that TV shows like this one also exist to share their messages. Most of all, I am glad adoption exists because I love my family so very much and can’t imagine us any other way.

When All You Can Do Is Cry...Then Cry

While I believe in the power of a good cry, I do not cry all that much. I feel things, sure, but I don't ugly cry all that much. It's always a relief when I do let it all out because I usually feel so good afterward.

Last week, I took advantage of "Tightwad Tuesday" at our local movie theater and went to see The Glass Castle. I had read the memoir years ago and really appreciated it. Now that I am writing my life story, I thought it might be good research to see the movie. I also just really wanted to see how they took the author's words and translated them to the screen.

I enjoyed the movie. It was not as detailed as the book (how could it be?), and there was a lot that was left out, but I loved the acting and the story as a whole. It was a lovely way to spend a few hours on a cold and wet Tuesday afternoon.

There was an aspect of the movie that made me cry. It was not about babies or stillbirth or anything that makes current day me cry. It was about the relationship between the father and his daughter, and it wrecked me.

I make no secret of the fact that my dad and I had a rocky past. I have spent years of my life dealing with the aftermath of how his words and actions impacted me. I did not think that all these years later, I could still be moved to tears by certain memories.

Once the tears started, I could not get them to stop. The tears about my dad and the sadness that came with them turned into tears about Allie and the fact that she was not going to be in any of the back to school pictures that have been splashed all over my social media accounts. I love seeing how grown up and adorable and fashionable and sassy all the kids in my life have become. But last week, all I felt was sorry that there would be no pictures of my first born. It was like a blanket of grief was sitting on my chest. I found it hard to breathe.

I cried in the car. I cried in the shower. One night I started to cry to Gary, and he looked at me with so much compassion. He was supportive and tried to help, but I felt empty and alone and sad. Grief can be so isolating.

The day after I went to the movies, I drove to a local charity and donated all of my old maternity clothes. I told Gary that they were the last connection I had to Allie and that it tore at my heart to let them go. I knew, though, that they would make some other mom very happy (and well dressed!) and there was no need for them to sit in a box in my basement anymore.

They were not my last connection to her. How dramatic! My head knows that. By my heart just could not take it. And neither could my tears.

Eventually, I ran out of tears. The sadness passed. Happiness found its way back in. I packed up my things and Miranda’s things, and we went to the beach for a few days with some family. We had such a great time soaking up the end of summer, living life, and spending time in the present and not the past.

Now I am home. The tears seem to be gone. There is sand in most of my clothes. I can breathe again. The best way to survive is to work through your grief. I am happy that I did. It sure feels good here on the other side.