Inside my grandmother’s house, you’ll find a black binder. If you thumb through the pages, you’ll see clippings from the local paper. Obituaries. It’s full of obituaries. I’ve taken to calling it the “death book.”   It’s mostly elderly relatives and friends that lived long, full lives.  But interspersed with obituaries of those like my great-grandmother who lived well into her 90’s, you’ll find some clippings that seem more tragic than others. My grandfather who was in his late 40s.  My father also in his late 40s. If you keep looking, as I did when it happened to be sitting out after she added a page for her friend who died recently, you’ll run across my cousin who was in his 20’s when he was murdered.  I hadn’t seen his obituary or the accompanying articles about his death in years.  It’s particularly striking when you read through and see the words “survived by his mother…” I kept thumbing through until I found Zoey’s page.  Her obituary and the program from her memorial service are preserved under a plastic sheet along with a handwritten note that I hadn’t seen before.

Dear LaVera,

We were so pleased to be able to meet your great-granddaughter, Zoey.  In trying to think of words of consolation for you, I realize that it was your dream of the three clouds that was the most comforting.  The third cloud with a butterfly flitting on Zoey, nestled in her great-great grandmother’s arms is exactly where we hope her to be—with her struggles behind her and looking forward to the day when she is reunited with all of her loving family.

All our love, Margie & Karl

If I heard the story about my grandmother dreaming about Zoey, I’d forgotten it in the haze of grief.  And maybe she never shared it with me.  But imagining my sweet girl cuddling with my great-grandmother, a woman I adored, is exactly what I needed.  Snuggled there on my great-grandma’s lap, she is happy—smiling as my great-grandma Ring tells her how we’d walk to the park and stop for a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone on the way home.

I’ve struggled since Zoey’s birthday. At times the sadness has been just under the surface. There have been other moments where I feel it has blindsided me.  Smacking me down on an otherwise ordinary day. Maybe it’s because I’m watching Sebastian meet milestones Zoey never was able to reach. Maybe it’s the stress of adding another baby to our family and having no control over the process.  Maybe it’s realizing this is the year I should be taking pictures of her on her first day of kindergarten, a little backpack over her shoulders and glittery sandals on her feet.  Maybe it’s all of that along with missing her for five full years now.  All I know is that my heart needed to be reminded that she’s waiting for me, but that she’s in good hands with all those who have loved me too.

My grandmother’s binder is full of reminders of death and tragedy.  But there, tucked alongside the stories of those we’ve lost, are reminders of all those we’ve loved.

‘Tis a Fearful Thing

Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.
A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –
to be,
And oh, to lose.
A thing for fools, this,
And a holy thing, a holy thing
to love.
For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
To remember this brings painful joy.
‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.

Jehudah Halevi

If you’d given me a sneak peek of this point in my life ten years ago, I would not have believed you.  I would have given you a shake of the head and said you had me confused with someone else.  I know plans tend to take at least a few unexpected turns, but somewhere along the way, I tossed my life plan completely out the window.

We spent May 1st at the Zoo celebrating the birthday of our daughter who should have been turning five.  Should have… but didn’t. Because she died. We’ve been to the Zoo on Zoey’s birthday many years since her death.  But that day, we also took our son.  The one we adopted after years of failed fertility treatments.  I suppose nobody imagines the pain of losing a child, the struggle to get pregnant and the twists the adoption process gives you, but there I was wearing my “Zoey’s Crew” t-shirt while holding the most adorable baby boy.

Joe and I talked about Zoey a lot that day.  We remembered how scared we were to go to the hospital not knowing if we’d even get to meet her alive.  We talked about the decision to have a c-section (well, in reality, it wasn’t a decision—there was no question in my mind). We talked about the joy she brought us.  And we talked about the heartbreak of losing her.  We talked about how complicated it is to miss her but be so overjoyed to have Sebastian.  It’s difficult to grasp that he wouldn’t be in our lives if she was alive.  He hasn’t erased the pain of losing Zoey, but he’s brought much-needed light and joy to our home.

The new life plan is messy and confusing. Broken but beautiful.   It makes “expect the unexpected” reality.   I would have never imagined the next step our little family is taking.  Growing again.  We have the exciting opportunity to adopt Sebastian’s sibling, due in September.  Less than a month before Sebastian’s first birthday.  I’m still trying to wrap my mind around having two kids so close together, but we feel this is part of the new plan.  Crazy.  Busy. Complicated.  Magical.

Sometimes the unexpected is more beautiful than you ever imagined.

Our beautiful baby girl lived for 120 days.  She died just shy of her 4month birthday.

One hundred and twenty days ago we welcomed our sweet boy, Sebastian.  In a few days, he will turn four months.  And the day after that, he will “officially” be ours with the finalization of his adoption.

There are similarities between our time with Zoey and our time with Sebastian.  Long, sleepless nights.  Constant worry.  A million checks to see if that sweet, napping baby is breathing.  And all the sweet moments.  Covering them in kisses.  Looking into their beautiful eyes and telling them how endless our love is.

And though our love for both our children is the same, the passage of time feels very different.  We appreciate and soak in as much time with Sebastian as we can.  We savor his sweet little smiles and his attempts at laughing (currently more of a squawk).  But we knew Zoey would be leaving us.  We spent 120 days knowing each moment could be our last.

Sebastian has been a much-needed light in our lives.  We are ever grateful for this beautiful gift.  But just as time does not heal all wounds, neither does the arrival of our son.  We still ache for our girl.  We miss her every moment.  The dance between grief and joy continues on this Valentine’s Day.

We love you, Zoey.  And we love you, Sebastian.

Link to my latest post on Still Standing.

https://stillstandingmag.com/2018/07/thanks-for-praying-for-me-but-im-tired-of-prayers/

I’d like to talk about empathy for a minute.  Or more specifically, empathy burnout.  With so many headlines invading our news feeds about injured, suffering, and dying children it is easy to get fatigued.  Personally, this last week has left me exhausted.  In fact, the last year or so has overflowed my empathy tank.  I can hear the cries of children missing their moms and I can feel the wail of a mom missing her baby.  It can be overwhelming, especially to those who have lost a child, to read about another shooting or death of a child.  Because you know that in a few hours another mom and dad will answer the phone to have their heart shattered.  You’ve answered that call.  And you know their hearts, like yours, will forever be broken.

So what do we do?  Do we turn it all off and just go search recipes on Pinterest?  Honestly, I think it is ok if we all take a little retreat now and then.  I definitely need to limit my intake to protect my fragile heart.  I think we can all retreat for a moment to take care of our families and take care of ourselves.  If you’re a parent, focus on raising kind, loving, emphatic and compassionate children so they can help make a difference in this broken world.

And when you’re ready, come back to the fight.  Even if that just means showing the world that broken is still beautiful.  That shattered hearts still have value.  And that love still wins.

Four years ago we anxiously awaited the moment our baby girl would arrive.  I think back to the operating room.  Saying it was surreal does not do it justice.  Before that moment, I never even entertained the idea that I’d have a C-section.  Maybe that kept me from being scared while it happened (actually, I’ll admit that the anesthesiologist hovering over me the entire time was a little nerve-wracking!)   My focus was on our little girl, though.  Would she live through the surgery?  Would she live long enough for me to hold her and to tell her how much I loved her?

She did.

I was blessed with a beautiful little soul that day four years ago.  And today was for celebrating that precious life.  Today we celebrated the sweet little coo she’d make when content, the way she’d scrunch her forehead when upset or curious, and the little clenched fist that she’d throw in the air when hungry. We remembered the way she smelled after a bath and the way her hair would get so fluffy.  We looked back on the quiet moments, nestled in our chair with her kitty at my feet.  We celebrated everything that made us a normal little family for as long as we could be.

I hope you’re having a wonderful birthday today, my sweet girl.   I wish I could wrap my arms around you and smother you with birthday kisses.  I love you.

Every October since Zoey died, I have taken part in the Capture Your Grief project.  That is until this year.  This year I just never could find the time, space or words.  It’s been a bit hectic since I last wrote.  We’ve started the adoption process.  And with it the mounds of paperwork.  It is a bit overwhelming and I wonder how we’ll ever get through all of the steps.  I need to keep reminding myself that it is one day at a time.  One form at a time.  One online learning module.  I feel like I’m back in college, but this time I’m writing essays about myself and asking for letters of reference regarding my ability to parent rather than my ability to hold a job!  But with the chaos comes the hope.  Hope that we will once again get to parent a living child.

Next month we will invite a stranger into our home, allow her to wander through our house checking for smoke detectors and fire extinguishers.  She’ll look into our cabinets and make sure our medications are safely out of reach of children.  And she’ll open the door to Zoey’s room.  A room that has been empty for more than three years now, but remains as it was the day she died.   We have another spare room in our house so we could use that for another child.  But that just doesn’t feel right.  Zoey’s room feels right.  Allowing the sun to shine through the blinds once again.  Swaying under the ceiling fan where my mom attached a homemade mobile.  Pulling a book from the shelf of stories our family and friends sent to her.  Breathing new life into the space.  That room is where I felt Zoey belonged.  And it’s where I believe another child can make new memories while still feeling her presence. I am not trying to replace my daughter.  But Joe and I know there is more love to give.

My most recent story for Still Standing was just published. You can find it here: http://stillstandingmag.com/2017/11/body-betrayal/

The last time I was here, we’d just found out that the first embryo transfer failed.  We had one frozen embryo left to try.  After giving it some thought, we went ahead and transferred the 3rd embryo in early August.

And then we waited.  Held our breath.  Tried not to hope too hard.

But you can’t help yourself sometimes, can you?  I started imagining life with a baby again.  A boy this time.  And I wondered if he’d have my eyes.  And how cute he’d look in that little outfit at Target.  I thought about how I’d tell my husband that he’s going to be a dad again– this time to a son.  My mind wandered and I begin to dream despite my best efforts to avoid those possibilities.

But then the phone rang.  And I knew as soon as I answered.  I kind of knew all along. Because not everything is puppies and rainbows.

The second transfer– the one with the only remaining embryo– failed.

I’m not ready to give up on having another child.  But I’m ready to have my  body back. I’m tired of feeling like a science experiment. I’m tired of the poking, prodding and drugs. I’m tired of the mood swings and irrationality.  I’m tired of a group of doctor’s sitting around a table talking about me.  I’m tired of statistics. I’m tired of failing.

I’m ready to move to the next path.  To at least explore what other options are available to us.  I don’t know where it will take us.  We’ll just have to keep hiking as we have through all of this.

**I am now a contributor for Still Standing magazine.  It’s an online source for families dealing with child loss and infertility.  Some of my blog posts will appear there instead of here, but I’ll try to remember to post them here as well.  As always, thank you for allowing me to share our journey with you.  My first was in July.  Here’s the link**

http://stillstandingmag.com/2017/07/on-the-cliff/