Hello. Again.

With shame, I admit it has been well over a year since I last made an entry here. To say that life has "changed" would be a ridiculous, gross understatement. My three children are growing up far too fast. I can't stop them and each passing day feels like another testament to my own mortality. I am awaiting the final judgement of divorce, thus putting the period at the end of my ten year marriage. I've been reunited with someone from my past and we're navigating our way through the future together. Some things have been a blessing, others a curse. And yet one thing has remained. Pain. This isn't a "woe is me, fuck my life" commentary. This is reality. This is my life. It's better than others. It's worse than others. It is what it is. It's mine. Mine to figure out. Mine to work through. I won't be rushed. I won't be told how to feel or when to feel it.
Alot of parents who have lost a child can still lift each other up when the moment arises or fall safely in the security of knowing there is one other person in this world who might know exactly what you're feeling. Each loss is unique. You can share with other parents who have endured the torture of child loss with the reasonable expectation that they have an idea of what you're going through. You speak a similar language. You know what they're about to say before they say it. Pain crosses barriers. My personal journey has led me to the realization that I no longer share that bond with the father of my children. Our demise has been so bitter that we struggle to speak about our surviving children with any sort of ease. The last time either of us spoke of Lucie in the other's presence was in court. I recounted through tears, carrying her in my body, learning her fate, and holding her as she took her final breath. He turned his chair and faced the wall, unable to even look in my direction. The further I got in the divorce process, the more it became clear that I am not at peace with my daughter's passing. I fought to keep "custody" of my daughter's ashes. I thought I was doing ok. I thought that the fact that I still got up every day and powered through meant I was healing. I didn't let myself fall apart because I have three other little people counting on me. For the most part, I haven't let them down. I try to show them that they are enough. But the hole is still there. The pain still palpable. The bittersweet part in all of this is that with each passing milestone Helena makes, I miss her sister more and more. Helena is an amazing, beautiful child. At 2 years and 9 months, I can already tell she has an old soul. She will grab my face and pull me in, telling me "I love you so much, mommy" and I crumble because I feel her AND her twin as she does it. In that moment, I feel Lucie's presence wash over me. Helena is my most defiant child. She has a will that doesn't seem to be breakable. It's as though she's telling me that she fought to be in this world and there's no way she's going to just lie down and take anything anyone says to her. I feel like she has the spirit of her sister in her as well. She's fighting her way through this world for herself and for her twin as well. This child is a force to be reckoned with. It makes me exceedingly proud and weary at the same time. I have begun to explain to Helena what happened to Lucie. Helena sees her own face in Lucie's photo on the wall. She asks about her. The more I tell her, the more she understands and becomes vulnerable to feeling that loss and the more I feel it as well. It's baby steps for us both.

For Marley....

Today I awoke to the unimaginable. A friend had lost his only daughter. A beautiful, healthy, 15 month old girl named Marley. She had her father's eyes. I never got to meet Marley. Her parents and I had plans to get Helena and Marley together for a play date in the near future. I had just spent some time with her father up at the lake house. It was more than obvious this was a little girl so beloved, so cherished. He went on and on in the way a first time parent does. Each story a gem, relaying each little milestone his pride and joy had made. And now it has all come to a screeching halt. Marley's passing was sudden and remains full of speculation. Sometimes I think that might be the harder part. Not knowing why your child has left. Having no preparation for their departure. We had a full 24 weeks to prepare for losing Lucie. We knew the cause of her impending death. We had some sort of control; some sort of say in how we said goodbye. My friend and his wife did not have this luxury. They were called to come see their baby and say their goodbyes. No time to gather any composure. Not a second to try to make sense of any of it.
My heart breaks when I think of it. These parents, good parents. Good people. Loving people. Ready to be there every step of the way for their little girl, to bring her up in this world full of so many parents who drop the ball. People walk away from their children every day. They make conscious decisions to stop parenting and stop caring. They abuse them. They betray them. And somehow they remain here. It will never make sense to me. I know my own pain and how much it hurts and I can't even fathom what these people are going through. We were so blessed to have Helena come out of that terrible situation. We were so lucky to have Anezka and Lukas to fall back on. Grieving is much easier when you have other life you made around you, I've found.

People were looking to me for some advice on how to approach this with them. The only thing I felt strongly about was that you never ignore or pretend you don't know what happened when you're around the grieving. I've had so many people who I know are aware of Lucie, never say a word to me about it. They're too scared to bring it up, not sure what to say. SAY ANYTHING. Let the grieving turn you away. Allow that person the control they missed out on, the privilege to say, "not now, please" or "thank you". Don't place further burden on cracked and broken shoulders by waiting for them to talk to you and bring it up. We who are grieving are often more concerned about your comfort than our own. Perhaps it's extra, misplaced nurturing that we feel the need to carry out with someone, anyone. Cater to someone else besides ourselves. I find it surprisingly cathartic to offer up my help to them. I'll be their shoulder, should they need it. I'll carry them if they call on me.

As I've said before, I'm not really the praying type. But I send my heart and thoughts up to the universe for people I know need it. This isn't a void easily repaired with time. There is no spackle for the hole in the wall. There is learning to walk with darkness. Learning to live with pain. I beg for peace and love for all of the family. They desperately need it. And for beloved Marley. May she rest in peace and love and always know she was someone's everything.

torture...follows reward....follows torture...

There is a definite dichotomy that exists within me. When I have the opportunity to gush about my wonderful children, I'm always pausing in my head. Do I? Don't I? How well do I know this person? Does it matter? How will they take it? How will I tell them? The fact is, if you've ever asked me about my kids, you've probably witnessed my brain slow to a standstill while I work out the answers to those questions. And maybe I've told you the whole story, or maybe I've simply smiled and delivered your inquiry with one worded answers; the less details the better. When people do hear initially that I've had two sets of twins, and then I proceed to talk about three children, I can see their wheels turning. They're doing the math, they're thinking to themselves, "I heard two sets, right?". Then come the inevitable oos and ahs of praise and admiration for two sets of twins, "what lovely children!", followed by the let down of the "oh, I'm so sorry" that is always delivered with this terrible puppy dog eyed look of pity. I always feel an internal battle during these moments. Should I have said anything at all? Is this person going to tell me it was God's will? Can I not just talk about my kids and share like a normal person without having to ride this insane roller coaster of emotion while the words leave my mouth on autopilot, smile plastered on my face like a damn Stepford Wife? Could my biggest problem please be a tantrum over toys and not how to explain for the millionth time that no, Lucie isn't at the hospital, sweetie, she's dead, her body stopped working?
How many kids do you have? 3, 4? 4-1? Why can't it be easier? When will it stop feeling like torture and start feeling ok?

did you have to let it linger....

It's been a while since I've written. I think part of me actually felt like I was being self indulgent in my words. At the same time, isn't that what it's all for though? To indulge these feelings, to put them out there to the universe and hope they bring some good back?

Regardless, I'm back. Today I was thinking of spring's renewal; life eternal. I'm sad she's not here to enjoy the green coming to life. To witness bugs on the ground scrambling to their tunnels. To share in that with her sisters and brother.


I watch the three kids out in the sandbox and it affirms how lucky I am. Three beautiful, bright children who somehow manage to keep me grounded when I've wanted to float off. I'm missing her more these days when I see Helena doing something for the first time. Or when I catch her in the middle of a giggle fit like only a child knows how to have. I just try to hold on a little longer, keep her gaze a little longer, hope she holds my hand a little longer, listen to her squealing in joy a little longer. She's simply a phenomenal child, a gift in every sense of the word. They all are. With each sunrise, her childhood is passing. Soon they will all be teens, just trying to find a way to ditch their mom. Letting me know loud and clear, I'm not needed anymore. I hope that day never comes. I need them to need me, to want their mom, to want that embrace only their mom can provide.

So between now and then, I'll just linger a little longer with them. Admiring their innocence, their curiosity, their passion for the simple.

Levity

A lot of what I write is bogged down in self reflective sorrow and grief. For obvious reasons, of course. Many times I hesitate to write a more up beat post because the maternal guilt I harbor stops me, reminding me I am grief-stricken. And I am, I am. But I'm also so privileged to witness another human being paving their way in this world. Greeting each new encounter with the same level of excitement and curiosity. She's not jaded, she's not bitter, she's porcelain skin innocent. Her father and I watched her today as she realized that crawling is not reserved just for retrieval, but for travel. We watched her place hand after tiny hand in front of herself, lifting her knees with slight trepidation, showing us that indeed, this IS new and scary and exciting all at the same time. She looked up at us as if to ask, "Am I doing this right?" and we reassured her "Yes! Go Helena! Yes!!". As she giggled and gurgled down the hallway, we saw the delight wash over her face when she realized in an instant that she can chase after her siblings. Cheeks smooshed up to her ears, baring all eight teeth, our baby girl began forging her way through this world. We encouraged her to follow, we assisted when she nearly ran into the wall. But mostly we sat on the sidelines, hearts bursting, laughter echoing, as our daughter made her way.
It is in moments like today, where everything is okay, pain subsides, the void almost full.

Shining Light

Everyone is always telling me they're amazed at my strength. At how I manage to hold myself together when something so devastating as losing a child forced itself upon my world. I appreciate peoples' genuine admiration in that regard. It's nice that friends and family notice that I actively try to keep my head above water. It means I'm mostly successful at it, which in turn, means I'm somehow managing to meet my kids' needs.
The 26th came and went nearly as fast as Lucie did. The night before, I looked over old photos of their birth. I realized, I never got to look into her eyes. I'm sure they were just as blue as her sister's. They bring to mind tiny robin's eggs and spring moving in where the cold once presided. When you look into Helena's eyes, you are immediately rejuvenated; any clouds clear and the sun shines on green budded trees of your soul. Ironically, Helena's name literally means "sun ray or shining light". We never planned that. It just happened. Equally by chance, her middle name Grace, means "blessing". Indeed.

Full circle.

In a few days, it will be Helena's first birthday. No one can believe that day is here, least of all, me. I remember the day I went in for one of my last routine check ups and there were changes in the babies. I remember feeling the blood leave my head as the doctor was telling me about my admission to happen later that day. All I could think about was that it's time. Time to say goodbye. Time to say hello. Like some sinister twist on an Aloha.


I was walking around the house today, spotting stuff I haven't had the courage to part with or even deal with in a year. That tote bag of hospital paperwork- the only time I signed as your parent, where I actively made decisions as your mommy, tucked away in my closet. The tin containing the cast of your hand and foot prints that the nurses made for me. The teddy bear angel with the glitter rubbed off the wings, hanging from a suction cup on the side of the computer. Your photograph sitting in your twin's room, waiting to be hung. The blood stained blanket that once held you while I held on for just a little longer, sitting in the dresser drawer. Cards from all over with words of encouragement and sympathy. The plant that was sent to me for you and your sister, leaves turning black like some terrible cancer. Your urn- the vessel that holds the remains of your physical body. It's probably covered in dust, I'm terrified to pick it up for fear I'll drop it. I get cards in the mail about you. Just the other day I got one from the two nurses who were so kind. They washed you up, made sure you were warm. Baby, I can't believe you're gone. At night the computer screen goes to sleep while photos flash across the screen. I always seem to look up right when there's one of you in my arms.


You would have loved your brother and sisters. They're full of life, laughter, and love. They ask about you all the time, and I know your twin feels you still. I can see it in her calm, quiet eyes. In the way she rests her head on my shoulder. When she twirls my hair on her finger. I know that somehow, through her, I feel you too.

I don't know what happens when we go, but I'm just hoping you know how much I love you.