Lily's Second birthday

It’s hard to even know where to begin when you are describing what it’s like to celebrate your daughter’s second birthday in Heaven. So much of this journey of life after loss is so different than I expected, including a second birthday celebration.

For starters, I thought it would be easier as each year passes, but I think I cried more this year than I did last year. And I didn’t think that was possible.

We didn’t really know what to do with her birthday this year. I’m so torn between wanting to broadcast my love for her and selfishly keeping it all to myself. But when it comes down to it, I only want it to be Jason, Ted and myself celebrating our girl the best way we know how.

Her birthday was on a Saturday this year. And I just knew I needed to leave town for the day. Her birthday was a double whammy of emotion for me because I also should have been 37 weeks pregnant, but I wasn’t. So knowing that if I had been big and pregnant our plans would have been so different, just adds a new layer of grief to missing our babies.

As much as I want to keep Lily all to myself, I also wanted to celebrate her with family. Ted picked out a box of pink cupcakes and we made them the night before her birthday. We met my sister and her family at the cemetery to celebrate Lily. Ted picked out a gift for her, and my sister made the sweetest banner and we ate pink cupcakes.

Here is what I shared on Instagram:

I hate pink. And princesses and tutus. Really anything frilly and girly. I always have. But today I would give anything to be throwing a princess party instead of having pink cupcakes in a cemetery. I would dress her in whatever princess dress she wanted. I would do my best to curl her stick straight hair. And I would cherish every moment of “terrible twos”. She is a princess. The best kind there is because she dances all of her days in Heaven, the daughter of a King. Every moment of every day I try to wrap my head around this painfully beautiful mystery. And I will spend the rest of my days trying to perfect this dance so I can spend eternity twirling with my girl and our King.

Happy birthday sweet girl. I miss you more than my words can tell.

On her birthday, we started the day like we have since she was born. We started with prayer. We went to Mass and it was so wonderful to have family and friends to honor her day with us. I said earlier, I am so conflicted between keeping her all to myself and sharing her with everyone, but it was a balm to my soul to know how much our friends and family love us through this life of grief. It was the perfect start to our day.

We then headed north to Williams, Arizona. I think it will always be a special place for us to celebrate Lily. Almost a month after she was born, my sweet cousins surprised us with a trip to the Polar Express in Williams. We were still riding the wave of shock before grief really set in, so we were able to really enjoy our time there. This trip, we decided to go to Bearizona with Ted.  

It was an incredibly beautiful day. There are few things I find more enjoyable than a weekend with just Jason and Ted. We drove through the park and walked through the exhibits. But just like every moment of every day since she was born, I am struck with the lingering thoughts of what if she was here? What would we be doing? Not just for her second birthday, but for every moment of every day. Where would she be in our lives?

I think that’s a part of life after loss that no one really allows themselves to think about. I didn’t just lose my newborn. I lost my daughter, my now two year old. We lost a generation. Every day, I find myself wondering and imagining exactly what she would be doing if she were here.  Would she be sharing a room with Ted? Would she have stick straight hair like her brother or the red curls I’ve always dreamed about? How would they play together? Who would her little friends be? Would she follow Ted around? Would she be in awe of her big brother?

So many questions and I will never have the answers.

But we press on the very best we can. We embrace all the sweet and tender moments with Ted, meanwhile longing for glimpses of Lily in Heaven.

We spent the night in Williams. It was fun to hole up in a hotel for the night. We watched movies, ate pizza, and went swimming. We embraced this day and made the very best of it because that’s what you do to honor your child.

We remembered again our one and only night with her. How we examined her every sweet detail and tried our best to soak it all in as best we could. If I have one regret, it’s that I didn’t take enough of these pictures. The one of Jason holding Lily, with a smile on his face, tears and exhaustion in his eyes. It perfectly captures every feeling of that night.

Here again from my Instagram:

If I could relive one day over and over it would the day Lily was born. Every day leading up to her birth was full of anxiousness and uncertainty, but the day she was born was grace. Pure grace. I understand addiction a little more now, because every day since she was born I have obsessively been trying to get that grace back. Her birthday is full of glimpses of it, reminders of how extraordinary it was to finally hold her in my arms, to memorize every sweet and perfect detail of her. And this picture of Jason holding his beloved daughter sums up every moment of the past two years…smiles through tears, joy intertwined with sorrow. Teetering between here and there until we are reunited with our precious girl.

I am so grateful for the birthday wishes for Lily. So grateful for everyone who hasn’t given up on me and has tried to love me through this grief, through this journey which is nothing what I imagined. I have experienced grace in a more intimate and divine way than most and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. We love and miss you like crazy Lily. Thank you for showering us with peace and grace from Heaven, we felt it baby girl…all day long.

We went to Mass the next night when we got back in town. It was a quiet Mass, and now looking back, maybe we should have gone earlier in the day. Because as I was kneeling there, watching the sun descend outside, it all just washed over me again. My daughter is dead. And I didn’t anticipate a wave like that to crash into me again after such a beautiful weekend celebrating Lily.

But the quiet of the Mass, the darkness outside, brought me right back to the exact night two years before. My first of many nights without my daughter. The weight of it all was just too much for me to bear. I found myself weeping. Big, fat, ugly tears.

I miss my daughter. I miss Lily with every ounce of my being.

After Mass, one of my dear friends came up to me and I just buried myself into her hug. She’s one of those friends that just knows when the waves are starting to crash one after the next. I could hardly breathe between the sobs. After a few moments of me sobbing into her shirt, she just looked at me, smiled through her own tears and said, “I wish I had any words that were good enough right now.”

And I just sobbed again.

Because there are no magical words. And hearing someone else say that is actually a tremendous gift.

I believe in God and I believe without a doubt my daughter is in Heaven. But when you get to throw a princess party for your two year old and I don’t, all that sentiment is lost on me. Many days my comfort comes from knowing she’s where I long to be, but not on her birthday. On her birthday, I just wanted to braid her hair and eat pink cupcakes with her, not sitting next to her grave.

I can’t imagine a birthday where I ever won’t long for her to be right by my side.

The story I don't want to tell

This is the story I don't want to share.

The story I want to tell you is the story where I was on a retreat, grieving Lily and still hurt and angry that she wasn't in my arms. But in the midst of all of that I heard God say, "I have a baby for you."

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant, finally, after nine grueling months of negative tests and 15 months of missing my girl.

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant on Good Friday...and the Feast of the Annunciation. Two feasts that will never coincide again in our lifetime. And that I read this sweet blog just after I found out. And that finding out on this day filled me with unspeakable  peace I haven't felt since I held Lily in my arms.

The story I want to share is that this baby was due around Thanksgiving, just two weeks after Lily's second birthday. What normally is such a hard time of the year for us, was going to be filled with redeeming grace as we welcomed Ted and Lily's little sister or brother. We were going to have holidays we could look forward to.

The story I want to share is where I tried and tried to put up a shield and not love this baby with all my heart, but failed instantly. A story where I was already making plans and dreaming big for this little love of mine. A story where I could already envision Ted sharing sweet moments with this sweet baby when we visit Lily.

The story I want to share is I was almost starting to feel normal again. The story where the eight week ultrasound wasn't on my radar because those always go as planned. 

The story I wanted to share with you includes a cute announcement on Instagram of Ted and Lily sharing they were getting a new brother and sister this year.

But this is the part of the story I don't want to share.

A story that is once again filled with despair instead of hope. A story where we were once again left with a stranger telling us we don't get to keep our precious child.

A story where I couldn't even look at my husband because I was so afraid to see the hurt in his eyes. Once again we had to beg the question WHY? And this "why" cuts so much deeper than the first.

This is the part where people tell me how brave and strong I am, but honestly, I've never felt more broken or more weak. This is the part where people tell me how my faith will carry me through things and all I want to do is scream and cry at a God who could allow this type of loss to happen twice to anyone.

This is the part where I had to once again put on a brave face to celebrate my son's birthday, all the while feeling like I am dying inside. 

This is the part where I have to learn to silently forgive every single person who says the wrong thing because they have no idea what to say. The part where I want to burst into tears whenever I hear a sentence that begins with, "At least..."

There is no at least. There is no "at least you weren't far along" or "at least you didn't get too attached" because the truth is I was...I still am. I love this little person with all of my being the same way I love Ted and Lily. 

There is no "you can have more babies" because honestly no one knows that any more than I do. Rainbows are not a guarantee of any storm, let alone the storm of child loss. And more importantly, I wanted this baby...this sweet and perfect child. This irreplaceable, and unrepeatable, unique soul. 

But even harder than forgiving an ignorant comment is forgiving silence. The painful silence when you see someone for the first time after you lost yet another child. A silence that screams you weren't that far along. A silence that screams your child doesn't matter. The silence hurts so much more than any ignorant comment. Because the truth is, if you are eager to celebrate a new life growing inside of me, then you need to be willing to mourn that loss with me too. 

A week ago I was pregnant and today I am not. It's so surreal. Usually people say that with a smile on their face and a baby in their arms. I have said it now twice with tears in my eyes and empty arms.

I wish I had some positive spin for this post to turn on, but the truth is, right now, I don't. 

I have nothing. I am empty. I am broken.

I am without two of my children.

I miss my babies.

What Christmas looked like

I don't know why it's taken me so long to document Christmas, or anything else really. I have lots to say and lots of posts brewing in my mind, but I just haven't been able to get it all out. Part of it is someone has decided they don't need to nap anymore. The other part, the bigger part is just being afraid to truly share where my heart is. Because truth be told friends, it isn't pretty right now. 

The holidays were hard. Really hard. Every single minute of it. And it was so much more difficult than last year. 

You know a newborn sleeps through Christmas. Their only memory is the pictures we take and the stories we tell. But a one year old? They start to see the magic. Their eyes light up when they see Christmas lights. They either smile, or scream and cry, at Santa. They get to dress up as little angels for the Nativity play and show off their adorable Christmas jammies at the end of the night. They let their big brother open all of their gifts and they fall asleep in your lap because they are just too exhausted from all the fun they had with their dozens and dozens of cousins. So as much as my heart was aching that she missed her newborn Christmas, it aches all the more for her one year old Christmas.

One afternoon before Christmas, Ted and I went to the mall to return something. We stopped at the play area so he could get some energy out. I was sitting in the corner watching him play and my eyes started to scan the play area. I don't know why I do this, because it always leads to tears. I can see little ones who are just starting to toddle and walk and I know they are Lily's age. I just sat there with the tears flowing down my cheeks knowing for the first time in that moment, I'm not just missing Lily in my arms...I am missing her from my life. She would have been 13 months old around Christmas. Maybe walking, maybe not, but either way, she wouldn't just be in my arms. She would be out with Ted, following him around, trying to keep up with her big brother. When I try really hard I can see her right next to him. I see her staring up at him, smiling and laughing at him. Right then and there it really hit me...I didn't just lose my baby, I lost my daughter.

This was really just the beginning of how hard the holidays were for us. Every single, sweet moment with Ted was sprinkled with heartache missing Lily. It took me all of Advent to get around to decorating her tree. I don't know why, but I just couldn't do it. Maybe it's because that's it. That's all I get. A stupid tree to decorate for her. I don't get to buy her baby dolls or her first Pottery Barn chair, I get a tree. A stupid, fake, tree to decorate for my daughter. I hate thinking that and I really hate saying it out loud. We have been gifted with some beautiful decorations for Lily's tree from family and friends and I really do love them. But when you really think about it, how much does it just suck that that's all I get with my daughter? I just get to decorate a tree for her...

oh, and her grave. Which leads me to my other self-pity Christmas story. When we were buying decorations for her birthday, I saw a lot of Christmas stuff and I started planning in my head what I wanted to do for Christmas for her grave. I finally got around to buying it and when I went back to the store, everything I had wanted to buy was gone. All of it. I didn't know what to do. I felt so helpless and so broken in that moment. I just stood in the middle of the aisle and started crying. Big, ugly, fat crying tears and I couldn't stop. All I could think about was how unfair all of this is. How I shouldn't be buying grave decorations at all, I should be buying her first baby doll and stroller. But instead I'm faced with this nightmare of a reality. My daughter is dead. My son doesn't get to have Christmas with his sister. My arms are empty. I miss my daughter. 

(Side note: if you really want to be humbled about what really matters at Christmas, go visit the infant section of a cemetery during Christmas. I've never seen so many decorations for so many little loves who are missed all year long, but especially during the holidays.)

It was all just so much more than I ever imagined. And I usually LOVE Christmas. It is one of my favorite times of the year. I have a big, wonderful, loving family in Iowa that loves to celebrate and I just couldn't face them this year. I couldn't really face anyone but Jason and Ted. I couldn't fake a smile when I felt like I was dying inside. And I couldn't celebrate a big, wonderful family Christmas without Lily. 

So we stayed here and made the most of it. We decorated our house...very slowly. We took the whole season of Advent to decorate each room of our house. I actually loved that part. I could savor the simplicity and I could recognize what this season is all about - finding ourselves ready and preparing for the true gift of Christmas. I finally got around to decorating Lily's tree and it was so beautiful, I couldn't take it down until this past week (just before Lent!). We took Ted to see all the Christmas lights and he loved it! We celebrated Christmas Eve with just us. We went to Mass and we watched with delight as Ted opened his gifts on Christmas morning.

And I smiled and cried and cried and smiled. I smiled that Ted was in awe of the season. And cried missing my daughter. I cried that Ted woke up by himself on Christmas morning instead of with his sister. And I smiled knowing that Lily knows the true meaning of this season better than anyone because she isn't awaiting her King...she's dancing with Him. 

Such is this life, smiles and tears, smiles and tears, somewhere between Heaven and Earth.