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.

30 weeks not pregnant

That's where I am right now. Counting the weeks and months of what should be. 

I have a 3 year old. 

But in a few weeks I should also have a two year old and a few weeks after that I should have a newborn. 

The world gives you permission to miss your newborn...for awhile at least. Not nearly as long as you really need, but still, most certainly a lot longer than they give you permission to miss a child you lose through miscarriage. 

Perhaps it's because someone, somewhere, somehow has decided my grief should be measured by how long my children were with me, but in my reality it's measured so much more by how long I am without them. 

I miss Lily with every ounce of my being. And I miss Clare too. Just as much. 

Some days it seems like more. Some days the pain of missing Clare is magnified so much more because of all the "things" I don't have. I don't have pictures or outfits or a memory of holding her that I can cling to. I don't have a huge trunk full of memories of Clare like I do with Lily. I have one tiny box with a handful of cards and one ultrasound picture.

Some will say this is a blessing. Because you can't miss what you never had, right? 

Then why do I miss this baby so much? Why did it feel just like losing Lily all over again? Why has my grief been multiplying over and over these past five months?

We've emptied our house of everything baby. I've given away clothes and toys, only holding on to a few sentimental items. The infant car seat has been stashed away and the crib has been lent to a friend. Because keeping baby items for 3 1/2 years seemed practical, but keeping baby items for 4 plus years seems foolish. Wishful thinking that I just don't have in me right now.

It's hard to truly believe that this is our reality. So many mornings I wake up hoping it's all been a dream and I wait for a second to see if I will hear the two sets of feet that should be running into our room and another set that should be kicking my ribs. But instead, I look down, and my belly is flat (or rather flabby), and just one set of feet run to greet me in the morning. 

It's only September and I am already dreading this holiday season. Desperately wishing for the holidays that should be. The Thanksgiving where I should be nesting and hoping for labor to set in. The Christmas that should be with two excited toddlers giggling in excitement for Christmas morning and a newborn who should be snuggled up in Christmas jammies. The Christmas card that should be sent out late because it would be a birth announcement too. The New Year's Eve with three kids in bed by 8:00 and a toast to my sweet husband for all this goodness that should be.

Everything that should be. And yet, every single day I still manage to find hope in what is, in this reality of life amidst loss where we find ourselves. Every single day, I beg and plead with God for all that seems impossible. I ask for faith that surpasses my understanding and can hope against hope. And I pray over and over and over, "Teach me Lord to pray with my whole heart, 'Jesus, I trust in You.'"

You are my sunshine

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You'll never know dear how much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away."

I started singing this song to Ted before he was even born and I have sang it to him almost every night since. So much that I could never shut his door anymore without him asking "Mama, Sunshine Song?" just. one. more. time.

I don't know who wrote this song or if there is meaning behind these sweet lyrics. I always thought it was a man serenading the love of his life, but after losing Lily I often wonder if the author of this song has a story more like mine.

Many people know in the loss community that a child after a loss is often referred to as their "rainbow baby". A rainbow is an effect of a storm. In fact, a rainbow cannot exist without a storm. When the storm is still on the horizon, sometimes you just may see a brilliant rainbow. 

"'Rainbow Babies' is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope."

Understandable how it is a metaphor for loss. You never seem to feel like you are out of this storm of loss, but you learn there can be beauty a midst it. We are still waiting for our rainbow...some ray of light and beauty a midst this storm of missing Lily oh so very much. A rainbow can never replace her. She is irreplaceable, but it can provide some comfort during this endless storm of loss.

But what many people may not know is that any child you have before a loss is often referred to as your "sunshine" child/ren. They are the light before the storm. They are the warmth your heart needs when you feel cold, empty, and broken. They are that streak of God's light you see emerging through the dark storm clouds that seem to swallow you whole. Sometimes they are the only reason you ever get out of bed that day. They remind you there is hope when the despair leaves you gasping for breath. And they bring so much light to your heartbroken soul.

Ted is my sunshine...my only sunshine.