Happy Birthday, My Angel

Today, Alamanda would be six years old.  It should have been a day of celebration with a big princess party thrown between my two daughters' birthdays.  Instead, I'm an emotional wreck.  As usual on days like this.  Most days, I survive by launching through my day, moving forward but not thinking.  I have multiple pictures on my bedroom wall of her beautiful face, including the ones on my happy wall of pictures of my babies at age one month and a big one right over where I sleep with her dates, too close together.  But they blend in with the scenery.  Even the drawing I made of my angel--older but still beautiful, based on a feminization of my boy who looked just like her at that age--blends in.  I can live in emotional stability most days.

But then the dates come along, those monumental dates when she came to me and when she left me.  And I don't turn away.  I look right into the face of my joy and my pain.  We pull out her baby album.  We buy her an angel food cake.  We make her presents and write notes, which she can see and appreciate from the other side.  She still gets a party.  It's just not the one I expected when I still thought the world was a safe place.

My husband will be taking off the afternoon, so we can go to the LDS temple as the best birthday present of all for her.  When we do, we can feel the Holy Spirit strongly and can feel her with us.  It doesn't hurt so much when we are buffered in the arms of His love.  These traditions are beautiful and make me happy.

But it still feels like my joy is suspended over a precipice, that when the smiles end and the vibrant pictures of Alli's sunny face run out, and we are left to glance through the waxen images of the face where my baby no longer resides, the darkness comes again.  I fall into the abyss of these days.  Some birthdays and anniversaries are easier than others.  I've already lost count of my tears so far today, and it's only 9 am.  I know grieving is a healthy process.  I know it's important to feel and remember and celebrate.  I will survive this day.  I will invite the Spirit and my Alli to join us.  I will remember that Jesus Christ overcame death, and I will hold Alli again when she is resurrected.  I will remember families can be together forever.  It's the only way to make it through.

[Painting entitled "Security" by David Bowman.]

Some Things I've Learned through Mourning

Yesterday, I chatted with a friend of mine who had recently had an early miscarriage right after having a still birth.  A few days ago, I talked with my sister, who is reasonably certain she lost not one baby but twins in a very early miscarriage, when she is so eager to have her third live birth.

One thing I've learned through my experience in the club of those who have lost is we are not alone.  It's one of those topics that most people don't want to discuss.  If they've lost a baby, many times, they don't want to think about it or are very tender about it.  If they haven't lost a baby, they don't want to think about the possibility.  But it's important to know that one is not alone and that all it takes is reaching out in a support group online or in person or even among our friends or family and chances are, we will find someone who feels just as silenced and is just as eager to talk about the love they have for the child they cannot hold.

Another thing I've learned is everyone mourns differently, and it would be helpful if we can be a person who is willing to listen.  We don't always need to be the one to talk about our own pain. I read in a mourning book about how this cultural silencing used to be more extreme.  The writer of the book had a crush on a girl in the fifties or sixties, and the girl died.  He told the mom of the girl how much she impressed him and how much he missed her, and the mom opened the floodgates of tears, seeking him out at every opportunity to talk to this young man because he would listen.  Of course, some of us don't want to think about loss.  If that's the case, sometimes, it's okay to be the person ready with hugs or kind words.  We also need to remember that it's important to help other mourners feel loved instead of judged.  Just because we need to talk about our losses doesn't mean they will.  Just because we feel like we're ready to move onto another pregnancy or stop having kids or do whatever it is we feel will help us cope doesn't mean we should expect the same in someone else.  It's important that everyone be allowed to mourn at their own pace and in their own way.

I believe in forever families.  There was a time I felt that a child had to take a breath to be counted among my babies.  But in recent years, I've come to know that sometimes, simply being pregnant, whether the child comes or not, is enough that we can name that child and count him or her among our family.  And one day, it will be possible to hold them in our arms.

I know I've learned much more, but the last thing I will mention now our angels are still here for us, nearby, watching over us and loving us just as much as they did when they were here.  Angels are real, and I'm thankful for mine.