I'm not Fixed

I have this fear that this pregnancy will make people think that everything is all better.   That I am "fixed."   I have this fear that people are thinking to themselves, "Well, now that she is pregnant again, she can stop being sad." "Thank goodness she can stop thinking about her loss and focus on the future."   I don't know if it is a valid fear or not.   I really don't know what is going on in other people's heads.  Heck, I rarely even know what's going on in mine.   But, just to clarify, nothing is fixed.  Nothing is suddenly better because I am pregnant.   I don't miss her any less.  I don't think about her any less.  

 I actually think about her more now.   Pregnancy is really all I have to connect with Kenley.  The nausea, the exhaustion, the poking out of the belly, the pops and wiggles that will soon become full-blown jabs and jolts. A little over a year ago, I was experiencing these physical changes with Kenley.   And now, I am starting again with Bean.  Every moment, I worry about Bean in there - and I think back to last year when I was carrying my little ninja, which makes me feel empty and full at the same time.   I am happy I have this second chance with Bean, while also being angry I have to even have a second chance.   Why didn't I get to keep my first chance?   I love, love, love both of my children, so it is so difficult to rejoice in one at the expense of the other.   To be happy for Bean reminds me of why I am pregnant now, and why I don't have a baby in my arms.  To wish I had Kenley seems like a slap in the face to Bean.  I still don't know how to reconcile this.   How do you handle loving your children equally when the life of one is the direct result of the death of the other?    

That conflict aside, Kenley is my first born.  She will always be a part of me.  I will always love and miss her.  Being pregnant again does not take away the hurt of her loss.   I can have a hundred more children, and I will always ache for her.  I will always choke back tears when I think of never holding her again.  I will always have to catch my breath when I look at the few pictures I have of her beautiful face.  Those things will never be "fixed."   Not by another pregnancy.  Not with time.  Nothing will ever make this better.  

I just wanted to put that out there.   I love Kenley.  I love Bean.  I am happy for my second child.  I still miss my first.  I am not fixed, and I won't really ever be.   I am learning to navigate around the holes in my heart, but those holes will always be there.  When Bean comes, my heart will swell in the places where Bean fits, but they won't close the gaps where Kenley is not. The thing with rainbows is you can't have them without the rain.  

The Tightrope

The wind is cold and biting so high above the earth.  The tightrope walker steadies herself against the chilly rush.   She bends and flexes her toes inside her leather shoes, curling her aching feet around the bundle of wires.   As her hands begin to sweat, she grips the pole a little tighter, it's heaviness spread out on either side of her weary body.  She is exhausted, having to balance for this long.  The canyon below her sprawls out from a dark and jagged crevice in dusty orange fingers, and the other side is so far away she can't even see it.   As she steps forward, her balance shifts too far to one side.  She pitches and wobbles, her heart jumping into her throat in a panic before she centers herself.  Careful.  Steady.  She takes a deep breath in, her knuckles white and her knees screaming for rest.  But there will be no rest.   There is no stopping and there is no going back.   She can only go forward.  One foot in front of the other.  One step at a time, she will cross this canyon, balancing everything she is with everything she has.   That's the key - balance.   She has to keep herself in line.  From her own posture to the position of her feet on the wire to the steadiness of the pole in her hands - it all contributes to keeping her from plummeting into the darkness below.  And it requires her complete and utter attention at all times.  The average bystander does not realize the amount of concentration it takes to stay balanced - or the amount of balance it takes to stay upright.  To her credit, she makes it look so easy.   She is graceful and poised, keeping the chaos of her racing thoughts hidden beneath her collected demeanor.  But underneath, she is terrified.  Not necessarily of falling, but of tipping.  Of giving too much attention to one side and not the other.  It is in that moment of tipping - that moment before the fall - that the terror is real.  It's not the fall itself, but the reason for it that is so upsetting.   The knowledge that she allowed herself to lean too far to one side.  That she allowed the other side to be neglected.  If she falls, it will be because she was unable to maintain equality.  If she falls, she is a failure.   She braces against the wind as it bites through the thin material of her leotard.  She takes a step.  And another.  And another.   Forward and balanced, she continues her journey across the canyon.  Head high.  Heart steady.  

The Voice

If you're a regular reader, you know I have shared a little bit about my past struggles with self confidence and depression.  I battled a serious darkness in my teenage years that spread to my early twenties.  From around the age of 10 or 12, I can remember thinking I wasn't as good as everyone else.  I wasn't as pretty or as smart.  My clothes didn't fit right.  My hair didn't lay right.   I always kind of felt like I was on the outskirts.   I had friends who liked me, but I still felt like an outsider even among them.   As I got into my teen years, the twilight that loomed over my self-esteem settled into complete darkness.  One I couldn't really see any way out of.   

Through the darkness, I would hear a voice.  One that would whisper and hiss.  One that would spit words at me that cut like a knife.   "You're not good enough", she would say.  "You'll never be good enough."   "You're horrible.  You're disgusting.  You don't deserve happiness."   Any time I started to even think about trying to be a normal person, there she was.  Screaming at me.  Telling me how terrible I was.  Telling me how nothing would ever work out for me.  How I was destined to live a life of misery  - because I deserved it.   

And I believed her.  For years. When friends would shake it on the dance floor, I would hang in the corner because she told me I'd just look stupid if I tried to fit in.   When boys tried to smile at me in the hallway, I'd turn and look around for the prettier girl who must be behind me.  Surely, it's not me they're looking at.  The Voice was very clear about the value I should place on myself - which was none.   And for a long time, I didn't.   She had convinced me that I was sub-par, and so that's how I treated myself.

But then, the years of darkness began to take their toll.  I began to crave the light.   "You don't deserve the light," she'd tell me.  "The light is not for you." Only then did I begin to question her.   Of course I deserve the light!   I am a person.   I have worth.  I have value.   I began to rebel against her.  Little by little, step by step.   When she would hiss into my ear how fat I was, I refused to listen.   "I'm not fat!  I'm curvy!"   When she would tell me how I would never find happiness, I told her to shove it.   She didn't give up, but then neither did I.   It took me years - from about 18 years old till about 26 - of fighting tooth and nail, but I defeated her.   She didn't disappear, but she retreated back into the shadows, her tail between her legs.   Every now and then, she'd try to pipe up with more of her nonsense, but I shut her down immediately.   I've lived Voice free for a while now.  And it has been wonderful.   Finally, living the life I knew I always deserved.  The life I fought for.  My life run on my decisions - not the orders from a twisted sense of self.

But, she's come back.  When Kenley died, the Voice slithered back into my ear, hissing "It's all your fault."   "Everyone will forget about her".  "You deserved this!".   Even though I was weak from grief, I readied for battle against her.   I was not going to let her take over again.   I did a pretty good job keeping her at bay - until I got pregnant again.   And now, she's louder than ever.   She tells me over and over that this baby won't make it.  She tells me I don't deserve a child - that I'll never have one.  With every body twinge,  every moment I'm not nauseous, every second of every day, she's there.  In the back of my head.  Her sinister smile revealing a mouth of dripping fangs.  She will not rest until I am broken.   

Now, I know my enemy.   I know how to fight her - and fight her I will.  But, there is one big difference from what she has said in the past and some of what she is saying now.   Some of it actually has validity.   The first time she crept into my head, I was not the disgusting person she made me believe I was.   I was a great girl who had not yet discovered how to be great.   I triumphed over her lies because I realized they were just that - lies.   This time, though, it's different.   Not all of what she says are lies.   Not all can be waved off or dismissed as rubbish.   For the last eight months, I have lived in a world where babies die.  I have seen too much to turn a blind eye to this reality.   When she wraps her claws around my heart and tells me my baby isn't going to make it to birth, it sends an unimaginable chill of terror straight through me.  A fear I can't shake.  A fear that refuses to be soothed.   I can rise up against her telling me I am undeserving or unworthy because I know that's not true.   I can steady myself against the blows of guilt and fault because I have been able to work through those lies and accept them as such.  But, I can't do a damn thing with the fear.  It washes over me in waves, knocking me to my knees.   

I am afraid - pure and simple.  I am afraid of losing my baby tomorrow.   Of losing my baby next week, or next month, or the day before my scheduled delivery.   You can reassure me all you want.   You can tell me you have a good feeling about things.  That you are praying for me.   That you know everything will work out.   But, that isn't going to help.  I've lived in a harsh and terrible reality since February - one that won't let me be unafraid no matter what people tell me.   A world where 25% of babies don't make it to birth.  A world where by first baby was one of them.  Why not this one too?   

I'm not telling you this to be negative.   I'm not telling you this so you will boost my confidence with kind words of support.   I'm telling you this because I want you to know that this pregnancy is not the joyous romp in the meadow many pregnancies are.  I want you to know that I am scared out of my mind.  Every day.   And that it takes every bit I have to keep myself from spinning out of control - including the bits that are already ripped to shreds with grief.  All of my energy goes towards silencing The Voice - to reaching towards the sunlight when she tries to plunge me into darkness - to trying (yet failing) to not be afraid.    

All I can really do is take it one day at a time.   Today, my baby is alive.  Today, I am pregnant.   Today, I am one day closer to holding my live child in my arms.   Who knows what tomorrow will bring.  And although The Voice wants to tell me what she thinks about tomorrow - I am doing my very best not to listen.   And it is never easy.  

My Stretched Out Heart

This year has been the worst year of my life.   I know I don't really need to explain why.   When you lose your child, especially so close to birth, you lose your future as well.   You lose every moment you should have had.  Every step they should have taken.  Every milestone they should have reached.  You lose a lifetime of memories you should have been able to make.  All that potential seems so pointlessly wasted.   You think to yourself, "why bother living now?" When everything seems like it's nothing more than a shadow, it's easy to get lost in the darkness.

My future with Kenley was stolen.   That is a fact - an unchangeable fact.  I will always wonder what could have been.   I will always watch her grow in my mind, comparing her to other children (and eventually teenagers and adults) I see.   I will always wonder if her hair would have stayed black or have lightened over time like mine did.   I will always wonder if she would have inherited her father's ability to dance - or my ability to fall down with grace.   Would she have a developed goofy sense of humor?  Would she have loved to climb trees, watch movies, and play house?   Who would she have been?

That not knowing is an ache that never goes away.  Nothing will ever change it.  Nothing will ever make it better.   It will always be a rock in my heart, rolling around in the vast cavern of what will never be.   

But, Kenley left me with more than uncertainty and fear.   She left me with more than sorrow and desperation and pain.   She left me with love.   When something breaks and then is pieced back together, it's never quite the same again.  It's looser.  Wider.  Gaping. Stretched out.   As I have spent these last few months sewing my heart back into its shape, I have noticed it's much bigger than before.   There's more room inside.  Like an old patchwork satchel, saggy and worn.   And while that means more room for fear and anxiety to creep in, there's also more room for joy.  More room for hope.   More room for love.   I have broken but I am not broken.

I have nestled my baby girl inside my heart with tender care.  She will always live within me.  My heart beats with her name.  Kenley.  Kenley.  Kenley.  Kenley.  But it also beats with another name.  A name to yet be made.  The name of a baby yet to be born.   It's still a hard concept to wrap my brain around, but there IS room inside my heart for more than just my little ninja.  There is room enough for a brother or sister still to come.   The brother or sister who WILL come.   In April.  

Try, Try Again

When you return to life after loss, things are just so very different.  You can't approach your old life the same way.  Because it's not your old life.  It's a brand new one - and you are a brand new you.

Mike and I have been trying to get pregnant again since July.  So far, we have had  no luck.   I feel like my life is broken into two week increments: the two weeks after ovulation, where I live in hope and anticipation, and the two weeks after my period, where I live in disappointment and frustration.  A constant upswing and downswing.   I am trying to be hopeful and to not stress.  

That's what everyone says to a woman trying to have a baby.  "Don't Stress.  Just let it happen."   "It will happen when you least expect it."  Holy, crap, shut up!   Telling me not to stress is like throwing me into the deep end of a swimming pool and telling me not to get wet.  I'm already here.  I'm already soaked to the bone, treading water like mad, and you're standing on the bricks in an evening gown, sipping a glass of chardonnay.   Someone saying those things clearly has no idea what it's like to be in this situation, and I know people are just trying to help, but stop.    Just let me stress.  Let me talk about my frustrations and my fears.  Don't tell me "It will happen when it's the right time."  It was the right time in June 2012.  It was the right time all the way up to February 25, 2013, when it was no longer the right time...and it was just too late.   And please, under any circumstances, don't tell me "Three months isn't that long."  Three months is an eternity when you are trying after loss.  For three months, I have been trying to do something I shouldn't have to even be doing at all.   I should be watching my six month old bounce around on the floor, not trying to have another baby.  Each attempt and each failure is yet one more reminder of what I've lost - and what I still don't have.  I shouldn't be here.

But I am.  I am because I owe it to my daughter to carry on with the life I want and the life I deserve.  More than anything in the world, I want to be the mother of Kenley's little brother or sister.  I want to have a live, healthy baby in my arms whom I can love here on Earth.   A baby I can watch grow.  A baby who will have all the firsts their big sister never would.   A baby who would learn all about the life that came before them.   Kenley made me a mother - and she is also making me into the mother I will be for her siblings.  As much as it pains me to admit it, I will be a better mother because of her. 

A month ago, I stopped the blog because I felt I was caught in a spiral of grief - and I was.  I needed to take time away from repeatedly breaking and re-enter my life as best as I could.   School started, and I got back on that horse as best as I could.  This entry is not necessarily a restart of the blog because I can't guarantee I will continue with the regularity I once did.  But, I need to sort some things out, and that's why this blog exists.  This is a part of my journey.   Grief does not end, but it does change.   It shifts and molds itself into your life, and you carry it with you.   

One of my friends told me this saying in Italian, "Vivere Nella Speranza", which translates to "Live in Hope."   This is what I try to do each and every day.  Hope that life will turn around.   Hope that my broken heart will continue to heal.  Hope that I will get through the day without crying in front of too many people.  Hope that my finances will improve, and that my days may begin to get a little easier.  Hope that my body will remember how to carry a child.  Hope that the universe will see fit to deliver her soundly.  Hope.   And, as I shift my focus from full time grief to hope in trying again, not one second goes by where I do not think of my little girl.  Not one moment passes where I function without her influence.  She will always have her tiny, chubby fingers wrapped around my heart, and she will always steer me through this fragmented life.  

That's all for now, friends.   See you around, until then...

Saturday Spotlight #16

This week has been really rough for me.  The Royal Baby was born on Monday, I saw my grief counselor Tuesday, I visited my grandfather in the hospital on Wednesday, Kenley's 5 month anniversary was Thursday, and I went to school to start the overwhelming set up of my classroom yesterday.   I haven't had much time to do anything of consequence to write up for today.   I did, however, manage to watch the 6th season of 30 Rock on Netflix.  So...yay?

As I tried to think of what I could write for today's post, I kept coming up blank. I didn't do anything but survive.   When I think about it, that's really all I've been doing all this time anyway.  Surviving.  Waking up every morning, getting through my day one moment at a time, going to bed, and then doing it all over again. 

So, today, I am going to focus this post on two things I am going to do in the coming weeks.

1.  I am going to go back to work.   August 7th is the first day teachers report.  Kids start the following Wednesday.   As uncomfortable as I am right now to start working again, I know most of that is just my anxiety.   Once I get through the stress of setting up the room and have my plans organized for the first few weeks, I'll be fine.  I know I am a good teacher.  I know I can do my job well - and I know that I enjoy it.   I just have to take a few deep breaths and relax.  It will be like riding a bike.  A little wobbly at first, but once I get my footing, I'll start to glide and I'll realize I really missed the wind in my face.

2. I am going to try for another baby.  August 25th will be 6 months since Kenley died.   6 months is the acceptable go-ahead for trying again after a C-section, and we are ready.   It will not be easy to be pregnant again.  I will be an insane bundle of nerves.  I will be completely terrified until I am holding a crying baby in my arms.  But, I can't let that stop me from trying again.  We did not have any difficulty whatsoever conceiving Kenley, so I am not feeling too much stress about that aspect.  However, that might change depending on how quickly we are successful this time.   It's so easy to think the worst once the worst has actually happened to you, but I will try to as hard as I possibly can to stay positive and rational.

Both of these things will affect the blog.  

Going back to work will mean I will have less time to write.  Most likely, I will not be able to post as regularly as I have been.  Six days a week will probably dwindle to about three.  Maybe four.  Although, some weeks, I might write more.  Who knows, really?  Posting will be irregular and unpredictable.  So, if you want to stay connected without forgetting about me, now is a good time to become a "follower".   You just need a google (gmail) account.    

Trying for a baby will affect the emotions and actions I write about in the blog.  My posts might begin to shift to the added stress of trying to conceive again.  When I become pregnant, that pregnancy will definitely be a subject of my writing.   I want to make it very clear now - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that this shift will in no way reflect any sort of dwindling memories or love of Kenley.  I will not love her less.  I will not think about her less.   I will not suddenly be "over" her death.   In the same way a second baby in a house with a living child does not diminish the importance of the first born, trying again does not mean I am forgetting about my little ninja.   When you are in a fancy restaurant and you order a delicious and decadent dessert, do you eat one bite and then put down the fork?  No way, Jose.   You savor every bit of that richness.   Kenley was just the first bite of motherhood.  I'm ready for more.  Kenley WILL be a big sister one day.   And Mike and I will be parents to a baby we can hold in our arms.   This story is far from finished.

The Journal

When I discovered I was pregnant with Kenley, I began writing to her in a journal.  The intention was I would write to her throughout the pregnancy and then whenever I had time once she was born.  I would write about all the milestones and emotions that come with being pregnant and having a new baby.   When that journal was filled, I would simply get another one and continue writing to her - all throughout her childhood and her teenage years.  I would give her the journals- maybe one at a time, maybe all at once - when she was old enough to appreciate them.   Then, she'd be able to read all about how wanted she was.  How loved she was.  Even in times of frustration, her mother always loved and cared about her.  I wanted to leave her this legacy - her own story told through the eyes of her mother. 

Into that journal, I poured all my love for her, all my dreams for her future, all my joy for her arrival.   I told her about my swollen feet and heartburn - and how I knew it would all be worth it one day.   I told her about how excited I was to meet her and how beautifully her nursery was coming together.  I told her about all these things with the idea that she would read my words one day. 

As we all know, that will never happen.  I didn't get to finish even one journal for Kenley.   The one I started, a beautiful tan leather journal with sleek, blank pages edged in gold, is only filled about a quarter of the way.  It stops abruptly and with great heartbreak.  The rest of the journal is empty.  Pages and pages of nothing - of a future that never was.  That journal is tucked inside Kenley's memory box.  I placed it inside there the day after her memorial and haven't taken it out since.  One day, I might have the courage and strength to re-read it, but not now.  It's hard to think about reading those entries - full of so much hope and innocence - knowing how it all ended.  

Someone asked me recently if I will still keep a journal for my future children.  Absolutely!   Kenley did not get to have the life I'd planned for her, but that will not stop me from planning the lives of my other children.   My future pregnancies will be full of stress and worry, that's for sure.   But, I will not stop hoping and dreaming of their future simply because my first child was robbed of hers.   Imagine if NASA had given up planning for the future when their first attempts at rocket launches resulted in spectacular explosions.   Imagine if J.K. Rowling had stopped submitting Harry Potter when she was rejected the first of twelve times.  Imagine if Albert Einstein's family had believed the doctors when they told them he was "dim and slow witted."  Our world is made great by people who refused to give up on their dreams, who used their negative experiences for good instead of allowing their past to dictate the course of their lives.  I will not let my past get in the way of my dreams for the future.  

Kenley will always be my firstborn child.  She will always have a place in my heart, and I will always, always miss her.   But, what good does it do to shut myself up and keep myself from dreaming?   How is stagnancy honoring her memory?   It isn't.  The only way to give her life purpose is to bring purpose to mine.   The only way to truly honor her is to do all the things for my future children that I would have done in the first place.   I will announce my pregnancy with joy and pride.   I will trace my belly.   I will take maternity pictures.  I will get a nursery ready.  I will keep a journal.   Not in spite of what happened - or necessarily because of it either - but because it is what I want to do.  It is what Kenley deserved and it is what my future children deserve.   If my heart is broken again, then I will pick up the pieces again.   But, what if it's not?  

I am not going to live my life in fear.   I can't control what might happen to me.  I can't promise myself a quick conception, an easy pregnancy, or a healthy baby.   But, I can hope.  I can dream.   I can plan for the future.  Kenley will still be there.  Forever and always, nestled inside my heart, making room for her siblings to come.   

I already have what will be the first volume of their life story.   Smelling of clean leather and a fresh start.   

Saturday Spotlight #14

The photography project I have been working on is not quite finished.  It's more difficult than I thought it would be.  I will keep working on it and, hopefully, can have it completed by next week.   However, here is the journal assignment that goes with it:

One Year From Today

When you lose your child, it's hard to think about the future because what you want and what you can have are two very separate things.  You feel like your future has been stolen from you.  Ripped from your hands as you cry out in anguish.  Darkness decends - a thick, black curtain that keeps the future hidden.   You cannot imagine a future other than the one you had planned.  Anything else seems unnatural and insufficient.  The farther you get from loss, the more translucent that curtain becomes.   You can see what is ahead, but you aren't always brave enough to take the steps to get there.  Eventually, the curtain disappears altogether, and you can begin your hesitant walk forward.   Right now, I am still waiting for that moment.  I can see the road ahead, but I am still uncertain about it.  I still have a hard time walking that path without my daughter.  But, I am an optimist.  I have battled too much darkness in my life to surrender to this one.   So, I look ahead with positive trepidation - a fairly accurate oxymoron.  

The journal assignment asked me to think about my life one day, week, month, and year from now.   I'm pretty good at living day to day - so I cannot imagine tomorrow being vastly different from right now.  Since the remnants of Tropical Storm Chantal is sweeping this way, I imagine it will be raining.  One week from now, I will probably have spent some time with some friends, seen some babies in stores, and continued to miss my little girl.   It's when we get to the one month from now that things start to change.

One month from now, I will have started work again.  There are too many emotions surrounding this to confine to this post.  Starting work deserves several blog posts, but I'll try to sum up here.   I am nervous.  In some ways, I am even terrified of starting work again.  If I could, I would just never go back.   I am working on that on many levels, and I am hoping that by the time August 7th rolls around, I'll be ready.  But, ready or not, here it comes.  I'll make the best of it because that is what I do.  Two months from now will probably be better.   Often, anticipation is greater than the actual event.

One year from now is what I really want to focus on here.  One year from now, my goal is to be a mother to a living, breathing, healthy second child.  One year from now, my goal is to be doing the things I should have been doing for the last four months.  I am a mother now, and I am doing the best I can with what I have - which is a blog and a memory - but it is not enough.   Kenley showed me what it means to be a mother.  She opened up a chasm inside of me, which is filled (impossibly) with both emptiness and infinite love.  I can't imagine a future where that love is never able to flow to a living baby.  One year from now, I will have finished another school year, which was most likely not as bad as I thought it would be, and I will be enjoying my summer in the way that I should be now.  I will be taking my second baby on walks around the neighborhood.  I will be changing diapers and cleaning up poop.  I will be exhausted and sticky and I will love every minute of it.  No doubt, I will still be missing Kenley.  I will miss her until the day I die.  But, as many of you know, a mother's love isn't diminished by more children.  It is expanded exponentially.   I will love her more.  I will love her little brother or sister, who will grow up knowing they were not the first light to illuminate their mother's heart.  Like candles in the dark, the light of my babies will flicker forever in my soul.  Now, to be clear, I am not currently pregnant, but August officially ends my six month waiting period to start trying, and that is what we are going to do.  If timing doesn't work out quite right for a few months, one year from now, I will at least be pregnant.  Hopefully, ready to pop and bring an end to a stressful pregnancy and a year and a half of eagerly waiting for what I so rightly deserve.  

It's hard to look at the future with anything other than uncertainty.  I know all too well that nothing goes as planned, even the things you plan so carefully. I am nervous to even write all of this down because....well...what if?   What if I can't get pregnant again?  What if I miscarry?  What if my next baby is another not-so-stealthy-ninja?   You can't pat my back and tell me everything is going to be alright because we both know that isn't always the case.  But, I have to stay focused on my goal and its positive aspects.  I chose to believe the future I plan will come true.  I can't allow myself to give in to the "what ifs".  

One year from now, I will still be without Kenley.   I will still miss her and ache for her.  That will not change.   But, one year from now, I hope to be able to honor her with a sibling.   And to be the best damn mother of two I know I can be.

More Mangoes

Something amazing has happened.  Yesterday, Mike was outside doing yard work because the weeds in our grass were waist high.  They had actually formed a small government and were in the process of organizing their militia.  Something had to be done to get them under control.  I was inside cleaning the kitchen because the dishes had been watching the weeds and were developing mobilizing plans of their own, when Mike came in through the back door and smiled at me through the kitchen window.   "Come outside," he said.  "I have something you'll want to see."

I followed him through the back yard to the north corner.   There, behind the gardenias, was my dead and withered mango tree.  Except, it wasn't dead.  The original tree was still brown and dried, but down by the grass, two healthy shoots of leaves have started to grow.   Two new branches sprout from the shriveled trunk.  It's not dead!   Life still remains. 

 As you know, that mango tree reminds me of Kenley's life.  We planted it the weekend I discovered I was pregnant.  It died at the same time we lost her.  And now, it is growing new leaves.   The main tree was beyond saving.  We had to cut it down, so now those two little sprouts are growing alone.

I can't help but point out the symbolism with this.   That tree was dead.  At least everything above ground was dead.  There is no question whatsoever.   

For some reason, seeing these tiny shoots spring from the base of a dead tree  takes away the sense of desperation in having another baby.  It's not "I have to", it's "I will".   I don't feel like I am scrambling to fill the emptiness - not anymore.   Instead, I feel like I am capable of creating joy out of sorrow.  I feel like I can carry on.  Like the happiness I procure is a result of her existence and not in spite of her death.    Trying for another baby feels like it has more purpose now, but with a sense of calmness and not panic.  

I know it's just a tree.  I know there really is no deeper meaning, but I want there to be.   I want this new growth to signify moving forward.  Healing.  Living.  Thriving.   Trying again.   Not to replace, but to honor.  

There is always hope.  

Identity Crisis

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck, right?  Well, what if it doesn't do any of those things?  Is it still a duck?
I don't know who I am supposed to be anymore.  I feel like a mother, but I don't have the luxury of actually having my baby with me.  So it is very confusing.   I don't get to do any of the things a mother gets to do.  I don't get to hold my daughter, or nurse her, or change her diaper.   I don't get to wrap her up in a sling while I run errands or push her in her stroller through the park.  I can't hear her cry, or laugh, or coo.   I'm not sleep deprived and covered in spit up.  I shower every day.  All of the things a mother does, I can't do.  All of the things that define her are out of my reach for now.  But, I still feel like a mother.   From the very core of my being, I am a mother.  I created a life.  A life who grew inside me for 36 weeks.  I sang to her.  I talked to her.  I loved her.   I rubbed my belly and smiled.  When she poked me, I poked her right back.  For 36 weeks, my body prepared this life for the world - and for 36 weeks, my mind prepared itself for the moment that life emerged.  (In all honesty, my mind had been preparing for years before that.  We've all been there, right, ladies?) 

 Before Kenley was born, I was nervous about the change that was about to occur, but I was also excited.  Elated.  I thought about all the things we would do together.  I thought about the milestones she'd achieve, the clothes she would wear, the games we would play.   I imagined reading to her every night, even before she was old enough to understand what reading was.   I imagined rocking her at two in the morning, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, but completely content with her nestled up against me.  In those 36 weeks, I created an entire life for her.  For all of us.  In those 36 weeks, I cultivated a love that until then had been unfathomable to me.  Every single time she kicked or turned, I smiled and thought to myself, "I can't believe I'm going to be a mom!"  

And I still am - just not the way I'd imagined it.  Actually, I never would have even remotely imagined it being this way.  How can you really be a mother to a baby who isn't here?   I have all of these instincts of motherhood, but no one to mother.  Kenley's death aside, something in me changed when I was pregnant and reached its pinnacle when she was born.  Something inside illuminated where before there was darkness.  The light a mother has for her child.  It bursts out of me like rays of sunshine.  I can't control it or reign it in.  No mother can.   But, she is not here to absorb this light, so sometimes the brightness is blinding.  I don't know what to do with myself.   I have all of this love and light for a child who isn't here.   I have all these desires to carry out the actions of a mother, but no baby.  For so long, I defined myself as "becoming a mother", and now that she's gone, I don't know how to redirect that identity.  I am still who I was before.  Sister.  Daughter. Wife.  Friend.  Teacher.  And now, I am a mother.   But I am also something else entirely.  Something hard to pinpoint or explain.  I don't know what I am, I don't know what to do, and I don't know where to go from here.  All I know is that, when all is said and done, the love I feel for my daughter fills me with a bittersweet joy I can't help but share.  She made me a mother.  That is a fact.  

Even though I can't quack and I don't have webbed feet, I am still a duck.  And, one day, I'll find my way to the water.

  

Hungry Eyes

I have become a visual stalker.  A watcher.   The mothers, the babies, the pregnant bellies.   My eyes dart to them automatically no matter where they are - and I follow them with my gaze until I can no longer do so without looking like a psychopath.    I'm like a beggar pressing her nose against the window of a fancy restaurant.   I know it's a little creepy, but I can't help it.   Sometimes, it makes me cry.   Other times, it makes me smile.   I never know which it's going to be until it happens though.   On the times it upsets me, Mike always asks me why I do that to myself. Why look when I know it will most likely cause me pain?  I have no answer other than I have to.  Maybe it's because I am grasping at straws, trying to find some way to bring that part of my life back to me.  To claim what should be mine.  Or, maybe I'm a glutton for punishment.   I don't know.  I wish I did, but then I don't really know anything anymore.

The other day, I was waiting for my friend in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble.   A woman with a stroller walked up to a car down the row from me.   I watched her from across the parking lot as she took her baby out of her stroller, changed his diaper in the trunk of her SUV, and then put him back in his seat before resuming her shopping trip.  From the way she cradled his head, I could tell he was maybe two months old.  As I am watching her do the most mundane tasks of having a baby - probably one of the tasks she barely even thinks about while she's doing it - I am imagining what it would have been like to change Kenley's diaper.  To pick her up ever so carefully from her stroller and lay her down on the backseat.  To still her squirming legs so I can maneuver the diaper around her.   To make faces at her.  To boop her nose.  To do all those things I can't do - and will never do - for her.  And then, of course, I start to cry.  Misty eyed and lips trembling.  At that moment, I see my friend walking towards the car, a hazelnut macchiato in each hand.  (one of the many reasons we are friends)  I wipe my eyes and reorganize myself.  When she gets in the car, I tell her about my moment, and like a good friend, she doesn't judge me.  I am so grateful I have such supportive and non-judgmental friends.  Grief certainly makes you do things you never thought you'd do.  

I can't hold my baby in my arms, so I watch other mothers do it.   I watch them tie them in slings and fasten them in strollers.  I watch them stir the baby food jar and rearrange the blankets in the car seat.  I watch with a sharp sadness for what I do not have now and with an ever so soft jitter of excitement for what I will have again.  I can't help but feel slightly guilty over that excitement though.   As if wanting (and then having) more children is somehow an affront to Kenley's memory.  I know that is not true in the slightest, but I can't stop myself from feeling it.  One day, that will change.  One day, Kenley's brother or sister will be the one I hold in my arms, the one I nuzzle and push in the stroller.   And the love I feel for Kenley will not go away and will not be divided - but instead will be multiplied.   And then, sometime, I will be out and about and I will recognize a sister watcher.  I will know her by the sadness in her eyes, by the way she leans forward and cranes her neck.  To someone else, she appears to be a run of the mill woman who happens to admire the adorableness of a passing baby.  But, I will know - and I hope she finds what she's searching for.   I hope we all do.

It's a Matter of Time

I am terrified of time.  Time that passes too quickly.  Time that creeps by dangerously slow.  Time that no longer seems to be on my side.  
If this tragedy had struck me ten years ago, it would have been no less horrible and traumatic, but an extra silver lining would have shone around the black clouds above me.  Time.  More time to heal.  More time to try again.
When you're young, everything seems possible.  Even when faced with jagged cliff faces and raging storms.   When you're young, it seems that you have all the time you need to climb that cliff, to wait out the storm, to get where you want to go.  Now, I feel rushed.  I feel hurried.  I feel like my time is running out.

I didn't meet Mike until I was almost 31.  Although we both knew fairly instantly that we had found the right person, we didn't get married until I was almost 34.  I was never really one of those girls that just had to have kids.   When people would ask me if I wanted kids, I always replied with "Yes, as long as I meet the right guy."  I was really okay with not having children if I didn't meet someone I wanted to marry and start a family with.  I would have forged a different, and just as happy, life.  However, I did meet Mike.  I fell in love with him and I knew he was the guy for me.  The one who would be a wonderful husband to me and a wonderful father to our children. Our children.  And that is when the timer kicked in, ticking off the seconds and minutes, showing me just how much time I had left to get this show on the road.  When I found out I was pregnant, it was the summer before my 35th birthday.  Whew!  I was going to get in just under the wire!   I was going to have my baby before my file would get the dreaded label - Advanced Maternal Age.  (Ouch!  Right in the gut.)  

Now, you are going to tell me, "Hey, plenty of women have babies later in life nowadays!  It's perfectly fine!  Besides, you're not that old! "  And you are right - they do and I'm not.  And there is no reason why I can't have a perfectly healthy pregnancy in the future that will result in a wonderful sibling for Kenley.  But, as we have discussed before, my ability to think logically and listen to reason has decided it no longer wants to communicate with the rest of me.   I am scared.  I am scared that, as I get older, my risk for birth defects and other complications increases.  I am scared that Kenley was my only chance.   I am scared that her room will be empty forever, and that I won't be able to handle it.  

Kenley taught me what it feels like to be a mother.   She opened my eyes and my heart to a love I never knew before - and I honestly could not bear it if I wasn't able to share that love with a child who got to stay with me.  So, yeah,  I am terrified of time.  Of the clock that remembers the moments I had and reminds me of the moments that are left.  Tick, tick, tick.