February Fog

February has never been my favorite month. Other than my dad's birthday, there really hasn't been anything in February that I have enjoyed. Valentine's Day might be nice if they didn't set out those boxes of candy on January 1, thus confirming it's all about the cash and has actually little to do with appreciating your significant other. Also, February in Florida is generally the coldest and harshest month. I am a native Floridian and am still here for a reason. I hate being cold. Hate it. Anything below 70 just makes me grumpy. So, when February comes blowing through with winds that make it feel like 40, I am pretty crabby about it. A sweater AND a jacket? Closed toed shoes? Arg!!!! I just want February to be over so March can warm me up.

Two years ago, February gave me yet another reason to hate it. It stole my child from me. February will always be the month Kenley died. It will always be the month where everything I was was swept away, where I was broken down into nothing, and where I had to relearn how to live in a world without my daughter.

This year, February hit, and I didn't notice right away because I was so wrapped up in getting the Heartbroken Mother video finished. After I had finalized the changes, uploaded it to Youtube, and breathed a huge sigh of relief, February sucker punched me in the gut. I watched the final video as a Heartbroken Mother instead of a critical video maker, and I just fell apart. All those babies. All those mothers. Each of them with a February of their own. And then, as the video closes, my beautiful Ninja shows her face, and I see the reason behind it all. The reason February is so soul crushing for me.

There's a weird haze I walk around in during this month. A fog that clouds everything except for one thing: a countdown. That countdown is all I can see. Today is February 10th. That means that I had 14 days left with her. 14 days of being blissfully unaware that she was tangling herself in her cord. 14 days of excitement and expectations. 14 more days to organize her nursery, to make plans for her, to imagine her birthday. Tomorrow, it will be 13. Then 12...11...10....all counting down to the day where I lost her forever. To the day where the life I thought I had turned itself into a cruel and twisted reality.

It's difficult to pull myself out of this fog during these days. It's hard to ignore that countdown, which ticks in my ear, loud and looming. Every day closer to the 25th is one day closer to the worst day of my life. How do you go about your day normally when you're inevitably taking steps towards heartbreak?

I try to remember the flipside of February. It's Kenley's birthday. She deserves a birthday. She deserves to be celebrated. She deserves to be thought of with joy and love, and not just sorrow and anger. So, I try to plan events which make me think of her with happiness. I try to plan things where my heart feels full instead of impossibly empty. Last year, my wonderful photographer friend, Jeanee James, took family photos of us on Kenley's birthday by her tree and then we all went out to dinner. This year, in addition to continuing our picture tradition, I plan on making a bear at Build a Bear and inserting a heart on which I have recorded her heartbeat. I will give the bear to Piper on her first birthday in April as a way of bringing my two girls together. Thinking about doing that makes me excited for the day as opposed to filling me with dread. I think that is the key with these types of birthdays. It's important to plan something that honors your baby, but is also something you can enjoy doing.

Regardless of how I am looking forward to taking pictures and making a bear, I still don't want February 25th to come. I still don't want to countdown every day until that day. Giving that day purpose does not really distract me from the reason I have to search for meaning in the first place. Kenley should be turning two. She should be running around in a new outfit and pigtails. She should be getting a tricycle for her birthday and singing "Let it Go" at the top of her lungs. But, she's not. Instead of planning a party with gifts and guests, I am planning a way to remember her. Instead of organizing toddler party games, I am organizing a day full of "meaning" so I don't fall apart. There is no way that anything will make this okay. And this is only year two.

February sucks.

Saturday Mornings

I remember Saturday mornings.  So used to getting up for school at 6, I'd wake up at 8 feeling like I'd slept in.  Mike would still be unconscious next to me - often times also snoring.   The cat and the dog would have put aside their mutual distain for each other to curl up together on the floor.   And it would just be the two of us.  Mother - daughter time in the soft light of the morning.  

I'd prop myself up onto the seven million pillows I had acquired during my pregnancy and look down at the blossoming roundness of my belly.  My little ninja moved all the time.  All.  The.  Time.  But, Saturday mornings were the times I could really stop and appreciate it.  The times I could push pause on the rest of my life and focus on just one thing.  How wonderful it was to have her there, twisting and swirling in her own private jacuzzi.  

I'd push my hands around on my belly, searching for my little girl.  Pop!  She'd push back.  "Hey, Mom!  Good morning!".  She'd flutter around, wiggling, stretching, kicking.  At the beginning, it felt like popcorn popping.  Like my belly was a hot pot on the stove and tiny kernels shot around inside, exploding into softness.   As time went on, her movements developed into different kinds.  I could feel her somersault from one side to the other as she tried to get comfortable.  It was a strange shifting of heaviness.  The solidness on one side of my belly suddenly became soft as she moved over to the other.  Sometimes, as she got bigger, she'd slide a knee or an elbow alongside me - and my stomach would ripple on the outside - like a whale surfacing with its fin in the air and then sliding back into the ocean.  Other times, she'd punch or kick in a quick, sharp motion.  One spot on my stomach would jut out for just a second and then snap right back.  

She moved like this often, but these mornings were my time to pay attention to them.  I loved these mornings.  I remember looking forward to them all week.  Just one more day of work and then it's just you and me, kid!  For an hour or two until Mike woke up, I would just lay there and smile as she danced around for her Mama.  I was so in love with her, it's not even funny.  I would imagine what she looked like - how beautiful she would be.   I imagined how her chubby legs and outstretched arms would look in a few months when I changed her diapers.   I imagined her laugh, her cry, her babbling.  I dreamed of the future as my future bounced around inside of me.  Those were great mornings.  

I could lament right now about how I want those mornings back.  I could tell you, truthfully, how there are tears streaming down my cheeks as I write this.  But, I do not want to taint those golden days with sadness.  Those days are mine and Kenley's.  Those days were the days I spent with my baby, and they were the best days.  They always will be.  

You Are My Sunshine

Today, I was looking at updates from Return to Zero and I saw someone posted a picture in memory of their child with a verse from "You Are My Sunshine".   The line that says "The other night dear, when I was sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms.  But when I woke dear, I was mistaken.  So, I hung my head and I cried."   And I lost it.   Fell to my knees and cried.  Seriously and completely fell apart.   It was not pretty.

You can imagine why.   However, an underlying reason was that I sang that song, at least the first verse, to Kenley every day in the shower while I was pregnant.  Every single day.  It just made me happy, soaping up my belly and belting it out to my little girl.  Mike liked to try to sneak in with his iphone and record me in all of my off-key glory because he thought it was hilarious.  So, this song reminds me of a joyful and innocent time.  But now, it is as if that second verse has been added to my life now.  And the song means something completely different.  It is a song of what I have lost.

After pulling myself together this afternoon, I pulled out my ipad.  I downloaded a pretty version of this song and I coordinated it with some photos to create a movie.   I used photos from the beginning of the pregnancy all the way through to last week.   Throughout the entire process of creating it, I cried.  It actually felt wonderful to do so.  A cleansing of sorts, I suppose.  And now, I am sharing it with you.   Fair Warning:  You will likely also cry.

What's in a Name?

Even before I got pregnant, I was thinking of baby names. We all do it. One of my friends has had a baby girl name in her back pocket since high school. She had boys. Mike and I are both fairly unique. We don't follow the norms exactly the way everyone else does. We tweak it a little. We don't necessarily turn completely off the path of normalcy, but we do wander to the side from time to time. So, we both knew we wanted a unique name. As a teacher, I wanted my child to have a name that was easy to spell - and pronounce. (I once worked with a child named Seachelle. Like sea shell. Seriously?)

We considered several names. I knew Evelyn was going to be the middle name, after my maternal grandmother. She died when I was very little, so I never really knew her. But my mother always said we would have really gotten along. The way my mom talked about her mother and how I would have loved her, really made me feel like I knew her. Sometimes, I had a sense she was there with me. I wanted to honor her by giving my daughter her name. I somehow felt that by doing so, I was giving her life again. It is even more heartbreaking to think about how I failed to do that.

As far as first names go, Mike and I ran through a few we liked, but didn't always feel right. We loved Sophia. Mike had a way of testing names, which was shouting them through the house. "Sophia Evelyn Wood, get in here now!" We thought that sounded beautiful. But then, everyone and their brother started naming their girls Sophia. And as soon as Disney named its new princess Sofia, we were out! We also liked Amelia, Harper, and Ava. As the popularity of those names increased, our love for them did the opposite.

I wanted a name that would be only hers. But not too weird that people would say " where the heck did you come up with that?" Spelling was important too. A name had to be spelled the way it sounded. Otherwise, the poor girl would be correcting strangers her entire life.

I think I was flipping through a baby name book when I found Kenley, but I can't be sure because when I checked later, it wasn't there. I tucked the name inside my mind for safekeeping. When I brought it up to Mike, he loved it. "Kenley Evelyn Wood, go clean your room!" Perfect! So, Kenley it was. If you google Kenley, you'll find links to a quirky girl from Project Runway and to a town in England. My mom and I had plans to take her there one day. When she was 10. Kenley to Kenley. Maybe I'll go there myself one day. I would really like to.

On top of all of this terrible mess, I have to admit I am really upset I can't raise a daughter named Kenley. I will never see it scribbled in a three year old's handwriting. I will never see it on an awards certificate for a second grade spelling bee. I will never hear it called at a high school graduation - or across the house. I lost so much when I lost her. Her name was just one of them.

I'm Guilty

While pregnant, I:

1. Consumed small amounts of caffeine on a weekly basis
2. Ate bites of raw cookie dough a few times
3. Slept on my right side and sometimes even my back
4. Had one glass of wine at a dinner party once
5. Forgot to take my pre-natal vitamin at least twice a week
6. Was on my feet all day Monday through Friday
7. Rested my cell phone and Ipad on my stomach when I wasn't using them
8. Poked her a lot
9. Lifted my hands above my head to reach things from high places
10. Picked up a few heavy objects
11. Rearranged my students desks a few times
12. Sat next to a smoking person at an outdoor festival
13.  Ate deli sandwiches
14. Had a few bites of brie cheese
15. Ran into the counter's edge several times with my belly
16. Took allergy medication
17. Probably didn't drink enough water
18. Ate a lot of fast food
19. Forgot to floss
20. Complained about being pregnant

Although I feel slightly guilty about this entire list, it's the last one that gets me.   If I had known that being pregnant was the only time I was going to have with her, maybe I'd have been better about it.  I hated how I looked.  I thought I looked enormous and gross.  I would look and my bulging belly and grimace.  I grimaced!   I would tell Mike I felt fat and disgusting, and like a good husband, he would tell me I looked beautiful. But, I didn't feel it.  Truth be told, I didn't particularly enjoy being pregnant.   If I wasn't nauseous, I had other digestive issues.   I was plagued with heartburn and swollen ankles.  I was exhausted and constantly having to pee.  I couldn't sleep and my back ached.  At the time, I just wanted it to be over.  I wanted to be finished with pregnancy so I could move on with motherhood.  Now, I would give anything to have that time back.   To have just a few more moments with my baby alive.   My pregnancy was pretty standard - right up to the point when it completely wasn't.   I would gladly suffer through the worst pregnancy imaginable if it meant I could have a healthy, living baby at the end.  I would go through hell to get to heaven.  I wouldn't even think twice.   

So many mothers take pregnancy for granted.  Especially when you pass that 20 week mark, you think you're home free.   You swing your bat and hit that ball high and fast.   As it soars through the air, you run with an air of confidence.  Rounding first, second, third.  You're sliding into home and...thunk...you hear the sound of a ball hitting a glove.  You're out.  Game over.   The other team wins.   You never thought this would happen to you.   You're a good batter with a strong arm and a sharp aim.  You should have hit a homer.   But, you didn't.   And, so you sit in the dugout, covered in red clay and disappointment, wishing you'd paid more attention to the game.

Belly Dancer

Early on in my pregnancy, I posted a Facebook status stating some things I'd never do.  One of them was that I would never take a picture of my bare belly.  I hated those pictures.   To me, even the professionally done ones looked creepy to me.  Especially the ones when people put their hands over the belly button to look like a heart.   Ugh.   They bugged me.   They actually still do, but now for different reasons.   

However, I have to admit to the world, that I did, in fact, take a picture of my bare belly while I was pregnant.  Let me tell you why, though.   We didn't call Kenley "Ninja Baby" for nothing.  She was a kicking, flipping powerhouse in there.   She was especially active when I had music going - and was partial to Broadway show tunes.   I watched Les Miserables on stage and in the theater while I was pregnant and she couldn't keep still.   What can I say?  The girl had a thing for Jean Val Jean.  I loved to feel her move.  Loved it.   It made me feel like she was happy in there and giving me a heads up on her good mood.  Sometimes, I would try to make her move around.  Les Mis always did the trick.   When I snapped this picture, I knew I was going back on my word to never do such a thing.  But, I didn't care.  I was so amused with myself and my little ninja, I wanted to document the occasion.  I didn't have the rounded headphones, just the earbuds.  So, I put one in my ear for volume control, and one in my belly button.  Besides looking adorable, it was also very practical while moving around.

There she is, jamming away in there.   I'm sad you can't see it because it was a fun time.   This is one of my favorite pictures of her.   She was about 32 weeks here and had only about four more left to dance.  But, dance she did!

Not Enough

I don't have any pictures of myself holding Kenley.   I didn't get to change her clothes or give her a bath.   I wish I had known that I could have done that.  And now it is too late.  I will never hold her again.  I will never touch her soft skin.  I will never feel her tiny fingers wrap around my hand.  All I have is the memory of holding her.   I remember how she felt in my arms, nestled into the crook of my elbow.   I remember how soft and smooth her cheeks were.  When they handed her to me, she was wrapped up in a blanket.  Her left arm peeked out of the folds and I slid my index finger underneath her palm.  I didn't know I could unwrap her from her blanket.   I remember worrying about what would happen if her blanket came undone and she spilled out.  I worried the hospital staff would be mad at me.   So, I held her as she was given - a little, still bundle.  I peeked in a little, pulling the blanket away from her neck.  I touched her chest.  But, I never touched her feet.  Or her legs.  Or her belly.  Or even her other hand.   I never even saw the color of her eyes.   I brushed my fingers over her forehead and touched her hair that fell below the knitted cap on her head.   I pulled the hat up just a tad so I could be sure she had the full head of hair my heartburn had promised me, but I didn't cup her head in my hand like I wish I had.  I didn't trace the outside of her ears.   I didn't kiss the nape of her neck.    I wish I had pulled all of the coverings away from my little girl and examined every inch of her so I could have committed it to memory.   I wish I had touched and kissed her all over.  I wish I had taken hours and hours with her.  Instead, I was weighed down in shock and sadness and I didn't know that even though death had claimed her, she still ultimately belonged to me.

Nothing makes me cry more than thinking of this.  Nothing.   I can't go back and have more time.   I can't hold her again - and so all of those things I don't know will forever be a mystery to me.   How her knees bent.  If she had any freckles or birthmarks.   What her toes felt like.   When I think of this, my breath catches in my chest, sharp and hot.  My ears burn and my eyes swell with tears. I feel a sadness beyond measure.  I have tried to write this post several times and usually only get about three or four sentences down before I have to take some deep breaths and wipe the tears from my eyes.   Remembering what she felt like in my arms only makes me ache to hold her again.   Remembering how soft her skin was only makes me want to touch her one more time.   But I can't.   Never again.  

I would give anything to have her back with me, but that is a bargain that has yet to be offered.   So instead, I am here without her, fighting the darkness she left behind.   Trying to hold it together as best as I can.  I miss her so much, I often have to completely stop what I am doing to mentally push through that moment.  She is gone, and I don't get to hold her.  I don't get to touch her or sing to her.  I don't get to hear her laugh or see her smile.   I just get to remember those brief moments in the hospital when I was too shaken to really soak her in.   And that is not enough.  Not by a long shot. 

Her Room

I still have yet to stay in her nursery for more than a few minutes.   The door remains closed at all times.   When I do manage to work up the nerve to go in, the door knob creaks and pops and it feels like the air rushes out as if I'd just opened King Tut's tomb.   Inside, everything is still and stale and full of ghosts.  The emptiness echos with the sound of broken promises.

The outfits I had washed and hung up still sit in the closet.  The changing table still contains diapers and wipes.   Tiny barrettes and hairbows are scattered inside the top drawer.  The children books I received at my baby shower remain unopened.  Books containing loving inscriptions from friends and family - inscriptions addressed to Kenley.   Her crib is empty except for a maternity shirt I placed inside it.  A maternity shirt that reads "Carrying precious cargo".   I put it in her crib because I kept stumbling across it in my closet and it shattered my heart every time I saw it.  Her room is one of my last great barriers - and I cannot beat it.   It wins every time.

I try.  Man, do I try.  I walk in, strong and determined.  I take a deep breath.  I square my shoulders and hold my head high.   Like a warrior.  But, the room crushes me in a matter of seconds.   I crumple like a piece of notebook paper in the hands of a third grader.  I look at the crib she never slept in, the clothes she never wore, the books I never read her - and I break. Snapped in half like a twig in a hurricane.   I can't do it.   It is stronger than I am.

I wish her room could be a comfort to me, like it is to many other mothers.  I wish I could feel at peace in there, surrounded by her things.  But I don't.   I feel lost.  Overwhelmed by sadness.  I feel powerless and beaten.   Defeated every time, I leave her room in tears.  

Yet, I continue to go in there.   Not every day, but several times a week.   I continue to try.  I'm not really getting any better at it, but I'm not going to give up.  I refuse to hide from my grief.  I refuse to run away.  I cannot avoid sections of my own house.  I need to feel at ease when I walk by the closed door on the way to the bathroom.  I need to, eventually, be able to keep that door open.  I need to be able to be inside that room and feel more than utter despair.   One day, that room will hold a baby.  A baby and a memory.   And I need to rid that room of sadness.  For the sake of my own sanity.  For the sake of my future children.   And for the sake of my first daughter's memory.  I refuse to let her slip into eternity on a thread of tears.  

International Bereaved Mother's Day

Today is International Bereaved Mother's Day.   You can read more about this day by clicking here.  

You have probably already seen "Kenley Around the World", and you may have even contributed a picture.  A few weeks ago, I signed up for a Mother's Day Name Event where I create children's names and take a picture to send to their mothers.  In return, I will receive pictures of Kenley's name.   All mothers participating have until the end of May to submit their pictures. 

At first, I wasn't sure how I wanted to complete these names, but I knew I wanted them to be meaningful.   I had the idea to use helium balloons since balloons are significant to me and symbolize Kenley's free and independent spirit.  I talked my wonderful photographer friend Jeanee into helping me out in her studio. All I had to do was bake her a batch of Kahlua brownies.  What a deal!    Creating these pictures presented many problems, but the two of us together were great problem solvers!    They kept twisting and turning and running into each other, causing pictures of names with missing letters. After a great deal of brain storming and even more maneuvering, we finally got it right. We rigged up a base and tied the balloons to them.  Then, we took a tiny piece of tape and stuck each balloon to the next to keep them from moving too much.   I added a pink balloon to the bunch to symbolize my little ninja.  The results were wonderful.

Before you scroll down to the pictures, let me tell you why they are so important to us.  A mother of loss only had a very small amount of time with her baby.  Some may have had no time whatsoever.  We have little or no memories of our child alive outside of our body.  While other children's growth and change can be captured on film, ours cannot.  We cannot celebrate birthdays.  We cannot send them off to their first day of school.  We cannot take them to the mall because they've outgrown most of their clothes - for the third time this month.  These name pictures are our way of keeping our baby's memory alive.   They are our way of having more than just the precious few photos the hospital may have taken before our baby was whisked away forever.  They are our way of watching our child grow and be a part of the world - the world beyond us and our own small circle.   They are our way to remember our babies and to make sure that other people remember them too.  After all, we are proud moms just like any other.   We want our children to be known.   We want people to recognize their worth and importance.  We want the world to know that we had a baby and they were wonderful!  We aren't "almost" mothers.  We aren't "used to be" mothers.  We aren't "maybe next time" mothers.  We are mothers.  All of us.  All the time.  The only difference between our child and yours is that you can hold your child in your arms and we hold ours only in our heart.    It's a good thing our hearts are big enough for such an enormous love.

Please take a moment to scroll through these pictures.   Read the names.  Remember these precious children.  Honor their strong as steel mothers by recognizing them for who they are.  Today and for always.

Megan's daughter

Danielle's son

Catherine's son

Kelly's son

Shauna's daughter

Katy's daughter

Crystal's daughter

Harmony's son

Jaimee's daughter

Naomi's son

Cassie's son

Colleen's son

Leah's daughter

My little ninja.  Always and forever.

  

Finding the Others

Frenemy:  Someone who is both a friend and and enemy, a relationship which is both beneficial and dependent while being competitive, fraught with risk and mistrust.

The internet and I are frenemies.  I use it for information, which it gladly provides.   I seek out stories similar to mine for comfort - to know I am not alone.  And when I find those stories, plus a hundred more, I instantly wish I was.  The other day, I went Blog-hopping.   This is a phrase I have just now coined (copyright pending) to explain jumping from one blog to another via the links on each writer's page.   I Blog-hopped for a good two hours, reading story after story of women who know the same pain I do.   Two hours.   And I could have continued for days, linking from one person's anguish to the next, never crossing back.   

A whole new world has opened up to me.  A world I never new existed and will forever wished it didn't.  I stumbled upon this particular website as part of the Small Bird Studios blog.   Anyone who writes a blog on baby loss can enter their URL and add their blog to the list.  Women who come across this site searching for support have several stories to choose from.   When I added my site, I was #509.   Five hundred and nine!   That means, there are five hundred and eight other heartbroken women who have found this site and entered their blog.  Five hundred and eight other mothers who know what it is like to feel broken and incomplete.   If that number seems staggering to you, think about this:  that list is only the women who write a blog AND happened to find this website AND then decided to add their name.   (Since adding my blog, I have revisited the site and it is now up to 521.  For those of you not doing the math, that is eleven more women.)  This is when my friend the internet becomes my enemy.  When it links me to story after story of heart ache.  When it reminds me that not only am I not alone, but the amount of people here with me is far too many.

Sometimes, reading about someone else's pain makes me feel connected.  I feel less crazy.  I feel validated in my emotions and my actions.   I think, "Oh, I am so glad I am not the only one who feels that way.   Oh, wow, she does that too!"  I read their stories and I cry along with them, and I feel cleansed.  But then, I keep reading.   Blog after blog.  Post after post.   The circumstances vary, but the pain is the same.  And then, I begin to hurt.  Not just for my baby, but for all of the babies.  For every mother who had to say goodbye.  Another ant bite on an already swollen ankle.  Wait, that's not the best analogy...an ant bite is too inconsequential to describe the heaviness of this magnitude.  It is both comforting to know that other people understand.  But it is also heartbreaking.    When you have felt the pain of your own creation being ripped away from you, you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.  Ever.  We are united in agony, bound together by tears and shattered souls.

Sadly, stillbirths and infant losses happen more than you'd like to think - and they will continue to happen more than you will personally know of.   I never in a million years dreamed I'd be on this end of the keyboard, pouring my heart out into a blog like this.   But I am.   And so are hundreds of other women.  And we all want the same thing (besides a time machine to undo the unthinkable).  We want our babies to be remembered.

Maybe you know someone else who has been in my shoes.  Maybe you have seen them struggling with their laces.  Maybe mine is the only face of loss you know.  Maybe yours stares back at you in the mirror.  I know there are at least four women whom I have met through our shared tragedies who are reading these words right now.  And I want to say to each of them that I am so very sorry you have to feel this pain too.  I am so very sorry your baby is not in your arms.  This is not how it is supposed to be.  But, we are strong.  We are fighters.   We will remember our children with a love we never knew was possible.  We want everyone to know they were beautiful and wonderful and pure.  We want everyone to know their name.  Hunter.  Avery.  Brooke.  Ava.  Kenley.   Much love, Mamas.  Much love.

   

Wearing My Star

I wasn't expecting to write this post as I ran out the door, but something happened I wanted to share.  Today is"Wear a Star Day".  Anyone participating wore a star to honor and remember their lost children - their stars in the heavens.   I didn't really have anything to wear and I haven't been in a shopping mood for quite a while, so I made a quick star to honor Kenley with a clothespin.  I painted it teal and then wrote her name on it, drawing a star at the top of the clothespin.  I wasn't prepared for how seeing her name written on that clothespin would affect me.  It's hard to see.   I took a picture of it and then started to cry.  My baby's name, written on a clothespin so I can honor her memory.   Her memory.   That's all she is now.  That is hard to deal with, and I don't expect it to really get any easier.  But, you better believe I am going to remember the heck out of her.  Not just today, but every day.  Every day, I will carry her star with me, safely nestled inside my heart. 

Misty Watercolor Memories

Not enough time has passed for me to have experienced all aspects of my regular life not pregnant.   Almost daily, I have to stop and realize "the last time I did this, I was pregnant."  And it's hard to process those memories.   The other day, Mike and I were at the mall and grabbed some delicious chicken from Chick Fil A.   As I am sitting there, dunking my nuggets in the Polynesian sauce, I remembered the last time I ate at the food court.   I got Polynesian sauce on my shirt because my belly was in the way.  (Almost all of my maternity clothes have a permanent stain about five inches below the collar because I could not seem to get food to my mouth without at least some of it taking a nosedive onto my stomach)  As I make more efforts to get out of the house, this will happen more and more - and then it will happen less and less.   And I am not sure which is more disturbing.  

I have a very serious love/hate relationship with my memories.   Although it breaks my heart on a daily basis to remember my pregnancy, it also brings me joy to think of her alive and happy and to remember what it felt like for me to be happy.  I hate to touch my stomach and think about what I've lost.   It feels like a thousand knives dipped in boiling oil slicing through my heart.   But I love to think about the excitement I felt the first time I felt her kick.  Everyone told me it would feel like the gentle fluttering of butterfly wings.  Ha!  My little ninja didn't have that nickname for nothing.   Her first kicks felt like popcorn popping, and then eventually graduated to uppercuts to the belly button.  By the end, I thought for sure she'd be born with biceps to rival The Rock.  She was strong!   Now, rereading those words about her kicks brings forth tears of joy and tears of pain.  I guess you can't have one without the other.

Remembering hurts.   That is a solid truth.  Memories are unchangeable and bring with them a host of emotions that ache for that change.   They can not fill the hole that is left when someone you love dies.  When all you have to hold on to are memories, the emptiness of your heart can almost be too much to bear.  Your heart tries to wrap around it, to hold it close, but a memory is transparent and slippery.  It's fuzzy edged and doesn't stay in one place.  No matter how hard you try to hold on to it, it always slips away, leaving an echo of what Once Was reverberating through the darkness.  

But, remembering also heals.  For every ounce of darkness it brings me, remembering also brings me light.  I remember how I felt when I found out I was pregnant.  I remember the joy in my mother's voice when I called her on the phone.  I remember Mike's eyes lighting up with excitement.  I remember buying my very first onesie for her.  I remember what it feels like to create life...life that moves and spins and kicks.   And, of course I am sad to not have her here with me.   I will always be sad she is not here because she deserved life and I deserved to be her mother - but that sadness can not take away how happy I was.  Remembering that joy is what will help me create it again.  I never want to forget any piece of being pregnant.  I never want to forget one second I had with my daughter.  
Even though I had to stop for a few minutes just now to cry, typing through blurry vision is worth it - because I remember.  She will always be a part of me because I will remember her.  With time, the pain will fade.   The knives will dull.   But Kenley will never be forgotten.