Mangoes

The weekend I found out I was pregnant, Mike and I had plans to visit a local plant nursery for Mango Madness.   The nursery had arranged for a mango expert to speak a little bit about the care of mango trees.   They also had about two dozen different types of mangoes to sample.  Did you know there are over 100 different types of mangoes?   Well, there are.   And they all have a slightly different taste.   Some are slightly grainy and bitter.  Others are smooth and buttery.  While Mike sat at the front of the room, listening intently on how best to cultivate a tree, I circled the sample table, grabbing toothpick after toothpick to see which type I liked best so we could buy that specific tree.   I had known I was pregnant for less than 24 hours, and already I was thinking about how old our baby would be when we could harvest our fruit.   A mango tree takes about two to three years to produce fruit.   I pictured our little baby in her highchair, smiling and laughing and covered in golden goo from our first harvest.

After the presentation, I told Mike I had figured out what type of tree to get.  We chose a Kent mango tree.  It's fruit is slick and sweet - and it was my favorite.  As we walked through the nursery with our cart toward the trees, my hand never left my stomach.   This was my baby's mango tree.  We would eat the fruit together.   We placed the tree in the back of my Honda coupe, laying it on it's side with the back seat folded down, and drove home.   Mike planted the tree in our backyard while I called my mother to tell her the news of her future grandbaby.

You might be thinking to yourself, "Well, it's ok.  Your future children can eat those mangoes."   That would be true if the tree's story ended here.   February in Florida is usually the coldest month.  It can get below 50 for several days in a row.  Sometimes getting into the 30's, but not often.   This year, February was unseasonably warm.   I remember sitting out at recess with my teacher friends the Friday before we lost her remarking about how nice the weather was.   It was as if winter had forgotten us.

When Kenley died a few days later, winter remembered.   March was ridiculously cold.  And not a day or two here and there as we are used to.  It was repeatedly below 60 degrees for the entire month.   I like to think it was because the world was mourning with me.  I like to think March was so bitter because my heart was so full of sadness.  

March killed the mango tree.  It is a dry and shriveled shell.  It's brown and brittle leaves hang lifeless around it's tiny trunk.   Like Kenley, it's not coming back.  All through April, Mike tried to work his gardening magic on it, but it's gone.  We really should pull it up, but I can't bear that right now.  

I suppose symbolism is really what you make it to be, but I always considered this tree to parallel my daughter.  We planted it when we found out about her.  It was her tree.  We were going to eat the mangoes together.   It would grow and so would she.   When she died, all the warmth left my world for a solid month.  Literally and figuratively.   And the mango tree couldn't take it either.   So, no Kenley and no mangoes.   Just an empty crib and a hole in the ground that holds yet another broken promise.

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. 

D-Day: Remembering Joy

Getting out of bed today was more difficult that I thought it would be.  I wanted today to be a celebration of her life, but I didn't feel too much like celebrating.  It's hard to find happiness when a piece of your heart is missing.  Once I pulled myself together, I got dressed and ready to go to the park.  While I dressed, I sang Baby Beluga.   I used to sing it to Kenley all the time.  Whenever I did, she'd flip around and kick me like crazy.  She loved it.  Today, I alternated between singing and crying, but I got through it, and I felt better.

Mike and I took a picnic lunch to the tree.  We brought a pink balloon and some other items to take pictures.  Then, we released the balloon.   I took video of the balloon release, but the computer is being finicky and not allowing us to view it.  After working out the technical difficulties, I'll post it later.  Since we only released one, there was no pack for her to break away from, but she soared high and true as usual.  The day was bright and clear, but the wind was fairly strong and whisked her away from us.  Here are the photos of our trip today.  

                   A friend of mine gave me this figurine.  It's very fitting.

                              Obviously, we must place an owl in the tree!

                                 Look at her, already trying to get away!

                                    My baby next to the playground.  :)

                               It was so windy, I had to hold the balloon in my hand.

        The balloon reads: " Always and Forever.  We love you little ninja!"

                Mike enjoyed playing with the panoramic feature of the camera.

  

Someone must have placed these flowers here.  Whoever you are, thank you!

It's been a month since she left us, and although my heart is still quite broken, finding purpose and meaning in every day helps me slowly and carefully patch it back together.  Today's purpose was to find joy in her life and to remember the joy she brought us.  Mission accomplished.   

Belly Overload

Last Sunday, Mike and I took a day trip with our friend to Leu Gardens in Orlando.   If you have never been there (like me) and you're in the area, you should stop by.   It's beautiful.   Winding trails through gorgeous trees and cultivated gardens.   Last week's adventure included the annual plant sale, where local vendors set up booths for people to purchase flowers, herbs, and other plants for their yards and homes.  The weather was perfect.   Fairly clear skies, mild temperature, gentle breeze.  It was destined to be a great day.   Except for one thing.  The enormous amount of pregnant women walking around the gardens - along with an even greater amount of couples pushing strollers.
Knowing my due date was late March, the one activity that always stuck out in my mind throughout my pregnancy was pushing a stroller with Mike along the sidewalks of art festivals, parks, or the zoo.   I imagined the fresh, spring breeze blowing through my hair as I gazed down at my darling little girl, securely buckled in her stroller, her chubby legs peeking out from her pink floral onesie.   I imagined being laden with all of her baby items, her diaper bag slung over the handle of the stroller.   I pictured the knowing glances and smiles from strangers as they saw the young couple enamored - and a little overwhelmed -  with their first baby.   Of all things I imagined of my life with Kenley, this is the event that always was in the forefront of my mind.   To be at the gardens without her in my belly or my arms was too much for me.   Everywhere I looked, there was another woman waddling around with her husband - or another stroller being pushed by a happy couple.  This was not just a trick of my mind, where I was just more conscious of it because I am sensitive to it.   They were seriously everywhere.  Each pregnant woman I saw reminded me of what I no longer have. Not just a baby - but hope.   I no longer have hope.  Hope for the future.  Hope for a new life.   All of these women have a lifetime of memories with their baby still ahead of them.   All of my memories have already happened - and I won't get any more.  Not with Kenley. 
 I had to take a moment.  I stepped away from my group as they paused to look at a booth full of sunflowers and I let myself go.   I cried underneath a tree, the cool spring breeze drying the tears as they fell down my cheeks.  My sunglasses were fortunately big enough to hide my eyes from unsuspecting strangers, but not from Mike.   Before long, he noticed I was gone - and he knew why.   He saw them all too.   He's trying so hard to keep me focused and to keep me from falling apart.  I told him I just needed a moment.  I needed to be upset.  I needed to let myself cry.  He held me for a minute and then said what he always says "We will get through this."
And we will.   It won't be easy and it won't be quick - but we will get through it.  One day, I won't pay as much attention to the bellies and the strollers.  One day, I'll have my own belly again - and the stroller WILL follow.   One day, I'll be ok.    Just not today.

   

Bringing Her Home

Today was the day.   The funeral home called this morning and said she was ready.  I was on the back porch working on an art project when Mike's phone rang.   I knew who it was from the hushed voice he was using.   He's so wonderful to try to protect me from pain.

We drove to the funeral home mostly in silence.   Mike reached over and held my hand.  I couldn't wrap my brain around what we were doing.   Driving to a funeral home.   A funeral home.  To pick up our baby's ashes.   For an event like this, the weather should be dark and stormy.  The wind should be howling, twisting through the bare and bony branches of the broken and gnarled trees.  The clouds should be churning angrily in a black and sinister sky.  However, life's mastery of irony continues to slap me in the face.  The sun is shining.  The sky is blue and clear.  The temperature is a mild 70 degrees.  It's a beautiful day.   A day to go to the park, to sit in a hammock, to enjoy a delicious picnic.   Not a day for what we had to do.

When we arrived at the funeral home, a soft spoken man in a suit addressed us and Mike let him know why we were there.   I know these people are well versed in expressing sympathy in a respectful and professional manner, but there is a certain look that is reserved for the loss of a baby.   A brief flash of terrible recognition passes over their eyes.  "Oh, you are the ones.   You are the parents."   I saw it the first time we were there making arrangements for her - and I saw it again today.  Yep.  That's us.  Parents of the dead baby coming through.

We were ushered into a room full of dark furniture - a shiny brown table and thick leather chairs.   The man excused himself to go retrieve our daughter.  We waited there together for just a few minutes.  The reality of the situation creating an unbreakable silence.   When the man came back, he held a tiny, velvet blue box in his hands.  A box that looks just big enough to hold a pair of those Chinese stress balls - but instead, it holds the ashes of my child.   He carefully handed me the box and then gave Mike paperwork to sign.  While he was doing that, I eased open the latch and peered inside.   Nestled in the soft velvet, is the little pink flowered urn we picked out two weeks ago.  It's no bigger than the "C" I can make with my index finger and thumb.  I closed the box and Mike and I stood up to leave.  We tell the gentleman thank you, and we're on our way.  It took all of ten minutes, but felt like an eternity.

On the way home, I clutch the box tightly in my lap.  My two hands cradling her like any mother would cradle her baby.  And I cry.  All the way home, I cry.  I know Mike is driving through blurry eyes as well.   He is so strong.

As soon as we walk through our front door, I feel a rush of both sadness and relief.   Sadness because Kenley shouldn't have to come home this way.  Relief because she is home.  Finally, my baby is home.

I cleaned out a little area on a built in shelf in the living room and set up a place for her.  Last Christmas, a family friend had given us two ornaments to symbolize Mike and myself - one a police officer and one a teacher.   I placed these on either side of her urn - because every little girl needs her parents by her side.  When I find the right owl figurine, I'll put that in as well.   

So, that's that.   My Kenley is home.  Not in her crib.  Not in my arms.  But she is home - where she will always be loved.  Sleep tight, my little ninja.  

My Goodbye to Kenley

For anyone who knows me, you know I have always written in order to sort through emotions.  For years, I kept journals.  My journals kept me sane.  They provided an outlet in which to pour my anger, confusion, joy, excitement, or anything in between.   When I first discovered I was pregnant, I immediately knew I was going to keep a journal.   I wanted a special journal just for this event, and I wanted to write specifically to my baby.  I had just the journal for the job, too.   My sister Allison had given me a tan leather bound journal from one of my favorite NYC stores, Kate's Paperie.  Its slick, smooth pages were edged in gold and a creamy ivory ribbon was sewn in the spine as a place holder.   It held the ink from my fountain pen perfectly, without bleeding or spotting.  At first, I wrote to my Bean Sprout because we didn't know gender just yet.  Then, to my baby girl.  Finally, the entries held her name.  Her wonderful, unique name.  Kenley.  I wrote about how I was feeling on some days.  (nauseous)  I wrote about things we were getting ready for her.   I wrote about feeling her move for the first time - and for all the times after that.   I told her all about what was happening in hopes that one day, she'd read through those pages and know just how much she was wanted and loved.  Then, the unthinkable happened, and I knew I'd never write in that journal again.   Except for one, last time.  

We had settled on a memorial service and I knew i wanted to speak.  I also knew I needed to say goodbye to my little one.  I wasn't sure what I wanted to say until I woke up at 3:30 in the morning a few days before the memorial. I crept to the dining room table, opened up my journal, and wrote these words to my baby girl:

It's the middle of the night my baby - and you're gone.   Your excitement to be born was so great, you somersaulted into a tangle of your cord.  So, now your father and I weep for you.  Our hearts are so heavy with sorrow, we can barely move.  I mourn the child I only knew from the inside.  My playful, beautiful ninja baby.  I loved you fiercely - more than I thought I could love anything in the universe.  I mourn the life you never got to live, so let me tell you about the life I imagine you would have had.

You would have been a cheerful baby.  Full of laughter and smiles.  When I'd change your diaper, you'd playfully grab your feet - and then you'd nonchalantly spit up.  Your sparkling eyes would melt the heart of anyone who saw them.  Of course, like your father, you'd have a pretty impressive set of pipes, and if you ever got upset, you'd certainly let us know.  Clearly and loudly.  You'd learn to sit up, stand up, crawl, and walk.  That awkward clumsiness you'd get from your mother might result in a few bruises and bumped heads, but nothing too serious.  Your first words wouldn't be mama or dada.  No, it would be something obscure - like hydrogen.  (The periodic table border in your room isn't just for decoration!)  You definitely would not be a picky eater!  Your love for food is genetic on both sides.  But you'd surely be a messy one.  

At preschool, you'd be quite the artist, bringing home a freshly painted masterpiece very day.  Our refrigerator doors would rival the Lourve.  You'd frustrate your teachers with your overuse of the word "why", but your thirst for knowledge would never be quenched.  The first day of kindergarten would be tougher on your mama than on you.  You'd hold your hand up in the air and proclaim, matter of factly, "I got this".  And you'd confidently walk into your classroom, your dark pigtails swinging slightly askew because your mama never was good with hair.

Throughout school, you'd do well.  Your smarts a trait from both sides.  You'd be a scholar and a problem solver.  You'd have the social skills of your father, so you'd be popular.  Not "cheerleader popular", but the kind of kid that can slide easily within social circles.  Your sense of humor would be playful and hilarious, with just a sprinkling of sarcasm.  "Oh, Kenley, you're such a hoot!" Your easy smile would melt the tension out of any situation.

With your mama's dark hair and curvy hips, and your daddy's blue eyes and long legs, you'd be a heartbreaker for sure!  Your mama would buy you a training bra.  Your daddy would buy a shot gun.  Your childhood and teen years would have been full of sleepovers and shopping trips.  Your daddy would have taken you camping.  Your mama would have let him.  You'd ride a bike and climb trees.  You'd wear your mama's shoes and paint your nails.  Once, you'd try to sneak in past curfew and your unfair parents would lay down the law.  But it would be for your own good - you'd see that later.

You'd be a hard worker and you'd choose a great college.   Good thing you have that scholarship!  You'd study all sorts of things.  You'd grow and mature, and your proud parents would wonder how time flew by so quickly.  You'd graduate with honors and get a job you loved.  You'd spend your twenties on a journey of self discovery and freedom.

One day, a handsome young man would timidly ask your father for your hand. And, after he finished polishing his shot gun, he'd say yes.  You'd be the world's most beautiful bride.  And when people would ask you how you "knew" your guy was the one, you'd say you learned how a man should treat his wife by watching how your father treated your mother.  

You'd have children of your own and you'd get to experience all the wonderful joys of being a mom.  Your life wouldn't be perfect - but who's is?  It would be yours!

All I wanted for you was happiness.  Wherever you are, I hope you have it.  You will always, always, always be in my heart.  You took a piece of me with you and left a piece of you behind.  I will forever treasure those moments we had together, my little ninja.  My baby.  My Kenley.

I love you more than there are stars in the universe.  May that love carry you home.  

One Pink Balloon

For anyone wondering about the title of the blog, it stems from the memorial service we had for Kenley on Saturday.   My sister had the brilliant idea to plant and dedicate a tree in her honor at a local park.  My family and close friends snapped into action and sliced through the red tape to make it happen as quickly as possible.

Saturday was, fittingly, the coldest day of the week.  In bright and sunny central Florida, it was a shocking 60 degrees.   An overwhelming amount of friends and family showed up at the park to express their love and support for me, Mike, and our sweet Kenley.  We gathered under the picnic pavilion to say a few words.  My mom wrote a poem.  My sister read a few words.  My dad had a short speech prepared.  My friend Kerri shared a quote.   I'll post what I wrote to say goodbye at another time.

After everyone spoke, we all moved over to her tree.  A Live Oak sapling with a strong and sturdy trunk.   My friend Chrissy had selected a bunch of balloons and tied them all together.  Green and blue ones for my favorite colors, two white ones to represent Mike and myself, and one pink balloon to represent Kenley Evelyn.   All of them bound together in one firm knot.   I set my Ipad to play "Across the Universe", kissed my darling pink balloon goodbye, and Mike and I let the bunch go.   The cold wind picked them up immediately and they were whisked away.  As we watched, somehow, the pink balloon broke away from the others.   It lifted higher and higher.  The big bunch hit a group of trees and faltered a little bit before continuing to rise, but the one pink balloon never slowed.  It was alone and unfettered.  It seemed to me as if my baby was saying "I'm fine on my own, mom.  I'll be okay."   I watched the balloons until they were tiny specks, and then they were gone.   All the while, the One Pink Balloon soared above and beyond the others.   Just like my baby.  My beautiful Kenley.   Too good for this world, she had to float away.