One More Week

I am having a really hard time lately.  As Kenley's birthday approaches, my anxiety increases.  I am having flashbacks of that last week of her life.  I think about going to the doctor for that last happy check up, hearing her heartbeat, and talking about keeping my blood pressure down so we wouldn't have to induce early.  I remember the baby shower my co-workers threw for me in the school library, with the sign "Welcome Baby Kenley" hung up over the bookshelves.  I remember the owl cups and napkins and the wonderful gifts I opened.  An adorable green owl table lamp, several stuffed owls, and countless onesies.  I remember my friend placing her hand on my belly at the end of the shower and Kenley giving her a swift kick in the palm.  That afternoon, when I had my feet up as ordered, I had a little bit of crampiness, which I wrote off as Braxton Hicks.  (which it probably was)   I remember talking to my sister on the phone about how swollen I was and her saying to me that I wouldn't make it full term.  Kenley was going to come early.  Horrified at having to shift my sub plans, I said, "She'd better not!  I'm not ready!"  That weekend, Mike and I sorted through all the things we had gotten so far and organized the nursery.  We took a trip to Target for some last minute items.  A friend and I purchased some colorful ribbon and spent Sunday afternoon weaving that ribbon around the bottom of Kenley's crib - something I'd seen on Pinterest as an alternative to a bedskirt.  That day, I'd noticed Kenley was very quiet.  I couldn't remember if she'd moved lately, but I was sure she had.  Obviously, I'd just missed it.   Sunday night, I was starting to get nervous, so I found an old stethescope and tried to find her heartbeat.  I thought I did at the time, but it turns out it was only mine.  I didn't know it yet, but my little girl was already gone.   I'd find out the next day at my doctor's appointment.  An appointment that should have been routine and quick, where I should have heard a steady "whompa-whompa-whompa" and gone on my merry way, instead became the catalyst that threw me into a nightmare.

I feel like I am reliving that week now.  Like I am watching myself in my memories - an audience member in a horror movie who knows the monster lurks behind the kitchen door while the main character happily skips around in the rest of the house.  Watching as she makes her way to the kitchen, unable to stop her.  And I'm also afraid that monster is just waiting to come back for me - and for Bean.  As I count down these last few days of Kenley's life, part of me fears that Bean's life is on the line as well.  That somehow, none of my babies can ever make it past February 25th.  I know this is irrational, but I can't help it.  Nothing about any of this has ever made any sense anyway.

I don't know what her birthday will bring.  Many of the ladies in my online groups say that the anticipation of the date is often worse than the actual day.  While that was true for Halloween and Thanksgiving, it wasn't for Christmas, and this date is so much more important than any of the others.  In any child's life, the first birthday is celebrated and considered special.  Next week should be a day of joy and excitement.  A day where I marvel over how much my baby girl has grown and matured.  Instead, it will be yet one more day of silence.  One more day she is gone.   One more day in a chain of forever.  This week should be the week I am running around trying to get her birthday party organized.  I should be shopping for snacks, deciding on a recipe for her cake, and getting decorations together.  This weekend should be filled with happiness and parties.   Instead, I'll spend this week feeling just as broken as those first foggy days.   

Yesterday, I had a really tough time keeping myself together.  I cried, ragged and hard, several times.  Today, has been just as difficult.  I'm trying to stay calm and focused, but my mind is not my own.  It wanders off, floating away from me.  Like a pink balloon.  

The Purple Leaf

I am not afraid of my house burning down or being kidnapped in a bad neighborhood.  I'm not scared of being involved in a mall shooting, or my class failing their standardized tests, or slicing my fingers while chopping vegetables.  What terrifies me is that purple leaf.   The small, laminated picture fastened to the outside of a hospital room door.  The soft, olive green background framing a slightly wilting purple maple leaf.  The silent signal that this is a room of sorrow, of loss, of pain.  It seems so harmless - a small plastic square slid onto the side of the door frame, just above the room number.  

It's just a picture of a leaf.   But it's not.  It is the ending of dreams.  It is the breaking of hearts.  It is the screams of pain and agony that stir from a deep, dark core you had no idea even existed inside you.   It is the isolation from the world you should have been a part of, but are not.   That purple leaf - telling everyone that joy has passed this room by, that death and stillness lurk inside.  

That purple leaf meant that nurses walked into my room with a warm whisper and shimmering eyes.  It meant comforting hands on my arm that held no child.  It meant filling out a death certificate instead of social security information.  It meant a complete and total change of protocol that nobody can imagine having to make.

I hated that purple leaf.  When I had to walk the empty hallway to begin healing from my surgery, I would notice it stuck to my door - a room on the opposite side of labor and delivery - reminding me, and everyone else, what had transpired within me.  There is no baby.  There is no joy.   There is only an aching silence and a shattered soul.

As I get closer and closer to Bean's arrival, I can't stop myself from thinking about that leaf.  Will it be on my door again?   Will I get so close only to fall so far?  The thought of the purple leaf sends chills of terror down my spine.  Sitting in the hospital, holding Bean cold and still like her sister, is more than I can bear.  

There is no remedy for this fear other than experiencing a delivery without the leaf.  No amount of other people's comforting words or stories will take it away.  I will be afraid of the leaf until the minute Bean is in my arms, red-faced and crying.   

Right now, Bean is poking around in my belly.  Squirming and wiggling, growing and thriving.  Right now, I am doing the very best I can to keep my thoughts focused and positive.  There is no valid reason for Bean to repeat her sister's fate, but then fear has never been valid.  Fear is slippery, slimy, and sinister.  Fear whispers in your ear with a hiss, sliding into your heart and soul in a winding river of blackness.   Sometimes, you can build a dam strong enough to keep it at bay, but that only lasts for a while, and then it all comes crashing down.

My beautiful Kenley came into this world with a purple leaf.  I can't change that.  I can't get her back and I can't even guarantee her sister's safety.  All I can do is wake up each morning and love my girls with all of my heart as I take one more step closer to that hospital door.   So, that's what I do.  I love.  Hard and fierce.  And I hope it's enough to keep that leaf away.

All You Need Is Love

When Mike and I got married, we created our own ceremony.  We wanted something unique and individualized.   I scoured the internet for various types of unity ceremonies that weren't just candles and sand.  We decided on using a handfasting ceremony, based on pagan wedding traditions from long ago, which worked perfectly for us since neither one of us are religious.  I modified the ceremony to modernize it and make it less "Mother Earthy".   I loved everything about that day.  Every piece of it makes me happy.  I could really write pages and pages about that day and share all of my pictures, but I shall refrain for now.

A good friend of ours, who was a notary, agreed to officiate.  Before the wedding, she asked Mike and I to send her our thoughts on Love so she could incorporate them into her opening remarks.   Recently, another friend of mine needed some help organizing her own wedding, and in looking through some of my old files, I came across what I sent my officiant.   It's just as true today as it was then - and it will continue to be true for years to come.   

Love is comforting.  It’s like a blanket on a cold night or a cool breeze on a hot day.  Love is what you need when you need it –and  because you need it.  Love is slipping into a hot bathtub that has just the right amount of water, bubbles, and support.  It fits around you. 

Love is a partnership.   It can not truly exist without two halves working together.   Love is thinking of what’s best for the whole before considering what each part wants.  Love is compromising me for you and then you for me.   Love is looking out for the other person and recognizing that this other person is on your team and wants what is best for the team.  Love is BEING a part of that team willingly and unconditionally.

Love is trusting.   You place your heart in someone else’s hands and they place theirs in yours.  You trust in them to take care of your heart.   To hold it softly and carefully.  To protect it from harm.  You trust in them to do this job without fail – and you do the same for them.

Love is passionate.   Love creeps into your thoughts even during the most mundane parts of your day and stirs up excitement.  It quickens your pulse when you least expect it.   It sweeps you off your feet and carries you away.  And you let it – because where would you be without it?

Love is timeless.  True love creates butterflies throughout the years, not just at the beginning.   New love is easy to feel.  It’s the “settling in” love that you have to pay attention to.  It’s subtle, but still there.  That tingly feeling you get when you’re around the other person.   It’s a familiar tingle, but it’s a spark still strong enough to start a fire if we let it.

Love is growth.   You change and grow in the face of love.  Who you were before love it is not the same as who you are during it, or who you will be after it.   Love changes you – and you change for it.   Love is growing with each other, for each other, and because of each other.    Love is knowing neither one of you is the same person as when you first met, and that’s okay.  Love is having a solid appreciation for who the other has become, and what they have helped you become.  Love is being excited for how each of you will change and grow together.    Love is knowing life is not stagnant, and you should not be either.  Every day should be a new opportunity to make yourself a better person.   Love is two people becoming better together. 

Love is daily.   It is important to make time for each other in the day to day routines of life, even if it’s just 5 minutes to talk about one thing that made you smile, made you sad, made you angry, or made you think.   You have to set aside time to nurture your relationship, to talk to your partner, to connect with them.  Sometimes, it’s a fantastic date night.  A dinner, a movie, and…whatever else comes your way.   Sometimes, you might get lucky and get a whole weekend of togetherness…or GASP…an entire week of vacation.   Those are important traditions  to keep going.  Weekly, monthly, yearly as needed.   But, a connection must be made EVERY day.  Whether it’s a long walk, a short talk, or a post-it on the fridge that says “I love you.  Have a good day”.   Connections don’t just happen.  You have to put forth the effort to make them happen – to continue to make them happen.

Love is all you need.   Well, not quite.  In addition to love, you need the desire to keep it going.  You need the willingness to navigate around the potholes of life as well as the willingness to take the time to celebrate your triumphs throughout the journey.    You need the humility to recognize that no one is perfect all of the time, including you.   You need the strength to recognize that love is not butterflies and moonbeams all the time.  Love is not just rose petals and sunsets, strawberries and champagne.   Love is late nights at work to put food on the table.  Love is stopping at CVS for cold medicine and someone’s favorite ice cream. (Chocolate Chip cookie dough, BTW)   Love is cutting coupons, making beds, and doing dishes.  Love is work.  Love is sacrifice.  Love is tough.   Love is worth it.  Love is mine.

Mike, being a man of few words, sent her basically the same sentiment, but in a much shorter format.  Thinking back to my wedding day, it was a wonderful day not just because it was uniquely mine - and not just because it was also a rockin' good time - but because it was the moment my heart had been waiting for my entire life.

I have learned more about myself, my beliefs, and my surrounding circle over this last year than in any of the years leading up to it.  Almost everything in my life is completely different now than it was less than 12 months ago.  Except for one thing - my view on what it means to love someone.  When faced with tragedy, you are shaken to the core.  As you rebuild, you either keep or discard the pieces of yourself that have fallen apart.   The pieces you choose to keep may be tattered and torn, but they are sturdy and strong and true.   That's why you keep them.  They become the corner stones of your new self.   The piece I wrote for my wedding shows probably the only remaining part of the "old" me that still exists today.   And I am so very glad that has not changed.