Memories, Art and a Special Invitation

I've heard it said a few times now... When a person dies, you turn to the memories they left behind for comfort. When a baby dies there are few memories, and a lifetime of "should have been" to mourn.

When I think of Anya, I think of a baby growing inside me and of a newborn in my arms. I also think of a toddler taking her first steps, a young girl on her first day of school, a teenager heartbroken in my arms, a mother. I think of how proud of her I would have been, and I think of all the decisions she would have made that I might not have agreed with. I think of how happy she might have been, and I think of all the love that would have surrounded her. Anya is all that she was and all that she may have been.

We have two ultrasounds and one day's worth of pictures of Anya. Most of my memories of her are abstract feelings that exist only inside my heart. Still, Anya was in our lives for a whole nine months; longer even, as her story began when Alex and I decided to start a family. And I wanted to bring Anya's story to life.

I started creating an album. An album filled, not only with photos, but with emotion and art. This album has also become a way of working through my grief... Of expressing the intense feelings, for which I simply can't find words. It has been an outlet for my love. It has been a lifeline.

Now, I share this album with you: Art Album for Anya

To commemorate the four months that will have passed since Anya came into our lives, Alex and I will be hosting a special event on Saturday, April 19. We will be inviting friends and family who have been touched by Anya or by our story to come and make a page of their own to add to my scrapbook. All materials will be provided. Please message Alex or I if you are interested in joining us for this special day.

A Family Tradition: Three Months Later

March 19 marked 3 months since Anya's death. And so, last Wednesday, we took some time to celebrate our love for our daughter.

This month's gesture was simple, yet incredibly meaningful. We framed a photo of our small family and we placed it at the top of the stairs.

For those of you who don't know the history of our house, a little over a year ago, Alex and I bought my grandparents house. Our home holds lots of happy memories from my childhood. It is a house filled with love, and we now include all the love of our small family to the pile of wonderful memories this house holds.

For as long as I can remember, my grandparents had framed photos of their five children hung lovingly in the staircase. The eldest Felice daughter was in the first photo at the top of the stairs, the youngest son's photo was hung near the landing at the bottom, and photos of their three other children held their respective places in the middle.

Now, in continuing with this tradition, a framed photo of Anya, our first-born daughter, has been hung just where it belongs at the top of the stairs.

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A side note about the photos we have of Anya :

On December 19, in the hours of shock, confusion and pain that followed Anya's death, a nurse at the hospital suggested she get in touch with a volunteer photographer who could take pictures to commemorate our family's one and only day together. An hour or two later, we welcomed a wonderfully compassionate and attentive photographer into our little cocoon. This photographer was a volunteer for the organization Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, which offers free photography services to parents who have lost a baby. Thanks to this photographer and this organization, we now have a few more mementos to add to our small pile. We are ever so grateful!

Creating Occasions for Happiness

Spring will be here soon. We all hope... And with spring comes renewal.

I had been dreading spring for the better part of the past 3 months. Spring means moving forward, leaving behind Anya's winter and continuing to live, while our daughter doesn't. This season that belongs to Anya is difficult to leave behind. I feel the universe pushing me forward, though part of me isn't ready. But as the weeks go by, I also feel my desire for fun and happiness returning; slowly, inconsistently, surely.

Alex and I have been capitalizing on this desire, motivating and disciplining ourselves to do something fun.

We have revived our cooking challenge. Each week, we decide on a theme and cook something new.

We tapped our maple tree for sap, in the hopes of collecting enough for a "sugaring off" party and bit of maple syrup!

We went on a fabulous Caribbean cruise and finally got some sunshine. How that sunshine has made all the difference!

There is good in moving forward. There is the possibility of life, of happiness. There is the feeling of hope that comes with looking to the future. There is confidence; the confidence that I can look back on our joyful time with Anya, without crumbling at the thought of her death.

So many adventures and so much love await our family (of two? three? I am never sure. Someday more?). If only we are lucky enough to continue to live.

A Day, A Lifetime

This week has been incredibly difficult. Anya was born, Anya died 11 weeks ago today. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, sometimes it feels like yesterday. Still it hurts, it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before.

There are moments when I feel I need to justify my pain... to justify that I am still aching two months later. No one has invalidated my grief... but I feel the need to tell you in case you don't understand...

Anya was my daughter. She was my child. She may have lived less than an hour, outside the womb, but I love her as much as you love your children. It doesn't matter that she had already died by the time I got to cuddle her in my arms. I held her with as much love as if she had been alive, with every fiber of my being, just as you did when you held your newborn baby.

When I think back to December 19, I not only think about the shock and sadness of losing Anya, I also think about the love we shared. I really think we only shared half the story when we told you of Anya's birth and loss.

We spent that day together, as a family.

My dearest Anya,

Our day together was the most beautiful (and most sad) day of my life. I held you close, my daughter. You fit into my arms just right. You belonged there.

You were so perfect.

I remember how you felt in my arms, at 5 pounds, 13 ounces (bigger than your mom as a newborn). You felt so light, so small. You felt so real, so concrete. A whole human being. 

You were perfectly still. Neither limp, nor rigid. Just like the most perfect doll.

I remember your smell. You smelled like my womb, like inside me. You smelled so familiar and so good! With just the faintest smell of soap mixed in.

I remember the feel of your skin, so smooth, so flawless. Your lips, so small and gentle and lip-like, just like your dad's. Your hair, so soft, almost as soft as down feathers.

That day, I held you - and dad held you - and we poured all our love into you, and into each other. And we knew all the love you had for us.

That day was all I could have hoped for... sort of...

My strongest wish, my need, was to hold you skin to skin. That is something I got to do. Our connection in the womb, and skin to skin was so powerful, so amazing. Though my need to hold you against my skin is still so strong... I find comfort in dad now.

There are many wishes I had. I wanted to feed you from my breast, to bathe you, to take you home to our nest. I wanted to have more time. But all these unfulfilled hopes and wishes are simply summed up: I wish you had lived.

Love, Mom