The Long Wait for Answers

For the first time since Anya's death, the 19th of this month came and went rather unceremoniously. It's not that we forgot - we acknowledged having reached another month. Month seven. But we didn't feel forced to do something about it. I don't know why, but it would feel sad to call that progress, even though it likely is an important step.

As we reached this seventh's month, I took a look at the list of topics that I had intended to tackle when I first started this blog. The glaring omission from this list, to this day, is the autopsy result. It's something that I get asked about fairly regularly, and I know that we're not the only ones curious to get answers.

I wish we had answers. I even wish we had 'Unknown' as an answer. But for over seven months, we have been waiting to get these results, and they have yet to come. That's because the process for a coroner's investigation takes, according to the Bureau du coroner du Québec, 12 months on average. Because Anya's death was 'obscure' (according to their definition), this is a process that we were forced to go through.

The one and only time I spoke to someone from the coroner's office was late in the afternoon of December 19th. I had had a sleepless night (Kayleigh had gone into labour at 11pm on the 18th), and had been spending the only day I could in the hospital with my deceased daughter. Truth be told, I don't remember exactly what was said - I consented to Anya's remains being sent to Montreal for an autopsy. I thought I had understood that the autopsy results would be available in 7 or 8 weeks, but clearly I must have been wrong.

It was all a very matter-of-fact process. There was going to be not only an autopsy, but an investigation. That's good, I thought. The more we can find out, the more information we'll be able to act on in the future. Maybe this will help inform how to prevent this in the future.

But they did not tell me it might take a year. That I know. My impression that there was a well-organized system - one that cares about giving mourning parents a timely answer - is long-gone. As we start to look to the future, it would be nice to know what went wrong. If it was going to take a year, we should have been told, and we should have had the option of going with a faster route - a hospital autopsy.

Instead, here we are. Seven months later, no answers. Anya's autopsy results are just part of the paperwork buried at a department that is clearly either overloaded, understaffed, or both. They'll get to it when they can. Calling them doesn't seem to change that. Heck, the folks they deal with are already dead- what reason could there possibly be to rush?

Her Monument

More Thoughts on the Passing of Time

Last week I posted about moving forward... about forgetting the hurt, about trying to hold onto the past though I know I have to let go. 

A friend thoughtfully shared, "You are not the same person you were before Anya was born. She changed you in such a fundamental way that she cannot, will not be forgotten. So Anya lives on in your daily existence. She made you who you are today."

Anya has changed me. Anya has changed Alex. Our children will be different because Anya has changed the way we will parent. Anya has changed the people around us. She made a difference in the world. 

When I think of this, I know I can face the passing of time. I know it is OK if I don't think of Anya all the time because she is a part of me. 

But letting go of the constant need to think of Anya isn't the only struggle that comes with the passage of time... Because it isn't just about Anya being forgotten...
The more time goes by, the more I feel alone. The world is moving forward, and I am still struggling. 

I have been back at work for 2 months now. Most days it is a challenge to balance work and healing. Work takes time and energy. Healing takes time and energy. At work, I try to set aside tears and anger, for passion and efficiency - and it feels good. At home, I take time to relax and to focus on Alex. 

Time for healing gets set aside. Feelings get bottled up. I know this isn't good for me. It just hurts so much to let the feelings of grief wash over me... 

The people around me see the passion and love. They see the sparkle in my eyes - and it is an honest sparkle. But beneath the sparkle there is still hurt and yearning and anger, and I need others to acknowledge these feelings.

I still need time to heal. I just don't know how anymore. I've forgotten how to take care of my heart... 

Someone tell me, where do I go from here?

The World Turned Upside Down : Six Months Later

Thursday marked six months since...

Six months since...

Six months later and I still don't know how to end that sentence.

Thursday marked six months since...

We collided with life.
We lost our innocence.
Love turned to death.

Six months later and the world has turned upside down. Life is just about the exact opposite of what it used to be.

The days are long and hot. I look out the window and everything is green. The earth is settled over Anya's grave.

It's already hard to remember what it felt like to be pregnant.

Life is moving forward. People are moving on.
We are moving on too, but more slowly, hesitantly.

Sometimes we dare to dream about the future. The future... something I couldn't imagine a few months ago.

It is both heartening and heartbreaking to feel the pull of the future.

We are here. Life is calling to us. We forget about the hurt for little scraps of time.

But what happens when we forget? Anya exists only within us now. When we forget, she disappears. She flickers away.

It hurts to imagine a future in which she might be forgotten for hours or days at a time.

The force of life propels us forward regardless...

The six month mark was hard.
With each pause, each moment of solitude, memories of December 19 flooded back.
All around us, the passing of time made itself known.
The world has gone half way around the sun since Anya left us.
But on June 19 the present and the past coexisted within me.

We visited the Maison de naissance to commemorate the six months that have passed since Anya changed our lives.

For a few moments, we held onto the way things might have been...

We were so close to taking our daughter home with us, but life stole her away, just at the last moment.

Father's Day

Thank you to the many of you that took the time to wish me a happy Father's Day today. It has been a bit of an up-and-down kind of day - it's hard to know how I should feel about today. My journey as a father isn't quite the one I keep hearing about in commercials.

As I usually go about any regular day, I wear a good variety of hats. I'm a husband as I wake up with my lovely wife, and, on most days, I go on to be a Public Servant, a Friend, an Uncle, a Son, and a Brother.

The hat of 'Father' is not one that I have had a chance to wear often. I wore it on December 19th, when I held my lovely Anya's hand, before she was rushed off by ambulance. I wore it the handful of times that I wrote to her.

Today, I had a rare chance to wear it again, as we went to chose a gravestone for her. It was a difficult experience, but there was something strangely comforting that on Father's day, I could do some sort of fatherly duty.

But aside from these rare moments, though, 'Father' just isn't a hat that I get to wear. So I can't help but feel that celebrating father's day without a child is like being recognized for a job that, for the most part, I'm not actually doing. It's not logical, but feelings tend to go that route.

That doesn't mean that i'm not hopeful that one day, I'll be one of those 'other' fathers, that you hear about in commercials. And if I'm lucky enough for that day to come, you can bet that I will appreciate every single moment.

Making Room

We took down the crib in Anya's room last weekend. We moved the furniture around.

"That took so much courage," said one friend. "I know it must have been difficult," said another. But in truth, it wasn't so difficult.

Anya's room...

Once filled with dreams and joy.

Then came sorrow.

As months passed, Anya's room came to mean many things...

A tie to the past.
Proof that Anya had existed.
A place where we felt connected to our daughter.
A room that waited, with bated breath.

---

It took a long time for the finality of Anya's death to sink in. No matter what my mind told me, my heart continued to wait for Anya.

But slowly some sort of acceptance started to creep in.

I couldn't accept - still don't accept - that Anya died for a reason, that her journey was meant to end. That's not what I mean by acceptance. But rather, I began to accept that Anya's death meant I would never see her again.

So Anya's room started to feel empty... waiting for someone who would never come.

And all of a sudden, I was ready to pack up Anya's things, dismantle the crib. It felt right.

We made room in our home for the future.

Whatever the future might hold, we dared to move forward.

The Battle Within

I've just had a beautiful week - mostly.

Victoria, high tea, beer on a patio, a library conference, Vancouver Island, and I won an award to boot! It was one of those weeks that makes life seem perfect and amazing.

Therein lies the battle.

Picture this.

11:00 am : "Alex, I'm so excited! I have so many great ideas to make our library even better!"
11:01 am : Tears

2:00 pm : The Pacific Ocean, the mountains, the sun. Perfection.
2:01 pm : Tears

The happier I feel, the more my heart aches at Anya's absence.

This battle between joy and sadness, between laughter and betrayal, has become my new normal.

How can life be beautiful, without Anya? How can I feel so passionate about libraries, when I struggle to find purpose in life?

How can life feel good, when inside I'm screaming, desperately searching for answers? Where do I go from here?