Today you enter the double-digits. Part of me doesn't quite believe that it was so long ago since I held you. If we could shed bits of our souls to forever remain in the moments of our lives that mark us, surely a good part of mine would still be there with you, on that day in 2013, holding you and existing with you.
Yet here we are - a full decade later. Time can be both wondrous and cruel. People enter and leave our lives, change for the better and the worst, and we bear witness to it as best we can, trying to remember who we were at different points in our lives but forgetting most of it.
This year I wanted to give the chance to William and Juliette to capture their own reflections about you, at the ages of 8 and 6. I don't know how they will think of you as they age - certainly that is going to continue to evolve as they reflect more and more deeply on life and mortality. I want them to be able to look back and remember who they were, and what you were to them at this point in their lives.
I asked them each if they would like to write you a letter, with no specific instructions. Here is what they wrote:
William:
Juliette:
I also asked them three questions:
Is there anything you wish you knew about Anya that you don't know?
Tell me about how you think of her as part of our family.
What would you like her to know about you?
Here's what they had to say:
They wonder about your hair, how you would play with them, and importantly Juliette would like you to know that she likes unicorns.
It's heartwarming to see the place they hold for you in their own little hearts, and to see that ten years later, our love for you can continue to grow.
Merci à l'équipe de Naître et grandir pour la chance de discuter d'Anya et du deuil périnatal sur le balado Histoires de pères. C'est toujours un grand plaisir de parler d'elle, surtout en approchant son dixième anniversaire.
It seems so hard to believe that this much time has passed since holding her in my arms. My firstborn, and my first beautiful baby.
Although I still think of her often, these days I don't quite know how to visualize her. Is she still that baby? Is she a nine year old girl? Both, and neither? With time, it feels like her image is blurred in my mind, and the lack of a clear focused picture makes it difficult to connect to her, including when I stop by her headstone to clean out the weeds or just say hello.
I want to stay connected. To me, the notion of being at peace with her death means continuing to feel that connection. Continuing to feel love, and warmth. But is that what being at peace truly means?
Kayleigh and I had a good discussion this morning about the evolution of our grief. As distance takes hold, and sadness isn't an open and obvious part of it, is it genuine peace? Or is "peace", in a sense, building a wall against the negative feelings over time - feelings that are inextricably linked to the love we feel, and directly at odds with the idea of staying connected?
On the other hand, maybe in a sense, there is only so much negative emotion that one can conjur up - like a well that eventually runs dry. And maybe connection has to take a different path. But that in itself feels like a different kind of loss, since that sadness has been so closely linked with some of the deepest love I've ever felt.
I don't know the answer. But I'll keep reflecting.
I met you for the first and last time eight years ago today. Eight years. Although we are more and more separated by time each year, part of me still exists there with you, on that day.
I often think of holding you in that hospital room. That room, on that day, where everything in the entire universe felt whole for one last time. It has never felt the same since.
Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't want to ever go back to a place where I don't feel your loss. There was a wonderful expression I heard this year: what is grief, if not love persevering?
It is a privilege to ever get to feel such love in life. Love that perseveres.
My universe was never going to feel whole forever. Eventually in life, grief becomes a certainty. I feel fortunate to not have had to figure that out too early. And I feel fortunate to not have had to figure that out too late to truly appreciate the value of the present moment.
Thank you for this enduring gift. I love you. We love you. Happy birthday.
Quite the year you've missed. A year characterized by physical distancing. Staying apart from friends and family for the good of each other.
It is necessary. The cost to not do this would be too great. At the same time, it can be hard to quiet the voice questioning how much collateral long-term social damage is occurring. Friendships and relationships take work after all - work that is impossible to do well at a distance. And when it becomes possible again, can we ever hope to catch up? Can we rebuild the loving closeness that's starting to feel like a distant memory?
But as I reflect on the deep love I feel for you after you've been gone seven years, it seems like an easier question to answer. Of course we can. Love is not a fickle thing.
Your brother started school this year. Starting in the middle of a pandemic will give him quite the story to tell for the rest of his life. Your sister meanwhile went back to daycare after a pandemic-induced shutdown in the spring.
It's not risk-free of course - nothing ever is. We judged the benefits outweighed the potential costs, and those benefits became evident pretty quickly as William has made huge strides in just a few short weeks in his reading, writing and French-speaking, and as Juliette has had a chance to develop her fierce independence without a big brother ever-present.
We were reminded of the possible costs in the middle of November though, as Juliette developed a bit of a cough that persisted a few days. She got tested out of an abundance of caution. It came back positive, to our great surprise.
When risks materialize, it's hard not to look back and question. Did we make a mistake sending them out into the world? In the end we were lucky. Juliette stopped coughing the day after she got tested, and the rest of us were negative. The harms did not outweigh the benefits. Not this time. But they could have, especially if we hadn't been apart from those in our family who are more vulnerable.
We won't be apart too much longer from friends and family. Vaccines are amazing.
(Thanks to Suzie for the amazing song above, and Sarah for coordinating last year)
These are strange times. We have been staying home for weeks (like the rest of the world), hoping for a return to normalcy. The days are impossibly long, many of them being emotionally draining and difficult to get through. It feels like it's never going to end, and that normal can't ever really exist again. Not in the way it did before, at least.
There's something familiar about that.
I try to imagine how we'll remember these days. Will we romanticize all the togetherness, and forget about the worries and anxiety? The fear of an uncertain future?
Probably, at least to a degree. Thinking back to all those years ago, I do have fond memories of the enduring love we received. But I also remember losing hope and optimism in the face of an uncertain future - having no sense of what the next few months, or even weeks might bring. Mourning a future that I had already built up in my head. All I could see was today, tomorrow, and then a whole lot of fog. What I am most proud of was making it through that fog, one day at a time.
We've all got fog in the forecast right now. But we can see today, and maybe tomorrow. And sunnier days are ahead, even if we don't know when.
Happy 6th Birthday. We came to see you this morning. The candle on your cupcake was blown out before we finished singing Happy Birthday. Maybe it was the wind, or the bone-chilling frost. Or as Juliette put it, maybe it was "Silly Anya".
Juliette said that we should "rescue you" so that you could eat your cupcake, because you're stuck under the ground. She's starting to grasp what it means for you to have been here, but isn't there quite yet.
William talked last night about how he was looking forward to visiting you this morning. It's clear he understands your place in our family, and the love that we all have for you. When we talk about who's in "our whole family", he'll be the first one to include you.
We still think of you every day. You are loved, and you are missed.
