Dusting off an old hat

Today, my dear Anya, you would be 12 years old. This is the eleventh time I sit down on the morning of December 19th, under the gloomy grey skies and quiet beauty of a new winter arriving, and that I make the time to write to you, to think of you, and to put on this hat that I've rarely been able to wear over the years: Being your dad.

The year 2025 was a very special one for our family. We took months off of work, in part to go adventure together as a family and to see the beauty of everything that's out there in the world. But one of the other important things I wanted to use this time for was to fulfill a dream I've had for years. The dream of putting on that hat to properly document this journey we've been on together within a book, in order to make our story more accessible and maybe offer a bit of hope for those who are at the start of their own journeys. 

I set out to write this book in three distinct parts aiming to answer the following questions:

1. Who was I before you were born, and in the lead up to your birth? 
2. How did I and your mom navigate the immediate aftermath of losing you?
3. What were the lasting legacies of your existence?

 Here is the structure of what those reflections yielded:

I was grateful to be able to rely on more than 12 years of reflections in this blog to help me speak to the evolution of my grief. But there was one post in particular that made me realize the extent to which I still didn't get answers to all of my questions: The Coroner's Report, posted on November 14, 2015. I ended that post by saying "The ball's in my court". In truth, that was always somewhat in the back of my mind as something to revisit - but with an 8 month-old William to raise, it didn't feel like a priority at the time, and it was easy to kick down the road after that.

The hardest chapter to write, by far, was Loose ends, where I finally circled back to the Coroner's report.  In re-reading the report, I realized that there were a few things I probably should have focused more on than my initial questions:

• The realization that I never actually received Anya's autopsy. In fact, this was annexed to the coroner's report which only summarized it. 
• What it meant for the death to be ruled accidental. That conclusion suggested that a better medical intervention could have led to a different outcome.
• The extent to which the intubation had failed. There were three documented intubations: An initial one failed, another came loose during transport, and a third when Anya arrived at the hospital. Most importantly, I didn't seek to find out whether the Maison de naissance actually did change anything in response to Anya's death to ensure better intubation training. 

So I set out to get answers, both from the Bureau du coroner, and the Maison de naissance. I was very grateful for how receptive they were to answering my questions after all of these years. I was able to speak to the coroner that led the investigation, as well as the head midwife in charge of the Maison de naissance. 

The good is that I emerged from those conversations with a better understanding of the nuances. There is no world where Anya would have been completely fine, even in a hospital. A lot of damage had already occurred in the days prior to her birth, and she would in all likelihood have faced lifelong health consequences. But she could have lived with a better intubation, hence the recommendation. The head midwife did confirm with me that following Anya's death, training frequency did increase, however she did not recall another time where an intubation had been needed since.

The conversation with the coroner also led me to understand how difficult it would be for me to ever get the autopsy, due to how the applicable law is written and how it restricts the sharing of annexes to Coroner's reports. Long story short, after formally requesting it anyway and being denied, I did what anyone else would do in the circumstances: I wrote to the Chief Coroner and the responsible Minister, pleading with them to inject a bit more humanity when it came to interpreting the law, in circumstances where parents want information about their deceased children. To my great surprise, a few weeks after my request, I was invited to meet with the Chief Coroner who told me that they were touched by my request, and that they would not only give me the information I was looking for, but would institute new procedures for helping parents in similar circumstances going forward.

So this year, Anya, your existence had an impact. I think you will next year too. First when I publish this memoir which is currently being edited (I am hopeful to publish it by spring of 2026), and second as I advocate for higher frequency of resuscitation training, to make sure the lessons learned from one Maison de naissance are actually applied beyond just those walls. I look forward to telling you all about it.

 Je t'aime.

-Papa 

 

 

When I Go

Happy 11th birthday, dear daughter. 

I am grateful as always for this annual ritual, allowing us to pause and reflect on your beautiful brief existence on this December day. In thinking of you today, I was remembering this verse in a lovely song:

 

We're all just these monkey shapes, clocks wound up with springs

Some get awhile, some just a little swing

(Craig Cardiff, Father Daughter Dance)

 

There's something poignant to me about how well that verse captures the uncertainty of tomorrow, and about how none of us knows when any of our clocks will have exhausted their wind-up. And it occurs to me that I have now spent more than a decade reflecting about you, but I haven't spent much time at all thinking of how I might want have wanted you to reflect about my existence on this planet when my own clock gives out. 

Of course, grief is a journey everyone has to undertake by themselves, in a way. But maybe having a sense of what you would have wanted me to know, think, and feel about you would have helped guide that grief, a bit like a lighthouse on a foggy day.

So what would I want you to know, think and feel through your grief of me? 

First, although I'd certainly want you to reflect on who I was as a person, it is not with the hopes that you would strive to be who I was. Each generation learns, both from the good and the bad of their parents, and I'd want you to take what inspires you to be better, and leave the rest behind in the past. 

I would want you to know that the person I strove to be is:

• Someone who recognizes their own inherent imperfection, and constantly works to improve at all facets of live. There are so many things in life that start out hard- Communication first and foremost. But you know, also baking. It's important to keep working at it.
• Someone who acknowledges that there is so much more to know about the world than any person can ever know (both in terms of general knowledge, but also in what others are going through at any point in their lives). And given that, it's important to keep a humility, kindness and a hungry curiosity in how to approach the day-to-day.
• Someone who gains hope and purpose when linking the little things to the bigger picture. That time-out that I gave? It's to have a kid that is reflective about how they treat others, who will grow up to be a kind adult. That spreadsheet template I just finished for work? It's to allow everyone to know about the amazing impacts that funding science can lead to.
  

I would want you to think very carefully about how closely I resembled or diverged from that person I strove to be. Maybe I was nothing close to that. Maybe to you, I never quite figured out how to really listen in a way that you would feel heard. I'm sorry if that's the case. Don't tell yourself you're wrong - after all, it's right there in that first bullet that I was imperfect.

Finally, I would want you to feel that I am there within you - all of the good parts you've decided to take on as your own, and that you've made a part of yourself as a person. That's the love I want to give to you. Leave the rest behind.

Dear Sister (Happy 10th Birthday)

Dear Anya,

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:

1. Is there anything you wish you knew about Anya that you don't know?
2. Tell me about how you think of her as part of our family.
3. 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.

Happy birthday Anya.

Dad

Balado Histoires de pères

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.

Reflections on "Being at Peace"

Nine years ago today, Anya was born. Nine years. 

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.

 

Eight Years Gone, Eight Years Loved

Dear Anya: 

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.

Being Apart

Happy seventh birthday, Anya.

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)

Pandemic Fog

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.

Six Years

Dear Anya:

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.

Grief in the Rear-View Mirror

The first blanket of snow of the season tends to remind us of Anya - a reminder that highlighted to me this week that it's been almost a full year since I've written here. It inevitably led to re-reading a lot of our early posts.

A few weeks after Anya's death, almost six years ago, I wrote a general outline of 13 posts I was planning. It mapped what her story had been from beginning to end, and plotted the journey of grief ahead. It's interesting today to look back and reflect on that journey, including the posts not written. 

Telling the story of our firstborn did indeed start with the planned "A Perfect, Uncomplicated Pregnancy", which set the stage. It reflected my need to emphasize that everything had gone perfectly well - that we didn't ignore anything - and my need to justify our choice for opting for a birth centre, rather than a hospital. I remember in those first days, questions about why we hadn't been at a hospital had felt almost accusatory. I felt the need to say "this wasn't our fault", as much as it obviously wasn't.

The second planned post, "Low Risk vs No Risk" didn't actually materialize. The sentiment behind it had been to capture how the first post ended: There is always risk. Even in the face of odds that are 99.75% favourable. 

The third post, "Our Birth Story" was originally going to tell the story in one go, but it felt natural to split it into two: before and after we lost her. I remember writing it with Kayleigh, and being grateful for getting a better understanding of what her perspective had been. In re-reading my portions, it's striking how vivid a few of the memories still are: the anxiety as I waited, and waited, and waited in the ER. The moment the doctor confirmed she had died. The first chance to have a long look at my beautiful daughter. But some key details have blurred - the doctor's face, the bed in the ER.

The next post, which gave this blog its title was "This Happens to Other People". I've sometimes felt that it's not a particularly good name for a blog, but the sentiment still resonates so powerfully: although we know bad things happen in life, we feel like they won't happen to us. Until they do. 

"What Happens Now?" was the second unwritten post - intended to be one that dealt with the feeling of returning home, empty handed and defeated. Of tearing down the note I posted on our door which told Kayleigh's mom that we had driven to the birth centre. Of seeing the birth-snacks i'd forgotten in my rush. It was more about a feeling than  a particular point.

"Burial" is another unwritten post - probably the one I most regret not writing. It was to talk about December 30th, 2013. The day we had a funeral service with friends, colleagues and family, ahead of Anya's burial. I regret not better documenting what an incredible day full of love this was - expressed through many beautiful words of comfort, speeches, and even song written for Anya. 

As might be expected, posts started to diverge a bit from the planned title over time, though often still with the same sentiment. "Our Incredible Family, Friends, and Colleagues" was posted as "This One Goes Out to Our Friends and Family" - signaling our gratefulness for the love that helped keep us afloat. Likewise, "Questions, Anger and Anxiety" became "Questions and Answers", trying to understand what had happened.

I don't actually remember what the intent was behind "Will we be okay?" - whether it was to be about me and Kayleigh as individuals, or about the "we" as a young married couple. Most likely the former. I do recall the fear of not being able to return to full form in my work - a scary thought when I took (and still take) so much pride in my work. That fear subsided over time, and my return to work was written about from Kayleigh's perspective in "Empty Home" which captured the dread I had hoped to capture in "Returning to Routine".

I optimistically planned to write "Autopsy Results" a couple of posts ahead of the one that had to do with us considering having more kids. I felt it belonged there at the time, since we were under the impression it would take a few weeks at most to get those results, rather than the 23 months it actually took as written in "The Coroner's Report", and complained about in "The Long Wait for Answers". 

The last unwritten post, "Cloudy Future" was intended to talk about the uncertainty of whether to move ahead with having kids - Was it worth the risk of getting hurt so deeply again? That post simply didn't materialize, partly because I didn't feel it quite as strongly as I initially did (though the fear  didn't disappear until after William's birth). 

"Trying Again" was fittingly the last planned post in the outline, intending to document the decision to try (or not) to have another child. It ended up sharing not just our decision, but also the fortunate news that William was on his way.

What is striking in looking back is that those 13 posts planned in January 2014 turned into more than 70 that documented the ups and downs of grief, highlighting the lack of linear progression along the way. How fortunate we are to have had the chance to live through it and learn from it. 

Rituals

Happy 5th Birthday, Anya. 

We all came to see you this morning, cupcakes and a candle in hand, to sing you Happy Birthday. Your brother was asking about you. He said "Anya can't eat the cupcake, right?". I said "No she can't"... "We were sad she died, right?".. "We were".."But I think should would have really liked the cupcake because it's really really good, daddy".

Your sister said your name for the first time this morning. I think she's starting to understand that those pictures of you aren't her. It will still take her a while to grasp what your existence means, but she's getting there.

I enjoy our yearly ritual. Baking fresh cupcakes the night before (or the morning of). Going to see you. Singing you happy birthday, and sharing the cupcakes as a family. Going home, and re-reading the first few posts of this blog. Reflecting. Writing. 

The last time I wrote, I mentioned how anxiety had gotten the better of me. Friends were kind to point out that I might have been a bit hard on myself. I didn't quite believe it, but after some friendly nudging by one great friend, I finally did seek counselling to discuss this residual anxiety. The consensus was that... yes, I was being a bit hard on myself given the circumstances. I suppose I needed to hear that from an objective party (but I'm thankful to those that took the time to voice it).

I am reminded in re-reading that post, and this blog, that progress is hardly linear. We've said this often, and yet it's never a comforting thoughts when things seem to regress. I hope I'll learn to internalize this a bit better over time, which will add to the warm legacy of yours that I hold in my heart.

  

Fragility

Last week was one of the most trying ones to date as a parent. On Wednesday night, our little William (who had been battling a fever and a sore throat) gave us a bit of a scare. He woke up crying for mommy (who happened to be on a rare night out), and when he couldn't calm down, began to throw up. A rather large patch of blood was included in the first volley.

Even as I noticed that red patch, my "dad instincts" kicked in as I hoped that they would - trying to calm him, telling him that things were okay, and that we'd clean all of it up; I drew a bath, got some new clothes, and started recollecting to him the times I was sick "when I was a little boy". At the same time, I dialed in to the good folks at the Info-Santé (a provincial phone service where nurses can give advice for next steps) - they confirmed that, yep, this is the kind of situation that warrants an immediate follow-up. I got him and Juliette dressed. Mommy came home, and off to the Emergency we went.

My mind tends to start envisioning the very worst case scenario. It's a habit that I didn't have five years ago, and which I've tried to rid myself of, but that's easier said than done. In the worst cases (e.g.: William's birth), imagining the worst has brought about some very intense anxiety and panic that can be crippling. But reflecting on how Wednesday went, I was content that in the moment, my mind reacted reasonably well to the situation. I didn't let that anxiety get the better of me, and that was a win - progress. It felt like confronting the roots of my anxiety hadn't been a waste. In the end, after a long wait and a few tests, it was decided that William's situation wasn't much of a cause for concern to the doctors.

On Friday, as we were heading off to bed, we started noticing that Juliette was making some odd noises. We went to check in on her, and noticed that she had the trademark 'seal bark' cough of croup, and was experiencing stridor (a strong wheeze, and clear trouble breathing). This is where the panic started to set in. William has had croup twice in the past, both times where we had to bring him to the Emergency, but something about this was different. Cold air at the window wasn't immediately helping, and I wanted desperately for her to breathe better. It's not like she was turning blue - her breathing was just very laboured. But I didn't know what to do in my sudden panic - I even almost brought her outside without a coat. Kayleigh, being more reasonable, took the time to get her ready first, but I snapped at her more than once to tell her she was taking too long. Her response was perfect - she called Info-Santé, they confirmed that we should head to the Emergency, she grabbed the things we would need and off we went. The entire car ride there, as Juliette was breathing laboured breaths (that seemed, in the moment, to be increasingly laboured), I was largely focused on one thought - this could be how it ends for her. Reason be damned, even knowing that croup is rarely fatal.

We rushed in, went through triage, and she and Kayleigh stayed together as I was asked to go register her. The wait was probably no more than 10 minutes, but it seemed to take forever. And as I finished giving the necessary details, I asked if they could tell me where she was - and they directed me to the Intensive Care Unit. My heart sank. This isn't where I wanted them to be. I wanted them to have been sequestered in a room, as we had been when William had croup, waiting 4 hours for a doctor because they weren't particularly worried, until they gave an oral steroid and sent us on our way. 

The last time I had been in an intensive care unit was on December 19th, 2013. In that moment on Friday, I felt my fears were coming true. I had an immense feeling of dread - until I saw her little grumpy face on the bed, breathing with difficulty but protesting with all of her innately stubborn self. I slowly allowed myself to feel a bit of relief, and started to tell myself that she was going to be fine as I fought back some tears. Sure enough, after they administered epinephrine (via gas) and an oral corticosteroid, she was good to go. We were probably in and out of there within 3-4 hours.

I haven't that powerless in a long time. The experience was a stark reminder of the fragility of life and of how quickly things could change. It also threw some cold water on that notion that I'd dealt with my anxiety and panic in a way that would allow me to function in the moments where I need to be able to place family above self. The inner struggle between how I want myself to react in those situations, versus how I actually do, is difficult. The past couple of days has had me re-analyzing my poor performance, which comes with a fair amount of guilt. The entire experience has re-heightened my anxiety to the point where I over-analyze every breathe, wheeze, and cough. I realize that this isn't healthy. I also realize that those feelings may never truly go away.

I struggle with the notion that perhaps bringing these feelings to the surface and confronting them may not be all it's cracked it up to be. What's the point of facing those difficult parts of yourself if, in the end, almost five years later, there is no victory to be had in those difficult moments? Then again, maybe my reaction facing an ICU for the first time in years might have been entirely different - and worse - had I not. One thing's clear - there are some things that time doesn't automatically resolve. I still have work to do. And might just need help to do it.

"Daddy I have two sisters"

Our dear little William is now a bubbling happy three year old, curious about everything that life puts in front of him. It's pretty wonderful hearing all of the quirky things that pop in his head.

"Daddy look, I fell down just like the Sens!"

"Daddy, can me and Juliette go to your meeting with you?"

and also

"Daddy I have two sisters. One - Anya. One - Juliette. Anya died. I was sad. Daddy why did Anya die? She didn't want to die"

It's always a bit surprising to see William demonstrate how much he's absorbed in his short life. He's already at the point where he understands that he had a sister called Anya, that she died, and that death is sad.

Tackling 'Why did she die?' is a tricky one. I try to balance being forthright and honest, without framing it in a way that could make William fearful about his own mortality, or that of his parents and sister. Usually, this is by answering that Anya's body didn't work, that it didn't let her breathe. And that usually, bodies don't stop working until someone becomes very old.

To which he responds "Daddy I'm not old, I'm new."

Yes William, you're new.

Eventually we'll have to tackle the cruelty of that unfair caveat, "usually". But we're not there yet.

Disconnect

We've used the term "how far we've come" a number of times over these past four years, always with a positive undertone. From devastation back to normalcy - it's been a journey that I am proud to say we 'completed', in a way.

The strange thing about reaching normalcy is that it's not the end of the road. We keep walking down that path day after day, year after year, eventually taking us out of sight of the path of devastation, but with it, the place where we met our first born. And there's no option to circle back and revisit our connection to that past. 

Keeping her legacy alive through new thoughts and words gets progressively more difficult when no new thoughts come and all of the words feel like they've been written. I may be close to the point where there is nothing left to say, and that in itself is a sad milestone. 

There's a great big wonderful future ahead. It's a shame we can't bring the past along for the ride.

You Are Four

My dear Anya,

Can you believe that you were born four years ago already?

I find it hard to believe that we have been that long without you. Yet I can hardly remember the time that came before you. 

You should know that I have thought of you each and every day since I learned of your existence. I will continue to do so for as long as I can. You should also know that you live on. 

You are the one who anchors me to the love of the present, with the knowledge that tomorrow is uncertain. You are the one who reminds me that looking forward is nowhere near as important as appreciating what is, right now. Tomorrow is full of promise. But one day, one of these tomorrows will mean losing something, or someone again, so I hold on to today for as long as I can. 

Yes, my beautiful Anya, you are still alive in me, in how I approach life, and in how I love your mom, your brother William and sister Juliette. 

Happy birthday, my eldest. I love you. I miss you. Thank you for all that you have given me.

Waves of Grief

Life is pretty crazy these days... interrupted sleep, little time to ourselves, toddler tantrums. In the midst of this exhaustion, I'm struggling to appreciate life and the little things. And I'm certain 4 years ago I vowed never to take life's treasures for granted...

I'm struggling and I'm hurting as I realize there is no formula, no series of choices that can make life exactly as I want it to be. There is not enough will power or trying that can make life perfect.

It's naive to have thought that it ever could have been perfect, I know.

When William (our rainbow baby) was born my life shifted overnight. The time I gave myself to grieve, to hope, to reflect on life, to work through tough emotions almost vanished, and my life became focused on immediate needs, survival, and love of course. William brought us so much love, so much vitality.

Grief for the loss of Anya was still present, but it became background noise as I focused on the present, and I learned to love life again. I basked on the dry beach in the ebb of the waves of grief. This is a good thing. But I invested myself so wholeheartedly in loving life that I didn't even notice I had built a dam, and grief stopped flowing.

Then something shifted, I don't know exactly when. Maybe it was when Juliette was born. I dreamed again of life with a daughter, precious dreams that had once been for Anya. Maybe it was a few months later when the aforementioned exhaustion set in. Something shifted and grief returned, less acute, but still present like a long slow wave.

Now grief takes the shape of anger and hurt as I am forced to accept the realities of life. Everyone I love will one day die. Being a parent is hard and isolating. I will never find the perfect balance between family, work and my own needs. And no matter how many kids we have, our family won't be complete.

If there is any silver lining in all of this, I think it is having a place to share these feelings, to let grief flow and to soon find the ebb of this wave.

Highs and Lows

Aren't we lucky?

That's a question and sentiment we find ourselves asking and feeling quite a bit these days. That is - in between the occasional moments of frustration and exhaustion that naturally come with parenting a couple of kids under three.

Life is good. Great, even. The highs of having the wonderful family life we've always dreamed of are just fantastic. Over the past couple of years, we've also tried to minimize those frustrating, everyday lows  (e.g.: Two year old melting down: 'NO BED TIME! MORE MONSTER TRUCK VIDEOOOO! WAAAAhhh') by telling ourselves  'Ahh, this is nothing compared to the real lows we've lived through'.

It relates somewhat to a sentiment that came to me after losing Anya: "I should be so lucky as to be kept up all night by my kid. I can't see myself ever being frustrated as a parent, because with every cry and whine I'll just know that I'm lucky to hear them.". While I do still believe that I'm lucky to hear those things, the idea that I could be this sort of super-parent, with all of the patience of Spock never getting frustrated, is a tad ridiculous in hindsight.

The lowest lows can help put the wonderfulness of the day-to-day into perspective, and for that I really am lucky. It helps me recognize all that I have. But the lowest lows can also make the other lows - the everyday stuff - feel like they should be swept off as trivial. And the more I reflect on that, the more I've come to think that there's a danger in invalidating them in that way.

Being a parent is still a heck of a tough job; one that is as rewarding as it is frustrating at times, and those 'trivial' frustrations can certainly add up over time. It's not necessarily tough to forego a bit of sleep in short bursts, but lack of sleep for month after month is something else. It's also not necessarily difficult to 'take one for the team' and skip the activities you enjoy doing by yourself for a time, but continuous self-sacrifice can bring you to wonder whether you're still the same person you used to be.

The stupidity in invalidating those types of problems is that it hinders our ability to find solutions - sometimes really simple ones (like making sure one of us gets to sleep in on weekend days, or by giving each other time to do what's important to us as individuals). So that's the mindset that we're moving forward with - tackle the small stuff before it becomes bigger. If either of us is frustrated, it is absolutely not something to brush off as trivial. It's something to work together on, and to find solutions for. Aren't we lucky?

Motherhood and Grief

I've been hiding from my grief. It is hard to make time for it, but it shows its face now and then...

I look at Juliette, and I wonder... What kind of mother would I have been to Anya? What kind of mother would I have been if I hadn't lost Anya?

Would I love as fiercely? Yes.

Would I worry as much? Yes... But I imagine my feelings of worry would be naive and abstract as they once were. Now when I worry, it is a gnawing pain, a knowing ache of loss... Fear flashes before me as a deer in the headlights, and it is terrifying, if only for a moment.

Would William and Juliette be here today? Probably not. It makes me sad to think I could only ever have had Anya or William and Juliette. It makes me grateful I wasn't the one to choose... because William and Juliette are everything to me... Today, William and Juliette mean more to me than Anya does. I feel sad and guilty about that.

I also find that I am angry with myself, disappointed to face the same shortcomings as all parents... I feel like I should know better. Life gets busy and I forget the lessons Anya taught me about life and love.

I get impatient at silly things. I get lost in thoughts about dinner or work, when I should be paying attention. I don't play enough. But Anya taught me that this moment is precious... it could all be taken away in a moment. One day these precious moments will be gone...

I keep trying to simplify and be present. Though I know I will forget sometimes, I will try again and again to truly appreciate each day. Because that's all we can do isn't it?

Music and Memories

Music has a way of helping me relive certain moments in life. There's something therapeutic about it. Over the years, I've created particular associations between Anya's short existence and a handful of songs. They have helped me to relive certain moments, reflect on them, and progressively come to terms with them.

I feel like they deserve to be part of this overall record. They are worth remembering. So here they are, along with what they represent.

1- Across The Universe (Fiona Apple cover) . This song played during the early stages of labour, while Kayleigh was trying to stay calm. It reminds me of the calmness and the faith in life that we once believed in so strongly.

2- Babys (Bon Iver). This song reminds me of the anxiety-ridden drive between the birth centre and the hospital. Anya had been born, and she had been taken way by ambulance. Something was wrong - but I was trying to stay hopeful, until hope was taken away in a crushing instant.

3- To Build a Home (The Cinematic Orchestra). Saying goodbye to her. Returning home from the hospital without a baby. Seeing the note we had pasted on the door to let Kayleigh's mom know that we had made our way to the birthing centre. Ripping it off in anger. Being greeted by the mess we made as we were excitedly leaving the house. Remembering the thought that "when I come back to clean this, i'll be a dad". Feeling the worst feeling of defeat I've ever felt.

4- About Today (The National). Lying in bed on the evening of December 19th. Feeling exhausted, incredulous, powerless. Dreading sharing the news. Wishing for a time machine to go back just 24 hours and fix things.

5- The Wolves, Act I and II (Bon Iver). New Year's Eve. The day after her funeral. The lyrics "With the wild wolves around you; In the morning I'll call you" remind me of a certain feeling of loneliness and anxiety I felt at that point - as much as I was surrounded by loved ones, I was alone in coming to terms with what was happening in my mind. That feeling of failing as a parent at the single minimum requirement for parents - keeping your kid alive.

6- World Spins Madly On (The Weepies). Trying to find some sort of return to normally. Being upset at how life just seems to keep going for everyone else.

7- One Sunday Morning (Wilco). This song reminds me of those first few weeks, getting up on what would usually be a workday, and instead of going to work, just... having to find something to do. Painting a wall. Fixing something. Contemplating what the hell we do from here.

8 - Father Daughter Dance (Craig Cardiff). Reflecting on what could have been.

9 - Nobody Dies Anymore (Jeff Tweedy). Trying to find faith in life again, and in the idea that things can turn out alright.

10 - Sky Blue Sky (Wilco). Starting to believe that the worst may be behind, and that sunnier days are ahead.

11 - Hanging from the Earth (The Pines). Coming to terms with acceptance, and with the guilt of feeling happy.

Here's a Google Play Music playlist.

Thanks for listening.