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.

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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?

Dearest Anya, We're OK : Five Months Later

Dearest Anya,

Yesterday was the five month anniversary of your death.

As a special something to commemorate your life, dad and I wanted to write you a letter. We wanted to let you know that we're OK.

• We still enjoy the sunshine.
• Our hearts are filled with more love than ever.
• We're both back at work, trying to serve others and make a difference.
• We carry you in the most precious part of ourselves, as we make our way into the world.
• We continue to build our home, a place that belongs to our family, a place that belongs to you, a place that is witness to our journey : the tears and the joy.
• We are even talking about baby #2, a younger brother or sister to you.

These are all the things we wanted to share with you yesterday... and I tried to dig deep down inside and find the words, but I couldn't. Yesterday I just didn't feel OK.

You left a big hole in our hearts, and it isn't always easy to fill it with love... but everyday we try.

There were so many things we wanted to give you, to share with you, to teach you... yet you're the one who taught us the biggest lessons in our lives.

• You can't take life for granted.
• You have to enjoy the time you have with those you love... even when your heart is breaking

We try to honour these lessons everyday. Slowly we're finding our way back to normal... a new normal.

So don't worry about us Anya. We are thinking of you. We love you. And we're OK.

Sending you all the love inside of us,

Mom and Dad

Crafting for Anya: Four Months Later

Tomorrow will mark five months since Anya was born and died. Alex and I are planning a little something special.

For now, I wanted to take the time to show you all the beautiful art that was created almost a month ago now, on April 19, by the family and the friends who joined us in celebration of Anya and the love she brought us.

You can view the album here.

From Crafting for Anya: Four Months Later

This art is a testament to all the love in our lives. To me, it is more beautiful than any of the million dollar art pieces sold at auction.

I am truly grateful to have so much love in my life. Anya's legacy is love - simple, powerful, love. I carry it with me everywhere, and I integrate it into the new me.

The Day After Mother's Day

Mother's Day was hard, but it was also filled with love and celebration. On Mother's Day, I felt like a mother, as my mother heart and its suffering were recognized.

And the day after Mother's Day? It's hard too. It's hard because I woke up to sunshine and birds chirping and a fresh breeze blowing into our room. I woke up to summer, and Anya still wasn't there. I still don't get to be a mother to her - at least not in the way I want to be.  And on the day after Mother's Day, who will celebrate my broken mother heart?

I'm jealous of all the mothers out there whose children love them, hug them, kiss them everyday. I'm jealous because they still feel like mothers on the day after Mother's Day.

I try to be strong. I try to see the good in life. But on the day after Mother's Day, all I feel is grief because my daughter will never know the smell of summer.

Mother's Day

I have a secret to share with you. This isn't really my first mother's day.

My first mother's day was one year ago. I remember it well. We surprised Alex's mom with a happy grandmother's day card and shared our joyful news.

I am grateful for that mother's day with Anya. I am grateful for the time my daughter and I got to spend together.

This mother's day is harder. It loomed ominously over me all week.

On Tuesday I bought myself a mother's day card to try and ease my pain.

On Wednesday I tried to reframe my heart-wrenching reaction to every pregnant woman I cross, not despairing at my loss, but taking the opportunity to remind myself of the perfect 9 months I had with my daughter.

Still, by Friday I was in tears, unsure if I would even want to get out of bed on Sunday.

This morning I did get out of bed.

With the pull of all the love around me, and after being served breakfast in bed.

Alex had another surprise, an invitation to celebrate our daughter and my motherhood.

Today, on my second mother's day, we planted a tree in our garden, with the hope that over the years we might watch it grow as we had dreamed Anya would.

And a few years from now, if new life and small hands comfort us on mothers day, we will look at Anya's tree and think of all she gave us.

Motherhood taught me to love, deeper than I ever had before, and that is my mother's day gift from Anya.