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.