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.