Memories, Art and a Special Invitation

I've heard it said a few times now... When a person dies, you turn to the memories they left behind for comfort. When a baby dies there are few memories, and a lifetime of "should have been" to mourn.

When I think of Anya, I think of a baby growing inside me and of a newborn in my arms. I also think of a toddler taking her first steps, a young girl on her first day of school, a teenager heartbroken in my arms, a mother. I think of how proud of her I would have been, and I think of all the decisions she would have made that I might not have agreed with. I think of how happy she might have been, and I think of all the love that would have surrounded her. Anya is all that she was and all that she may have been.

We have two ultrasounds and one day's worth of pictures of Anya. Most of my memories of her are abstract feelings that exist only inside my heart. Still, Anya was in our lives for a whole nine months; longer even, as her story began when Alex and I decided to start a family. And I wanted to bring Anya's story to life.

I started creating an album. An album filled, not only with photos, but with emotion and art. This album has also become a way of working through my grief... Of expressing the intense feelings, for which I simply can't find words. It has been an outlet for my love. It has been a lifeline.

Now, I share this album with you: Art Album for Anya

To commemorate the four months that will have passed since Anya came into our lives, Alex and I will be hosting a special event on Saturday, April 19. We will be inviting friends and family who have been touched by Anya or by our story to come and make a page of their own to add to my scrapbook. All materials will be provided. Please message Alex or I if you are interested in joining us for this special day.

A Family Tradition: Three Months Later

March 19 marked 3 months since Anya's death. And so, last Wednesday, we took some time to celebrate our love for our daughter.

This month's gesture was simple, yet incredibly meaningful. We framed a photo of our small family and we placed it at the top of the stairs.

For those of you who don't know the history of our house, a little over a year ago, Alex and I bought my grandparents house. Our home holds lots of happy memories from my childhood. It is a house filled with love, and we now include all the love of our small family to the pile of wonderful memories this house holds.

For as long as I can remember, my grandparents had framed photos of their five children hung lovingly in the staircase. The eldest Felice daughter was in the first photo at the top of the stairs, the youngest son's photo was hung near the landing at the bottom, and photos of their three other children held their respective places in the middle.

Now, in continuing with this tradition, a framed photo of Anya, our first-born daughter, has been hung just where it belongs at the top of the stairs.

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A side note about the photos we have of Anya :

On December 19, in the hours of shock, confusion and pain that followed Anya's death, a nurse at the hospital suggested she get in touch with a volunteer photographer who could take pictures to commemorate our family's one and only day together. An hour or two later, we welcomed a wonderfully compassionate and attentive photographer into our little cocoon. This photographer was a volunteer for the organization Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, which offers free photography services to parents who have lost a baby. Thanks to this photographer and this organization, we now have a few more mementos to add to our small pile. We are ever so grateful!

Creating Occasions for Happiness

Spring will be here soon. We all hope... And with spring comes renewal.

I had been dreading spring for the better part of the past 3 months. Spring means moving forward, leaving behind Anya's winter and continuing to live, while our daughter doesn't. This season that belongs to Anya is difficult to leave behind. I feel the universe pushing me forward, though part of me isn't ready. But as the weeks go by, I also feel my desire for fun and happiness returning; slowly, inconsistently, surely.

Alex and I have been capitalizing on this desire, motivating and disciplining ourselves to do something fun.

We have revived our cooking challenge. Each week, we decide on a theme and cook something new.

We tapped our maple tree for sap, in the hopes of collecting enough for a "sugaring off" party and bit of maple syrup!

We went on a fabulous Caribbean cruise and finally got some sunshine. How that sunshine has made all the difference!

There is good in moving forward. There is the possibility of life, of happiness. There is the feeling of hope that comes with looking to the future. There is confidence; the confidence that I can look back on our joyful time with Anya, without crumbling at the thought of her death.

So many adventures and so much love await our family (of two? three? I am never sure. Someday more?). If only we are lucky enough to continue to live.

A Day, A Lifetime

This week has been incredibly difficult. Anya was born, Anya died 11 weeks ago today. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, sometimes it feels like yesterday. Still it hurts, it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before.

There are moments when I feel I need to justify my pain... to justify that I am still aching two months later. No one has invalidated my grief... but I feel the need to tell you in case you don't understand...

Anya was my daughter. She was my child. She may have lived less than an hour, outside the womb, but I love her as much as you love your children. It doesn't matter that she had already died by the time I got to cuddle her in my arms. I held her with as much love as if she had been alive, with every fiber of my being, just as you did when you held your newborn baby.

When I think back to December 19, I not only think about the shock and sadness of losing Anya, I also think about the love we shared. I really think we only shared half the story when we told you of Anya's birth and loss.

We spent that day together, as a family.

My dearest Anya,

Our day together was the most beautiful (and most sad) day of my life. I held you close, my daughter. You fit into my arms just right. You belonged there.

You were so perfect.

I remember how you felt in my arms, at 5 pounds, 13 ounces (bigger than your mom as a newborn). You felt so light, so small. You felt so real, so concrete. A whole human being. 

You were perfectly still. Neither limp, nor rigid. Just like the most perfect doll.

I remember your smell. You smelled like my womb, like inside me. You smelled so familiar and so good! With just the faintest smell of soap mixed in.

I remember the feel of your skin, so smooth, so flawless. Your lips, so small and gentle and lip-like, just like your dad's. Your hair, so soft, almost as soft as down feathers.

That day, I held you - and dad held you - and we poured all our love into you, and into each other. And we knew all the love you had for us.

That day was all I could have hoped for... sort of...

My strongest wish, my need, was to hold you skin to skin. That is something I got to do. Our connection in the womb, and skin to skin was so powerful, so amazing. Though my need to hold you against my skin is still so strong... I find comfort in dad now.

There are many wishes I had. I wanted to feed you from my breast, to bathe you, to take you home to our nest. I wanted to have more time. But all these unfulfilled hopes and wishes are simply summed up: I wish you had lived.

Love, Mom

This One Goes Out To Our Friends and Family: Two Months Later

Wednesday marked the two month anniversary of Anya's dirthday.

(Dirthday = death + birthday. Another parent at a loss for words came up with that term.)

As in our Letter to Our Daughter: One Month Later, Alex and I thought it important for us to take time to remember all that Anya has brought us. This time we lit a candle, took out a photo of Anya and focused on all the love in our lives.

We have a lot of love in our lives.

The most precious gift Anya brought to my life: she inspired me to love much more deeply than I ever thought possible. Anya filled me with love, a love that grew inside me every day of our 9 months together. And all that love is still there.

Anya also inspired all of those around us to share and express their love. Love has poured into our lives  from all sides, from places I would never have thought to look.

• Elementary school friends have come over to our house to help with basic jobs (making dinner, tidying my disastrous craft room) or just to say hello
  
• A few friends not seen since high school and university have sent heartfelt messages, cards and precious keepsakes
  
• Friends we saw only a few times a year have shared lots of their time. We have opened up our hearts and shared tears like we never had before. Our friendships have grown closer... more intimate
  
• My sister has made our home her home away from home. She visits and cares for us often
  
• Our midwives continue to send their love our way
  
• We have met with other bereaved parents and supported each other through this heavy, heavy loss
  
• And each and every one of our close friends and our family have been there to support us

Two of my work friends made a similar comment to me, on two separate occasions: If one were to try and take any good out of Anya's death, it would be that we have grown closer in our friendship, that we share more love and more of our time.

I'm redefining what friendship means to me. I had always thought of the love around me in terms of the people who surround us in our everyday lives, those who mark special moments and occasions with us. But love is so much more than that. Love exists in the people whose paths we may have crossed years ago, often not even realizing the friendship and caring would still be there years later, when we needed it most.

This love and support has been my lifeboat. Thank you.

After Anya died we received hundreds of cards and messages. We continue to receive new messages of love and friendship every week (some people even kindly indulge my overwhelming need by sending me messages every day!).

And so, to commemorate Anya's life and love, we decided to put all of these messages in a box. (I printed out every Facebook message and email too.) We sat by our candle and picked 10 messages at random, and we read them to each other, to remind ourselves of all the love around us.

What messages of love came to us that day? Here are just a few (posted anonymously)...

Je constate que cette jolie tête est très active, je suis très fière de toi. Alex est un mari choyé. Tout comme ma fille, un jour tu feras une maman remarquable, tu es une fille fantastique que j'aime beaucoup.

Think only about yourself and Alex. Love each other, hold each other and never let go.

J'ai lu la note de ton mari sur Facebook. Il est éloquent, courageux et généreux.

You mean the world to me, Kayleigh, as Anya meant the world to you. Always remember that's how much I love you.

Anya restera toujours marquée dans ma mémoire: une belle petite fille à la peau délicate. Un beau petit nez et de magnifiques petites lèvres en forme de coeur.

And a love letter from my husband...

I believe with all my heart that our happiest days are still ahead. Our road has led us into a thunderstorm. I can't tell you when it will end, but it will end. I can feel the sunshine. It will come, and we will be together and appreciate it more than we ever did. You are simply the best, and only person, I could ever love so deeply.

We've decided to keep these messages in a box in the living room. That way, when we need a little love and support, all we have to do is pick a message at random and let it warm our hearts.

Redefining Happiness

People keep telling me how strong I am, though the truth might be more accurately reflected in this quote, spoken by a grieving father to his stillborn son...

"Forgive me when I cry [...] Occasionally, I can't help it [...]
"Forgive me when I don't cry [...] I can't help being happy because it's my nature [...] know that I'll never forget the seven and a half months of joy you brought us."

(From the book Knocked Up, Knocked Down by Monica Murphy Lemoine)

The truth is, I'm not strong, or at least not stronger than any of you. A lot of the time I'm sad and angry. I have at least one or two good cries every day - the sobbing out loud, wiping my runny nose on my arm, almost can't breathe kind of crying. I wake up and go to bed with an ache in my heart. I often go through the motions, numb from the pain. I want to hide somewhere safe and stay there.

But that's only half the story. Every morning, I get out of bed early. I eat breakfast. I shower and make myself presentable. I find things to do, things that make me happy. I go to yoga, I make crafts, I read. I meet up with friends. I drink lots and lots of tea. And I still smile and laugh. I do these things because human nature is to go on living, because my nature is to be happy, because I'm grateful for this life.

I'm grateful I get to experience all the beauty and love in this world. I'm grateful for my husband Alex, always. I'm grateful I finally decided to let myself fall in love with him. (I'm grateful Alex was so patient and persistent.)

I'm grateful for all the friends and family who love me and support me. All the people who never get tired of hearing about Anya, who never hesitate to wrap me in their arms and fill my heart with warmth. All the people who write to me, knowing I compulsively check for new messages, needy for hope and love.

I'm never going to be as happy as I used to be. I will never have that same assurance that everything is going to be okay. I will never feel so perfectly joyful and satisfied that everything in my life is as it should be. To paraphrase a friend, I am Kayleigh + Anya now and a part of me will always be missing.

So instead of striving for greater happiness, I've decided to experience more love and compassion. I've decided to share more kindness and to give more generosity. In this new life of mine, I will spread as much love as I can to those around me. Because love always grows, even as happiness waxes and wanes.

Coping

From time to time, as mourning parents, we hear some odd compliments. Things like 'Great job getting out of bed and doing something with your day'.

And we're surprisingly thankful to hear that. 

It's a reminder that we could easily (and understandably) still be hiding from the world.

For the first few days, that's all we could do. Doing our best to cope was getting out of bed. Crying. Writing. Thankfully, we were lucky enough to have Kayleigh's mom and sister (Michelle & Sarah) to take care of us. 

Little by little, we were able to start setting some goals. Things outside of what absolutely needed to be done. Very short term goals, at first - things that we should do today, like getting 15 minutes of sunshine (on our midwife's advice). 

Then, we were able to look a little further. Sign up for a support group. Seek psychological help. And schedule some distractions (thanks Sarah).

Coping with the loss of Anya has been a different struggle every day. Sometimes it means talking about it. Sometimes it's about staying distracted. Sometimes it's even staying home depressed. It's like being lost in a forest without a compass or a map. I don't know which route to take, or what obstacles we'll face. All we can do is stick with the route that feels right, and hope that it only gets smoother from here. 

So far, it's not a smooth road. It gets a little better, then it gets a little worse. We've so far been wonderful at reminding each other that in the horizon, our future still looks beautiful. But we need to get there.

And so many of you are helping us get there. With every word of support, with every thought. With every distracting message. We are not going through this difficult journey alone, and that's all that we could have asked for.

Today is Day 54. Today was a difficult day. Day 55 might be better. But if it's not, that's okay too.