A New Year, A New Challenge

Wednesday night, with tears in our eyes, we said goodbye to 2014.

2014 was the year of Anya.

January 1st, 2014, was our thirteenth day without Anya in our lives. A day we never expected would happen.

It was a year filled with firsts and anniversaries, soul wrenching pain and reminders of what we had come so close to having - a daughter - but had lost at the very last second.

2014 was a year of healing.

January 1st, 2014, we got out of bed - two days after burying Anya - we went about our day and we survived. What else could we do?

It was a year filled with tears and love. New shoulders to cry on appeared in unexpected places. Our love for one another grew stronger than ever, and we found a strength we never knew we had.

But most days still felt more like survival than living.

I want more for 2015.

I want to make life good again.

I want to love unreservedly. I want to stop being afraid that those I love will die too soon. Everyone dies. And it is always to soon. But I will dare to love them anyway.

I will love William fiercely - even though he can't fill the hole left by Anya - even though he too might die before me. William is here now, kicking me vigourously as I write. Today we are together. It may be all we have, but it is something.

I want to face my own mortality. I want to look at it, acknowledge it, thank it even. Without death, we would not be able to appreciate and enjoy life. And I want to live each day wholeheartedly, with gratitude, love and passion.

Death is waiting on the horizon of each one of our lives - and it might come sooner than expected - but it doesn't scare me. I will dare to enjoy life anyway.

Dear William

Dear William:

Today is an important day for me and your mom. Today would have been your big sister's first birthday. It's also the first day on the calendar where we've never gone to bed expecting a baby. We don't know what it's like to be expecting on December 20th, or Christmas, or New Year's Day, or Valentine's day.

It's all a big unknown right now. But we couldn't be happier that you're here for this journey.

I am going to make a leap of faith and fast forward through time a little bit. To a time where you're with us, happy, young, curious.

I expect that you'll be especially curious about December 19th. Who is this person we celebrate every year, who we say is your sister, that you'll never actually have the chance to meet? In a couple of years, you might become familiar with the concept of our family including Anya. In a few more, you may vaguely understand the concept of death. But you probably won't really, truly understand what December 19th means to us until much later.

By that time, I expect that what December 19th means to us will have evolved from what it is today, on the first anniversary. So I am writing to tell you what it means to me, at age 29, right now.

To be completely honest, today is a day that I have dreaded for the past week. It's incredible just how vivid the memories of December 18 and 19, 2013 still are. More than anything, I remember the moment where - probably almost a year ago to the minute, as I write this -  a doctor walked into my waiting room in the ER. I asked him if Anya was okay. And he shook his head. I asked if she had died. He nodded. And I fell apart.

Today is a day to pause and remember that. How low I felt. How terrible the world was that day. It's also a day to pause and reflect on how much I've been able to heal. To appreciate all of the love that our friends and family have given us, and all of the help we received in this dark time.

Finally, it's also a day that we appreciate all of the love that your sister has brought to the world. She made me a dad. She brought me and your mom closer together. She helped renew and strengthen friendships.

She would have loved you, William. I would have loved for her to be your guide, your friend, your defender. I am sorry that she won't have that chance. I hope that you can find a place for her in your heart regardless.

Being There

Below is a post that I had written over the summer, but never ended up publishing (until now). A big part of this journey for me has been accepting (or trying to accept) my own limitations. It's a bit difficult to share, but I feel it's important to acknowledge the difficult parts.

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August 11, 2014

Grief has taken a lot out of both of me and Kayleigh. For the vast majority of the time, though, when one of us was having a weak moment, the other was there to comfort, and vice-versa. In a perfect world, we would always be able to balance each other out in this way.

But there are times when emotional exhaustion has had the better of me. It happened once last week, where I had to say "I'm sorry, I really can't help you right now". I felt I didn't have the capacity to deal with the anxiety that comes with the fears and tears.

Then I caught myself, and I thought "wait. I can't help my wife right now? When she needs me? This difficult stuff is part of the job that I signed up for - the good and the bad". Then came the guilt. And a bit of fear that maybe I wasn't deserving of all her love, while I stood there unable to give her what she needed.

As I started explaining to her why I felt I wasn't able to help - along with the self-loathing that came with it - she thanked me.

That surprised me. For the most part, I would've said I understood our love very well. I hadn't understood until then, though, that love can mean realizing that your partner may not be able to give you everything you need - and being okay with it.

Hello December

It's December again. It almost feels like we've been living in December for the past year.

This month of course, on the 19th, we'll celebrate Anya's first birthday.

I'd be lying if I said that approaching this milestone hadn't already been a challenge. Everything about December, about the holidays, reminds us of Anya. Putting up our Christmas tree. Going to work parties. It's too easy to remember what we were doing exactly one year ago. Those last few weeks where everything was so... normal. 

If you had asked me at this time last year what the next twelve months had in store for us.. this current reality would not have been one that I could have pictured. Some possibilities are too sad to really consider.

Yet here we are, almost a full twelve months after Anya left us, and we have a surprising amount of things to be grateful about. Kayleigh and I have had some of the worst moments we could possibly face, but we've faced them together. We've weathered the storm (if not all of it, then hopefully the worst of it). And we're still here, stronger than ever. We've also been lucky to have the support we've received from our family, friends and work colleagues.  

We're also incredibly lucky to have William. Our son. He won't be joining us for another three months, but there's no doubt that his presence - and his flurry of kicks -  has made us much more hopeful about the future. In that other reality, he may not have joined us for another few years. 

All that to say, December feels bittersweet. It's a month of sadness, and a month of hope. It will forever be Anya's month. When I think about her legacy, it is not measured in tears, but in how much love she brought to our world. How much she made us appreciate the people around us. 

Anya, we hope to be better parents to your little brother because of you.We're going to tackle December thinking of you. We're going to be sad. But we'll remain forever thankful for having the chance to have you.

Time Plods Carelessly Forward: 10 Months Later

The leaves are turning on Anya's tree.
Soon, it too will be bare.

For 10 months I have sat in the same spot, writing about Anya. The oak tree in our front yard has gone from bare, to budding, to vibrant green... and this morning, a beautiful golden-yellow.

The tree reminds me of life's wonder and beauty... and of the passing of time. In a few weeks, the tree will be bare.

10 months is a long time. Anya and I have now been apart longer than we were together. I am just starting to realize I will never see my daughter again.

I struggle with expectations of where I should be in my journey of grief...

In the weeks after Anya died, I scheduled yoga classes, coffee with friends and visits to my mom's place in the country. I set aside time to grieve and heal.

10 months later, the focus of my life has shifted. I am back at work, a job I love. Another baby is on the way, and I rejoice at flutters and kicks. I am invested in life.

This has been healing, but it has also slowed my journey through grief...

After a busy day at work or when I'm overwhelmed with worry for baby #2, I am completely enraptured in the present. I think this is a good thing. Yet in such a flurry of motion, thoughts of Anya get buried deep within.

Then I stop. Thoughts of Anya bubble up... and my instinct of self-preservation pushes them back down. I think I have spent the better part of the past four months, pushing away the hurt of losing Anya.

Pain and sadness are so much harder to bear after a taste of happiness.

Last weekend we planted bulbs at Anya's grave.
In spring, life will bloom here.

Anyone who has taken an intro course in psychology can tell you burying your feelings is not a good coping mechanism. Eventually, you can't hold them in anymore...

When the wave of grief hit me again, it completely drained my energy. For two weeks, going to work was all I could manage. I wouldn't have eaten anything but cereal and takeout if not for Alex and a close friend of mine.

I couldn't take care of myself, and my feeling of self-worth took a hard hit. 10 months later, I had expected more of myself.

Today, I try to give myself time and space to feel... to heal. It's a struggle. It hurts so much to let the loss and the pain in. But as someone once told me, the only way out is through.

Grief and Rainbows

I haven't written for quite some time... since the day we decided to try for another baby. For months, all my energy was focused on the future. I dared to hope, to dream of a healthy baby in my arms! If I am honest with myself, it has been really hard work... and it hasn't left much room for other emotions, especially not grief.

I choose not to feel guilty about setting my grief aside. It is good for our second baby to have time that is set aside just for him (or her). I am happy to know my child will not live in the shadow of his sister's death.

But now, as I start to feel the first flutters of our baby move, as our worries for our second baby's safe arrival increase, my thoughts turn to Anya. I yearn for my daughter. I dream of the life she might have lived... the life she should have lived. I wonder if her death might have been prevented... I want so badly to hold her in my arms.

At times, a deep seated part of me feels like if our second baby can be born healthy, somehow Anya will be okay. I try to reason these feelings away, and I feel guilty. I love this new baby, whoever he is. I know he will not replace Anya. I fear that watching him grow will remind me of all Anya never got to have. This seems like an unfair burden for a child, and I feel guilty.

But I won't dwell in this guilt.

Our second baby has been a balm for my heart. I feel a mother's love blooming inside me again. I can see pregnant women and newborns, without crumbling inside. With each ultrasound and flutter, as I listen to the womp-womp-womp of our baby's heart, my love grows.  I am delighted that my belly is starting to show! It gives me a new excuse to caress my belly and hug my baby.

Now if only this baby can be born healthy... for his (or her) own sake... so we can spend our lives together.

Trying Again

Six months. That's the minimum amount of time that Kayleigh and I decided to give ourselves before seeing if we might be ready to try to be parents again. Waiting was difficult, at times, since the urge to want to be a parent grew exponentially after losing Anya.  Still, the last thing we wanted was to try to bring in a child who might feel like he or she had to live in Anya's shadow, brought into the world quickly to fill the void.

Mourning is one process, and welcoming another child is a different one. We needed to feel completely ready.

If you're doing the math, the six month mark was June. And we decided that yes, actually, we do feel ready to try again. We know Anya's gone, and even though we aren't done mourning (we still talk about her every day), we are ready to open up to the possibility of another life.

Another life. Another person. But the hurdles we need to clear before holding a healthy baby never seemed so daunting. Getting pregnant? What if we got lucky last time? What if it just doesn't happen?

And if it does, what about those daunting miscarriage statistics?

And if we pass the first few weeks, what's to say the baby will form properly?

And even if it does... What about stillbirth?

And even if Kayleigh makes it all the way to labour, with a perfectly normal baby... So did Anya. What about the birth?

As you can probably guess, I have spent a lot of time thinking about all that can go wrong. But there's a thought that dawned on me the other day - There's a very real possibility that things could go right. It's something I need to tell myself, and something I need to keep reminding myself of. Especially now.

Tomorrow, Kayleigh will hit the ten week mark. Our second child is due March 29th. I'm scared of what might happen between now and then, but I remind myself - it really might be okay.