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.

Waves of Grief

Life is pretty crazy these days... interrupted sleep, little time to ourselves, toddler tantrums. In the midst of this exhaustion, I'm struggling to appreciate life and the little things. And I'm certain 4 years ago I vowed never to take life's treasures for granted...

I'm struggling and I'm hurting as I realize there is no formula, no series of choices that can make life exactly as I want it to be. There is not enough will power or trying that can make life perfect.

It's naive to have thought that it ever could have been perfect, I know.

When William (our rainbow baby) was born my life shifted overnight. The time I gave myself to grieve, to hope, to reflect on life, to work through tough emotions almost vanished, and my life became focused on immediate needs, survival, and love of course. William brought us so much love, so much vitality.

Grief for the loss of Anya was still present, but it became background noise as I focused on the present, and I learned to love life again. I basked on the dry beach in the ebb of the waves of grief. This is a good thing. But I invested myself so wholeheartedly in loving life that I didn't even notice I had built a dam, and grief stopped flowing.

Then something shifted, I don't know exactly when. Maybe it was when Juliette was born. I dreamed again of life with a daughter, precious dreams that had once been for Anya. Maybe it was a few months later when the aforementioned exhaustion set in. Something shifted and grief returned, less acute, but still present like a long slow wave.

Now grief takes the shape of anger and hurt as I am forced to accept the realities of life. Everyone I love will one day die. Being a parent is hard and isolating. I will never find the perfect balance between family, work and my own needs. And no matter how many kids we have, our family won't be complete.

If there is any silver lining in all of this, I think it is having a place to share these feelings, to let grief flow and to soon find the ebb of this wave.

Highs and Lows

Aren't we lucky?

That's a question and sentiment we find ourselves asking and feeling quite a bit these days. That is - in between the occasional moments of frustration and exhaustion that naturally come with parenting a couple of kids under three.

Life is good. Great, even. The highs of having the wonderful family life we've always dreamed of are just fantastic. Over the past couple of years, we've also tried to minimize those frustrating, everyday lows  (e.g.: Two year old melting down: 'NO BED TIME! MORE MONSTER TRUCK VIDEOOOO! WAAAAhhh') by telling ourselves  'Ahh, this is nothing compared to the real lows we've lived through'.

It relates somewhat to a sentiment that came to me after losing Anya: "I should be so lucky as to be kept up all night by my kid. I can't see myself ever being frustrated as a parent, because with every cry and whine I'll just know that I'm lucky to hear them.". While I do still believe that I'm lucky to hear those things, the idea that I could be this sort of super-parent, with all of the patience of Spock never getting frustrated, is a tad ridiculous in hindsight.

The lowest lows can help put the wonderfulness of the day-to-day into perspective, and for that I really am lucky. It helps me recognize all that I have. But the lowest lows can also make the other lows - the everyday stuff - feel like they should be swept off as trivial. And the more I reflect on that, the more I've come to think that there's a danger in invalidating them in that way.

Being a parent is still a heck of a tough job; one that is as rewarding as it is frustrating at times, and those 'trivial' frustrations can certainly add up over time. It's not necessarily tough to forego a bit of sleep in short bursts, but lack of sleep for month after month is something else. It's also not necessarily difficult to 'take one for the team' and skip the activities you enjoy doing by yourself for a time, but continuous self-sacrifice can bring you to wonder whether you're still the same person you used to be.

The stupidity in invalidating those types of problems is that it hinders our ability to find solutions - sometimes really simple ones (like making sure one of us gets to sleep in on weekend days, or by giving each other time to do what's important to us as individuals). So that's the mindset that we're moving forward with - tackle the small stuff before it becomes bigger. If either of us is frustrated, it is absolutely not something to brush off as trivial. It's something to work together on, and to find solutions for. Aren't we lucky?

Motherhood and Grief

I've been hiding from my grief. It is hard to make time for it, but it shows its face now and then...

I look at Juliette, and I wonder... What kind of mother would I have been to Anya? What kind of mother would I have been if I hadn't lost Anya?

Would I love as fiercely? Yes.

Would I worry as much? Yes... But I imagine my feelings of worry would be naive and abstract as they once were. Now when I worry, it is a gnawing pain, a knowing ache of loss... Fear flashes before me as a deer in the headlights, and it is terrifying, if only for a moment.

Would William and Juliette be here today? Probably not. It makes me sad to think I could only ever have had Anya or William and Juliette. It makes me grateful I wasn't the one to choose... because William and Juliette are everything to me... Today, William and Juliette mean more to me than Anya does. I feel sad and guilty about that.

I also find that I am angry with myself, disappointed to face the same shortcomings as all parents... I feel like I should know better. Life gets busy and I forget the lessons Anya taught me about life and love.

I get impatient at silly things. I get lost in thoughts about dinner or work, when I should be paying attention. I don't play enough. But Anya taught me that this moment is precious... it could all be taken away in a moment. One day these precious moments will be gone...

I keep trying to simplify and be present. Though I know I will forget sometimes, I will try again and again to truly appreciate each day. Because that's all we can do isn't it?