What a difference a day makes.

(officially this anniversary takes place at 2:48 AM on November 19th. But my plans to lay low and relax have been replaced and I won't be able to post this tomorrow)

They (whoever 'they' are) say "what a difference a day makes" and I can attest to that. Sometimes it's a 180 degree turn for the better and sometimes, well, uhm, not so much.

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As I was coming up on the anniversary of my daughters death and birth she was constantly on my mind. She has become so much a part of the fabric of me that I'm now free to simply talk about her with those who know and to share her reality with those that want to know.

But, even 4 years after, I am still finding people who don't know, friends of mine, former colleagues, people that aren't just an 'in your life then gone' type of person. I am realizing that so many people really don't know, and there's not one part of me that blames anyone for that at all. I am also realizing that when I come upon someone who doesn't know, I usually find out too late:

ME: I was thinking the other day about how to honor Sophia, you know, a memorial of sorts.

FRIEND: (clearly awkward silence) Who is Sophia?

ME: (oh shit.) (clearly more awkward silence) I'm so sorry, I thought you knew. (DAMMIT why am I ALWAYS apologizing for everything?) Sophia is/was (what is the right term?) my daughter.

FRIEND: What happened?

ME: (sum up all the years of heartache and loss and struggles in a few sentences, trying hard not to bring them to sobs/tears... it's happened a few times this summer)

FRIEND: (stunned, introspective) I'm so sorry, that must have been horrible.

This scene has occurred 3 times in the last few weeks. And I'm starting to wonder how many people who I'm more than just acquaintances with don't know about Sophia. I think it must be quite shocking, stunning, and for some, overwhelming (clearly) to hear.

The good news?

That I've realized how far I've come.

I still miss her, I miss what I didn't and can't have. I miss what I couldn't give to her ( the first of course being life itself ). I think about her daily, I have for all 4 years. And of course at the very least I get misty eyed. BUT, I'm doing okay. Really. And doing okay is actually fabulous.

So on this anniversary of her death and birth, nostalgia overcomes me again, but I'm okay.

(And yes, I am in the midst of finally deciding what to do to memorialize her permanently. Things were so crazy, so confusing, all happened so fast that we didn't know what to do. And in an absence of any guidance, we did nothing. We did not cremate or bury Sophia, we decided to donate her to science... more to come on the ideas I have in another post)

Just like her footprints above are cast in plaster and forever solidified, so too is she with me inside, all the time. And to me, she is one of the most important people, and events, in my life. She always will be.

I miss her and the hope she brought me.

Thanksgiving and Hope

I'm not sure about everyone else's Thanksgiving but we really enjoyed this year. It's such a stark contrast to previous years.

First, there's that meal two years ago, still reeling from our loss. Prepared by E's awesome brother and wife who stayed with us for a week. Either in my head, or outloud, I asked at the Thanksgiving meal if we could just eat and not give thanks, I was not feeling thankful for anything we had. Then last year, it was like being a boat on the show Deadliest Catch. One moment the seas calm, cool and beautiful, as we discussed Magpie and our hope for "next year" (which was really this year), then the next moment, caught in a storm as we thought of Sophia. It was an exhaustive meal last year too.

But this year, I imagine it's what Thanksgiving is supposed to be about and one like which I haven't experienced in years, my memory clouded terribly though in recent years due to Sophia's loss, it means many of the years prior to that I have trouble remembering.

We have a tradition, spend this day at my mom's, sometimes a short visit as there were years we travelled from one state to another that day to share days and sometimes a longer visit. The tradition though is where we eat.

My neighborhood growing up set the bar. Seriously it set the bar. All any child could wish for growing up in a middle class neighborhood. Lovely homes, many backing to woods (we all know both E and I like that), curving streets, with just enough hill to make the downhills on bikes or skates a lot of fun. Most streets were "courts" really cutting down on traffic and it always felt safe growing up, isolated in a cocoon of being a kid. Basketball, football, tag, riding those wickedly cool (at the time!!!) banana bikes.

That neighborhood has given every neighborhood since a run for it's money. beyond the aesthetics and all the kids in the area, there was a safety net. YOu know, where everyone knows every family, where barbecue's and street parties occurred. Where you attended, decades later the weddings of neighbors kids. And where, you always had a neighbor to go to in an emergency. It was awesome and I've not found that since and I miss it, a lot.

Back to where we eat.

We eat at a neighbors house, one of the remaining original families. And quite honestly this circle of friends IS family. At the dinner, a hodge podge of guests each year. We haven't gone every year, but many though. This year, there were 18. Yes, 18, it was cool. 3 sets of original neighbors, their kids and in one case a grandchild. And then a few new faces, a couple and their daughter from Germany, of all places. Here in the states for a year on an 'exchange' program with his job. It was all a lot of fun, and too much food, I think we could have all come back the next day, eaten the same overload and still not finished it all. Lots of laughter, craziness and happiness to go around.

And THAT's a Thanksgiving in my mind.

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As for hope?

Yeah, I'm a sucker. I've been perusing the recent posts at RQ again. I no longer go daily and our upcoming trip to Germany (with NO computer alas) will really help cure much of my habit.

So what's up over there?

Well, I know some people LOATHE the site, but that's what we all got the objectivity gene for, whether people choose to use it or not. Objectivity allows one to filter the information, for better or worse! Some recent posts have been about "The Wait" and about a few agencies who've reviewed the situation with the CCAA and discussed it with their clients (you know, adoptive families). The letters have been posted in various places online, though RQ doesn't cut and paste and that's ok with me.

The gist?

The previous letter, yada yada yada, the CCAA knows how tough this time is, yada yada yada, have patience, yada yada yada, the wait could get to many MORE years long, but for some reason they CAN'T predict (or "won't" is more like it).

The most recent letter, yeah, much of the same, patience, understanding, blah blah blah, the wait will come back down, eventually. Yes, that's my most sincere response. But a little gem was tucked in the letter. NUMBERS. Like recent NUMBERS. Are they this particular agencies numbers or are the CCAA numbers...? That's the catch, what you think determines what you do with the numbers.

My filter is currently using them for Hope. I'm one of those people who likes to plan, and yes, I am painfully aware that even the best laid plans can fall apart. But I took those numbers and ran with them. They gave predictions for how many dossiers each month the CCAA received AND how many per MONTH and per YEAR they could continue to process. Bottom line, take the best case and the worst case, our range is somewhere between a year from right now or 18 months from now.

Ok, not a revelation, but it's gives some credence to what many of us in my timeframe had been thinking for the last 4-5 months. That our time would be VERY late 2008 to early/mid 2009.

Sucks, but it gives hope.

2 years? Perhaps.

I’ve asked myself a few questions with regard to the loss of Sophia.

-How long, if ever, till she no longer crosses my mind every day?

-How long, if ever, till November 19th is no longer a deeply dark day that I struggle to get through?

The first question, I’ve written a few times about in this blog, the answer is never. Plain and simple, she has appeared in my mind, sometimes once a day, sometimes many many times a day, since the day she was conceived. I don’t think it will ever change and quite frankly I’m ok with it. In a strange way thinking of her is comfort, a reminder of the big picture of life and a reminder to tune out the noise of life.

Her memory and my thoughts of her are like a bird sitting on my shoulder chirping a constant melody over the din of day, or as The Police might say “the din of my Rice Crispies”, which could be a reference to the noise of life if you sit and listen to the song quite carefully. (Though it wasn’t until the moment I wrote the last sentence that I thought of the line that way.)

As for the second question? I can at least say for this anniversary and this anniversary alone, the amount of time it takes is 2 years. I found myself expecting a great chasm of emotion today, but it’s not there and it seems foreign, a bit.

I don’t for one second read this to mean I no longer care, or that “I’m over it”.

What callous (and that is a kind word for what I think of the people I’m about to describe) person thinks you just “get over it” with regard to your child dying? Yeah, there are some very callous people out there, I still know a few. They come in all sizes, shapes and relationships. Strangers, family and friends alike have all mentioned, some within days of her death, that perhaps we should just get over “it”.

Their use of the term “it” rather than “death” and “daughter” together, speaks volumes. Instead of recognizing their own inability to deal with reality (through the use of "it"), they give us assvice. “Get over it” rolls off their tongue like clothes off a stripper. Yeah I know, a debatable analogy but my blog is mine, it’s a dictatorship to coin a phrase from “loud secret’s” recent post.

Back to today.

I’m thinking of her, I miss her terribly, I miss all the things she would have brought to our family/friends and wasn’t able to. I regret her loss and the hole it’s left for those of us still thinking of her, missing her and honoring her. I realize as sure as there will never be a day I don’t think of her, there will also be a changing tide of emotions over time.

Are they just buried deeper or does the sting fade to grey? It’s one of those mysteries of life no one will ever know, it will always be open to interpretation.

The next time I’m eating Rice Crispies I just might hear the sweet melody of a bird and think of her over the din, we all need a bird on our shoulder from time to time to remind us to look past the din.

Unfinished business.

(The best thing to deal with disapointment is to find something to be grateful for. I for one am grateful for the content in this post.)

With likely about a year... or more (seems we've heard that frequently here before) to go, the nursery is but a fleeting thought for now.

I think often of people, my kin, my LID buddies, whose nurseries are long since complete. Not one of us thinking the wait would unfold infront of our eyes and continue to unfold and unfold and unfold again, like some magical origami crane flatening itself out.

I think of a question a friend at my workplace asked recently, "God it's got to be hard to have all that stuff in the closet and the nursery partly done and to see it". As we chatted over lunch I realized just how far I've come. I gave myself a silent and invisible pat on the back as I said, "no, not really, it's not hard. Hard was coming home the day Sophia died to the house full of baby gear, strewn all over the front foyer, living room and her nursery from our recent shower, then having the construction workers show up a few hours later to finish her playroom in the basement. The new nursery, it's something that has yet to take on a life. It's a subtle reminder of lovely days to come. And it's really ok to see it".

Perhaps what makes it easier is that the nursery is NOT done. Part of that, ok, most of that, was helped along by the move from the mid-Atlantic area to New England last summer. We packed up all that was, all that was never to be, into boxes. And during the last year we unpacked most of them, stored things away in a spare closet and continued to collect. We've collected wonderful hand-me-downs, toys, clothes, books, a closet organizer still in it's boxes, a crib, ... the list goes on. It's all waiting, waiting for Magpie.

I think of my fellow LID buddies, I think of their completed nurseries and I wonder what it's like for them. Is it hard on them to see their room? Is it ok, a place of peace like it is for me? Can they go in there, curl up on their giant stuffed rocking chairs, holding an Ugly Doll and breath in the air that separates them from their daughters in China? Or is it a room, behind a door that's always closed?

I wonder, and yet I know, it's really ok how it is right now, a hodge podge of things, waiting to be assembled, some still figments of the corners of my mind. The valance boxes E will make and I will upholster, the curtains I plan to make, the crib to put together, the closet organizer to install, the lights to wire, the walls to paint, the decorations to hang, the bookshelf we made to put on the wall, the artwork that we hope starts a lifetime of a passion for art. It's all there, waiting for this winter, next spring and summer, when the nursery starts to slowly take on a life of its own.

For now, it's another item among a sea of items on our Magpie to-do list, later this year we'll start to slowly check them off our list, one by precious one. So Magpie's nursery and her collection of things, they aren't hard on me at all, the wait... now that's hard.

Mother's Day part 2

Magpie, check out the very cool gift you Dad gave both of us for Mother's Day-

Cool huh?

Ok, it's beyond cool, it's one of those 'behold the cuteness' moments.

It will come in handy with cookies, cakes, making Sunday dinner.

Looks like we'll have another Mother's Day until you come home, I wonder what we'll get next year!

Yardwork Therapy

Last year on Mother's Day I deeply mourned Sophia, barely getting out of bed, this year I approached it a lot differently. I still thought of Sophia and Magpie often this weekend, but I managed to put all that 'energy' into something else.

Here's my recipe for Mother's Day Mourning Therapy:

1. Work with E to layout on paper the plants we want in the landscaping beds, including the ones we can do this year and the ones we won't get to till much later. In total there are several beds along the front of the house (we're doing just one right now), 1 as a 'screen' along the fence by the driveway, some screening for the dogs pen, a far corner of the yard (which we're doing now), some clematis vines for another fence section... the list goes on. We've laid out most and will take them 1 project at a time.
2. Shop for plants at the local garden center for our empty yard.
3. Repeat step #2 at 3 more shops. Return to shops on Sunday to purchase plants.
4. Order clean fill for the planting beds, along with trees/shrubs not available yet. (everything is being delivered Monday)
5. Dig up big ass pile of crappy construction site dirt from the empty planting bed.
6. Bring dirt in the hauler on the back of the riding lawn mower to the space the dog kennel/pen is being built in. (needs major leveling).
7. shovel dirt out of hauler into "dog pen" space.
8. Repeat 5, 6 and 7 at least 10 times, totalling around 150 cubic feet, moved twice through the yard...
9. Buy big ass pile of shrubs, trees (being delivered, not in the picture to the right) and assorted flowering perennials.
10. Mow lawn.

Yup, working my "finely tuned winterized" body was a welcome event this weekend. Sure, not an hour went by that I didn't think of what this weekend is supposed to mean. But it was less painful. It also helped that E, a sister-in-law and a couple friends of ours sent Mother's Day cards, presents or simply wished me peace this weekend. It was a wonderful touch.

Thanks everyone, your thoughtfulness is not lost on me. It made a big difference.

A Poem

Mother, by Marilyn Van Winkle

A peppermint carnation is what I'll wear for Mother's Day this year . . .
A delicate flower and symbol of love for you, my baby, dear.
The red for living, the white for death, the blend of pink for "always loved,"
A fragrance of remembrance of your life, now up above.

I'll carry your memory on my lapel, my treasured, first-born child
You were a very precious gift, so small, and meek, and mild.
And when this special day is over and the blossom has faded away,
I'll continue to wear the name "Mother," your priceless gift to me, always.

I'll always wonder how long Sophia would have had to live for the people in our lives to consider us a mother and father. A day? A week? A year? What would it have taken to earn the title of Mom and Dad? This is a question that continues to circle my thoughts, especially prominent on Mother's and Father's Day.

There are people in our life who don't say a word to us on Mother's or Father's Day. I've heard they don't say anything because they think we don't want to be reminded of the daughter we gave birth to who didn't make it. Silence seems to be a plentiful comfort. The legacy of silence that surrounds the loss of a child continues to propagate on special days.

The ironic thing? It's not as if you can forget giving birth to a child, in fact it lingers often, daily, weekly, it lingers often to fill the space of dreams that will never be.

For those concerned about reminding a loved one of their loss on Mother's or Father's Day, don't worry about that, it's not like they've forgotten. Worry more about how to honor them for the parents they once were.

To my friends and family, wishing you a peaceful mother's day.

To Sophia, I wish we could have saved you.

To Magpie, you are always in our thoughts and we long for the day you enter our lives.

Deep Breath

Yeah, that's me, a deep breath kind of evening. I'm feeling much better, but don't for one second leave here thinking, presto, good as new again she's over Sophia. You don't get over a child... what kind of person would think that?

Rather, I feel a bit of a cleansing... hard to desribe. I'm a huge believer in getting things out in the open, airing your thoughts out, just releasing. Regardless of the difficulty or discomfort or ego busting that's needed. And yeah this includes me. I feel sorry for the people who think that emotions, bad memories and trauma are things you bottle into cute, tiny, perfum bottles to be put on a shelf as a badge of emotional 'control'. Let's not mistake courage or 'realness' for 'control' folks.

Hmmm, yeah, that's my opinion.

I know that some people function their whole life that way, quite satisfactory in fact... though I would wager they've missed out on some incredible opportunities, both within themselves to learn more and also with others, to reach a higher level of understanding, bonding, trust, love, appreciation... guess you can tell where I stand on these things. If you find that everyone around you is a 'yes man' and that your circle doesn't include anyone you trust or rely on who ever disagrees with you or tells you that you made a big mistake... well, you're a perfum bottle person.

Being honest, being raw, being the bearer of not so hot news, well, it can be tough on the receiver, but don't skip the fact that it's tough on the giver too. Objectivity takes courage, that's for sure. It's easy to give news when you know it's exactly what the person already thinks...

So this brings me to the obvious, but I need to say it, my friends/family (mentioned specifically in the previous post), my honesty/rawness (too uncomfortable for many I know) and my writing bring me clarity, bring me the ability to breath and bring me to tomorrow. Clarity folks is what makes life worth living. That fresh clean air is the result of cleaning the smog out of my head.

Thanks for hanging with me in the smog this weekend.

My Favorites about Sophia

A special thanks to those we've heard from the last few days, Crista, Julie/Tom, Mom, Karen/Richard/Riley, Tina, Mindy, Sarah, Jen, everyone on the blog, My Secret Pal, Susan/Mark, I'm sure there will be others, but that's the list so far. We are very fortunate for those who've taken the time to honor our loss.

We've had the main blog and the linked ones for 10 months and have posted nearly 300 posts during that time.

I've tried very hard to focus solely on Magpie, but at times I wrote about the deep and enduring loss we feel about Sophia. Here are the ones most special to me, they are some of the deepest stuff in here. Take a look.

Posts of interest:

http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/03/thanks.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/04/honorable-window-to-past.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/04/missing-train.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/05/in-memory_19.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/05/mothers-day.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/05/hope-is-thing-with-feathers.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/08/9-months-past.html
http://thebryantbunch.blogspot.com/2006/10/update-on-october-8th-national_09.html

And so ends this Anniversary of the birth of our first daughter, Sophia. We talked a lot about her this weekend and still ache for a way to make things different than they are. I think with finally figuring out how to honor her, by planting some type of evergreen every spring, things will somehow start to feel better.

A Poem on the drive home...

A look back on how I felt a year ago... those were dark and difficult days, they get better, things change, they have to, but we're forever altered by the memories.

This poem, the best my novice poetry could do.

The flowers, courtesy of our friends Karen, Richard and Riley.


If Grief Were a Storm

If our grief were a storm, no sunami, hurricane or tornado would compare
That storm of grief washed over us tearing away our hearts, our hopes our dreams…
Finally removing everything we were, leaving cavernous space in its wake
This ocean of emptiness, surrounded us in dark silence
Displacing the space in our hearts left after her death
Time slowed, filling with deep sorrow, wide as the ocean and yet empty of all life
As if this sunami of grief washed away all we knew
Waves of emotion… hourly… daily… impossible to control or understand
Waves of emotion fade into the ocean of life, first weekly and then monthly
As the sunami disappears, like nothing ever happened, 'normalcy' returned
One all too quiet night, life slipped out of our hands, into that dark ocean of grief
We felt the never ending pull of her life’s tide, our future
The silence remaining, more powerful and ironic than the eye of the storm
We are surrounded by raging storm clouds and silence all at once
But the raging storm surge retreats in time, leaving us in a wake of grief

Sophia M. B.
Born November 19, 2005, just one day too late.

It's times like these that I long for a gravesite or an urn we could have planted on our property. We have no where to go as a ritual, no place to sit and listen to the sounds of nature and be with her. My single greatest regret, one I second guess all the time.

November 17-19 2005

If you want happy, cheery sunshine, move on to another URL for a few days.

Figured I'd warn you, if you want to cover your eyes/ears and sing la la la you can. Me, the thought of imploding on retained emotions is asinine, but that's my perspective, what do I know, I hear imploding on emotions is the best thing since sliced bread...The coming days mark Sophia's birth date and I refuse to pretend it didn't happen or should be avoided or hidden or not talked about.

My hope is that these next few posts provide some insight, education, enlightenment, in whatever fashion, that some tiny value for someone else comes from what we went through. Life truly can change in an instant. The nagging every day stupid things that we make into big events, the dumb things we all place high priorities on, the stuff we let get in the way of time with the ones we love, they don't matter, seriously though, you don't need to lose a child to figure that out.

November 17th, 2005, "the realization"

E was online most of the evening, I hung Christmas decorations. Our 5th year in Maryland, our first time hosting Christmas, finally our turn. I'd gotten as far as laying the "house" decorations all over the floor and tables, but hung the stockings. Thinking about the individual stockings I'd bought for everyone, what to stuff them with... Deep in thought with everyone's needs for the get together, resolving to just stop caring about those who were "pulling back" from the get together, E and I were sad the previous 3-4 days upon hearing it, but decided to let go of the sadness... the pointless things you spend your energy on when so much more matters... If I weren't thinking about others that whole week,... would I have noticed a sign, was there even a sign to notice? All I noticed that week was that she was crazy active, every night at bedtime.

November 17th, 10 PM, a silent heart monitor

... must be the electronics..., I try again and again, I try to jostle her awake... the stunned look on E's face when I told him, I'll never forget. We drove to the hospital; silent, angry, frightened, bitter, completely empty of life, literally. Imagine your child dying, no matter how old, now imagine your only child dying, now drive you and your wife to the hospital. That drive, I won't ever forget, every curve of the road, the absence of trucks, wishing for an accident to wipe away the pain that was waiting for us that night. (months later we learned we both shared that thought) At that moment, I'd rather die with Sophia than face losing her. Ironic, we already knew what being a parent meant, before we lost her. When you spend 5 years trying, believe me, you figure a lot out along the way that you wouldn't have otherwise.

The headlights of oncoming traffic, like sensations of light from a calling tunnel, far away and yet right at hand. Not us, no, not us, we've been through too much, we've been slighted too many times, the miscarriage 2 years earlier and the loss of Sophia's twin early on, too many surgeries, procedures, emotional investment, all those years, waiting for her. Oh, the lesser challenges of life, and how small they really are.

November 18th, 12:45 AM, the drive home

We finish all the tests and sonograms, they tell us we need to induce soon, the next morning. We leave, sleeping pills in hand, silent, crying, our dreams somewhere, far out of reach, slipping further into the moonlight of an empty highway. I think about who I need to call, what needs to happen. We lose sight of what we want and focus on the bare minimum. We lay in bed, wrapped up tight together, trying like crazy to shelter each other from reality. Drained of every ounce of feeling, life, energy. E and I call our bosses and leave messages. He didn't want to talk to anyone, friends or family, a way to keep reality at bay a while longer? I could barely handle calling my mom that morning, I was more worried about her, who will be there for her, no family nearby, I remember apologizing, she had to cancel my shower that week, I felt guilt. I remember trying to write an email to get a mass note out to everyone that morning before we left for the hospital, I didn't like it, but what was our option? Say nothing, sit there and make dozens of calls as we figured out what to put in the "overnight bag" for labor and delivery? No one was there holding our hand taking care of our every need as we quickly reached basket case status, we did the best we could.

E, called his brother, I don't remember how or when or anything else until long after we return to the hospital. My memory is void. I think how horrible receiving that call must have been. I think of people who said/felt that Sophia's death wasn't like a real death anyway, she wasn't born alive. May they never face the death their child, may they never deliver a silent newborn, they would be crippled with loss. I know some can't understand, while others don't have the capacity/willingness to try and I no longer have the energy to care. Some have said "how can they not understand/imagine that's upsurd". You can tell by the look in the eyes, the tone of voice, it's easy to see, some just don't have that capacity, they're not bad people, they just don't have the capacity.

I'm calling it as we lived/saw it, don't shoot the person who says the emperor has no clothes on.

November 18th, 11:00 AM, the time had come

We arrive, at labor and delivery. They give us the biggest suite, bedroom and living room, full bathroom, hardwood floors, private corner room. I am convinced it was out of kindness. It must have been a horrific few shifts for the teams there, another couple delivered their dead child too that night, I asked later on, they only have about a dozen births like ours each year. Within a few hours I'm checked in and the IV's are dripping away to induce labor. In the same amount of time we spent registering for her at BabiesRUs, we decided; funeral or not, cremation or not, naming the baby or not, what to name her, to hold her or not, natural or not, counselor or not, the pamphlets let us know what physical and emotional changes we can expect, like when my breast milk came in and yes, it did, yet another slap in the face, only I didn't know it at that moment... We lay in a silent, dimly lit room (hiding from reality by choice), waiting... waiting for the medicine to kick in... waiting for it to be "over"... and yet, delivery didn't mark the end... it marked the official start of mourning. The unbearable silence of those hours, the monitors turned off so the alarms didn't sound "hey, there's no heartbeat". I've referred to it before, like the biggest tallest, most cavernous church or cathedral in the world, you are in there, alone, and it's silent, like being in an ocean with no life. We were alone, in shock, those hours, those minutes, those decisions, no one should ever have to face.

November 19th, 2:48 AM, her arrival

6 hours from the time we were supposed to attend our childbirth class, in that hospital, she came into the world, 1 day too late. We'll never know if she would have survived 1 day earlier. Just 1 day earlier. 32 weeks along is more than far enough along, so the specialists told me, infants are "viable" after 27 weeks... To think, the previous week I was worried about going into labor without having that class... more small life events that don't matter huh? We waited for the epidural to wear off, for my legs to "hold weight", with only E to care for me they wouldn't release me unable to walk. We left, from check in to check out, under 24 hours, just 8 hours after giving birth. When you lose a child, they worry less about physical recovery in the hospital and more about emotional recovery. I was wheeled through the waiting room, silently crying, a single tear drop at a time falling, drip drip drip like the second hand on a clock, onto my childless lap, where her box of things they gave me lay, a dress, a hat, hand/footprints, plaster footprints, a certificate of her birth, ID bracelet... with this sinking feeling in my gut that I'd abandoned our daughter there.

November 19th, after 11AM, our darkest daylight hours.

We drove home to see the contents of a baby shower a few weekends prior sprawled out on the entry foyer floor, intermingled with dozens of boxes of Christmas decorations. Home to where emptiness hung, like the stars in the sky on a clear night, for all the world to see. We left a note on the front door for the contractors "please don't do any work in the house today, we've suffered a loss", they were supposed to finish up the basement that week, we were making it a playroom and office space. We crawl into bed and hope we wake up and it was just a nightmare. I spent many a night reaching out to my shrinking abdomen... longing for a kick, a sign...

This next part may be hard for friends/family to read, this section isn't about blame, it's just reality ...don't blame the messenger, this is not about you. This is not a reflection of everyone and it's not meant to be internalized. Though there were 'stars of help' during that time, it wasn't always the case. Family and friends alike waited for us to make decisions, to tell them what we needed, in the face of major shocking life altering tragedy, the ability to make decisions and think, vanishes. People, every morning struggle with what clothes in their closet to wear to work... when put in perspective, can you imagine trying to make decisions after your child dies?

We needed someone to take the lead for us, to be strong for us, hold our hands and lead us down a path, any path, it didn't matter, their decision wouldn't have been better or worse than what we did manage to chose. We needed to be driven to/from the hospital, to have our hands held during delivery. To make dinner, phone calls, help us realize that we might want a funeral, a place to mourn. Someone to get us to take showers or even brush our teeth, to brush our hair, to let us know after the 3rd day the socks, underwear, etc really need to be changed, seriously, they did. Someone to handle our medical insurance and disability claims, to open the door for flower arrangement after flower arrangement, to answer calls, oh, the phone calls. At times we had over 30 messages on the phone, neither of us able to answer it, we'd stand there and listen, too shocked at all that happened to be able to pick up the phone. This type of loss, the sobbing, the intensity, phones just didn't cut it, we just couldn't contribute to phone conversations, we weren't capable. I kept a running list of everyone who called, time, date, etc and checked them off as we slowly, as in weeks and months, called back. I kept dozens of those calls on the answering machine, they were still on there when the movers packed the answering machine up with everything else 9 months later... they lost that box... I'll never hear any of those messages again. We needed someone to open cards, give thanks to those we could barely look at eye to eye, to give a few minutes of kindness to the dogs, to just live for us. We were incapable of anything.

Every time we had to ask someone, once or repeatedly for something was one more dagger in our heart, making the nightmare worse. I can't explain any logic behind that, but only that is how it felt. We found at times it was 'too hard' for others to hear the details, so we stopped risking sharing anything at all to avoid the pain of it. In an effort to make it easier for others, well, we made it horrible for us but I realize that we were not whole at that time, we just quit asking for help, quit taking care of things, quit 'living' barely past 'walking dead' for many weeks. We put on a great, positive face, full of strength seemingly, but really, who's that strong, that able to just 'move on and be fine'? Our game face was a fragile shell.

I remember holding E's hand as he drove, as the snow fell a few nights later, as he cried about never taking her sledding. I cried touching the outfit we gushed over that in Belgium, E bought for her, while I rested on the boat. I spent several nights after her death, sneaking into the unfinished nursery to sleep in a bed there, so as not to disturb the few nights E could sleep. I cried packing her things into boxes. We cried the night we picked up her crib... it arrived at the store 2 nights before, we got it 2 nights after she was born. We cried when we finished her nursery bookshelf, started before she was born, finished after. We cried and sobbed every time people left our house and left us alone, we silently screamed for them to not go, standing at the windows in tears, sobbing, too many nights we cried in our loneliness. Too tired, too much in shock to figure out how to move on.

We never really celebrated Christmas that year, no tree, I wanted no part of any present and it took hours for me to open things from E, other presents I opened days later. I was ashamed that we never finished Christmas shopping for others, ridiculous, I know, but I felt that way. I remember packing the presents we had bought into boxes and mailing them, many with apologies for not properly shopping, I have no idea if I even wrapped any presents. We hid away in a hotel an hour from home, to try to avoid everything that tore our hearts to peices. It was, simply put, the best we could do, it was what we needed, just 48 hours of escaping everything and everyone associated with what that year's holiday was supposed to be about. We didn't even take the dogs, they were boarded.

In the end, people, life around you, moves on and you just tag along. And so, time marches on, while mainly silence surrounds you, the people who don't know what to say, say nothing, leaving you in yet further silence. You go through the motions until you figure out how to breath again. We'll never forget those who shared in the rawness of our loss, who risked losing control along side us, who realized no matter how horrible they felt, how great their own loss in our situation was, that we were after all the ones who were supposed to be giving her life and failed.

When they stepped in, held our hands, they helped us realize we can breathe again and they helped us relearn how to do it. It's not been easy to get over the loss of our daughter, and in some ways there will always be a sense of loss, isn't that normal? We're talking about a life afterall. Parenthood, well, we don't need to tell you, it's not supposed to be easy. You're in it for life... it's just that sometimes you're in it not for the length of their life... but for the length of your life, even if they aren't there with you for the whole ride.

Update on October 8th – National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month

One of the biggest disappointments for me with the delayed move was that we were unable to celebrate the Mid Autumn Festival in any way. I had planned to pick up mooncakes or order them, hang lanterns, reminisce a bit under the beautiful full moon with E. But moving in that way made it too hard and hectic.

It’s ironic, that in our mailbox that day was the following from GBMC:

“On Sunday, October 15, 2006, Greater Baltimore Medical Center will be hosting a Day of Remembrance in honor of National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. We invite you to remember and honor the previous babies whose memories have touched the hearts of their parents and families.”

The letter goes on to mention further details such as being able to provide your child’s name to be read aloud, to be placed on a memorial item… As I’ve mentioned before, we were fortunate to have given birth to our daughter Sophia Madeleine in such an incredible hospital. I just wish others had been there to share in that time with us. As horrible as it was, the staff at GMBC should be commended for their incredible patience, kindness, love, thoughtfulness and generosity. We were in, delivered her and left, in under 24 hours, but every hour they showered us with kindness, they met our every need, they went the extra mile when we insisted they didn’t need to worry about it. Every thought every wish, they usually met it before we had to ask.

At times like this I miss the Chesapeake Bay area more than anyone could imagine. It will forever be the place our daughter Sophia was born, it will be her first and her only home and it breaks my heart to realize not only did we leave her behind at the hospital that day, forever leaving me with the idea that I abandoned our child, but now we’ve left behind her home, her nursery and yet another few tangible memories that tell the world our daughter was real, our love for her was true and what she means to us is no different than a child who is 3, 10, 30 or 50.

The length of ones life does not set the value of it. Sophia taught E and I more in her short life than most people around us have taught us before or since. We wish we could honor her at GBMC this weekend, I feel such a sense of loss for not being there.

If you know someone who’s lost an infant or pregnancy, take a few minutes to let them know that you care, that you love them and that their child mattered and had value. Let them know you understand the significance of this month of honor.

deep thoughts to ponder

I know I've spent chunks of time drifting between deep thoughts that open my soul up to the world and then onto weeks of light hearted topics like quilts, postcards, the latest in what's new with the house...

But not for one second do we lose sight this path is full of deep thoughts, concerns, fears, hope and responsibilities. I think so much about Magpie's future, about this choice, discrimination she will face, how we'll answer her questions about her first family, her birth family. Questions about her culture, any loss she may feel. Questions about the reality that people may look at adoption not as an alternative to giving birth, but as a last resort, the only option left.

I'll tackle a few of these thought provoking questions here... I know that some who read this may not agree with our approach, thoughts or feelings, that's ok. All I ask is for everyone to understand that we're not here to divide, just to share our thoughts.

Adoption as a last resort
This one is tough, people feel the near constant need (silenty or out loud) to weigh giving birth against adopting, as if it were a race, a challenge, a competition. Adoption is a choice (even if not everyone treats it that way). Adoption is not about 'saving' a child, no matter what strangers we meet 'say'. For us, adoption took a long time choosing, but make no mistake, we made a choice. Could we have had biological children one day? We'll never know, for when you actually deliver a dead child full term your perspective of the need to "give birth" changes. We were considered excellent canidates for additional IVF treatments. No reason found for the death. But we chose to leave one path in life and go down another. I think it's best we spent so long considering adoption over the years, we talked, thought, weighed concerns over what others might say or do and how we'd handle it. We walked consciously down this road. Adoption for us is a choice, not a last resort and I hope that Magpie understands she is never, in our eyes, the last option, she will be valued and loved for all she is. Magpie is not a replacement for Sophia, she is an addition to our family.

Adoption is like being pregnant
As much as we wish everyone in our life would treat this adoption equal to our last pregnancy, we know it's just not possible and sometimes it hurts. In the beginning it used to REALLY piss us off. We know how people treat pregnant couples, we used to be a pregnant couple, several times. No matter how much we wish it, adoption and pregnancies are not equal, they never will be. But they are not in competition either, they are just different. When you're pregnant, people treat you with caution, with care, with patience and understanding. They understand that you may not feel well, that you have raging hormones, that you need to 'take it easy'. They know you have so much on your mind and that their needs may not be at the forefront for your expanding family. They understand the stress in your life, the dreams you have that are developing.

But in adoption, it's never the same. There's no visual 'reminder', the process can be hard to understand if people don't take the time. As Adoptive Parents, you begin to learn the subtle difference in treatment that your child may experience... that odd, but obvious sense, of not fitting in. You may not fit in already if you have no children, so you know that feeling, but most in your life have no clue about adoption, what you are going through, they can't relate and quite honestly most of us are too busy to really learn tons new unless we 'have' to. We can understand the distance, understand the gap, understand feeling on the outside looking in, but it doesn't mean that we enjoy it. We wish we didn't feel so different from nearly everyone in our family, but we are and we need to embrace the difference and understand that Magpie will also feel very different, at times.

We need to be open to understanding, to trying to help her through it, to loving her through all of her changes and feelings and most importantly to surrounding her with those who support her too. Adoption is no more like being pregnant than being Asian American is like being 'white' (I only surmise this as I am obviously not able to speak to that topic at all).

The idea of "Real Parents/Family"
Real Family, this is a tough one. Perspective is everything in life and not having an objective one can really hurt you. Being objective can be uncomfortable. This topic will be a very difficult one as we work through it in the years to come. Real Family... to some this is the birth parents/family, to some this is the adoptive parents. Make no mistake, ALL parents are real, whether adoptive or biological.

One day, Magpie will open the door to asking about her birth family and heritage. These will be some of the hardest questions to answer but honesty is how we're going to go about it. If she has the courage to ask, we will do no less than have the courage to answer. This means letting go of our insecurities, our thoughts and certainly our 'needs'. It means embracing the fact that Magpie has a right to support and love through all her searches in life for answers.

Raising an adoptive child and a birth child is the same
Keep in mind through this post that we do not have, as of today, any living children. So I am thinking of how things might be one day.

I have never thought, for one second, that raising an adoptive child (regardless of birth country) would EVER be the same as raising a child I gave birth to. From the "simple" things like helping her through her 1st Grade project about "family trees", to complex like navigating bureaucracy associated with birth certificates to passports, etc. Families and society are cut from the same cloth and as we've discussed it over the years it's likely there may be friends and family members not keen on the adoption, who may judge, may 'subtly' (nothing is ever completely hidden) treat her different. we hope never to have to address this but we've talked about how we would handle it regardless of where it comes from. Differences abound, I guess what's the same is the absolute need to love, trust and support our child in all she dreams and does, regardless of what we think.

We know it is not the same, we know we'll have challenges, we do not yet know what they are today, but we know we'll have to be honest and objective to get through them together. Raising an adoptive child requires a set of skills that is different. It requires a lifetime commitment to her birth country. It requires a lack of insecurity about how you differentiate between love and obligation. We will love Magpie but she will not be obligated to be a mirror image of us, how could we ever expect that of her.

I know that there is more to learn about being good parents, to an adopted child, than E and I might possibly be able to learn in a lifetime. but I also know that we have a commitment to our daughter Magpie to be open, objective, honest, trusting, loving and supportive. I cannot possibly put into words all that we might one day see, hear, think or do, words in a blog will never be a substitute for all that will define us as a family.

I do know that we believe in the journey we are on and that we trust in our ability to do right by our daughter no matter what life brings us as a family. We are not naive to think the world will always treat us or her fairly, equally or right, but we know that we are commited to her, her happiness and her fulfillment.

today's uplifting event...

I find some days harder than others in the world of being a lifetime member of the fertility challenged. It’s bad enough to be denied the ability to do something so many take for granted, it’s worse given our 4 year journey.

Today at work was “one of those days”. As a really nice person (no sarcasm here) was fixing my computer which has this horrible high pitched sound she mentioned she gets migraines too and can understand the problem with the noise it’s making. We got to talking about migraines and all as I’ve had a few but not routinely. She mentioned she went to the doctor to get medicine to prevent the migraines but that she can’t take them long term as she is trying to get pregnant. Awkward pause…

Yeah, I know, all too well, trust me, the world continued to revolve even though eric and I stopped moving last year for quite some time. I’m aware, trust me, even if I weren’t as introspective as I am, I’d still be aware that things and people moved on when we didn’t. Comments were made and more than anything, the opposite, silence, let us know life moved on. I remember the comment made to explain why some people just weren’t there for us: ‘not a big deal to some probably, it’s not like they held a living breathing child in their arms’. When E and I heard that may be some of why people were silent, we both had some choice words, E, normally calm, was pretty heated up that someone could actually think that. ... yeah, I know, people who never themselves, nor anyone they knew had an iota of problems with getting pregnant or giving birth, most likely thought that. I can tell you, that the death of a child is real, whether they lived 60 years or just 32 weeks in your womb. It’s real. We also talked about how those same people would have been through the roof with anger, resentment, judgment on us had we chosen to end our pregnancy for some lame reason at 32 weeks… perspective is everything in life huh?

I had to swallow the lump in my throat. I know she knows Sophia died, but I’m sure she doesn’t know our personal ‘pain’ (aka medical) history… you know, the list/history that goes:

- 2 inpatient surgeries,
- 5 or 6 outpatient surgeries
- 5-10 of the things doctor’s call ‘office procedures’ but I refer to them torture that should have anesthesia involved… you infertile chicks know some of what I’m talking about… biopsies, injectible uterine dye tests, yeah, all without anesthesia.

The fertile people in the world have no idea the pain and extent to which infertile people go through.

- Oh yeah, nearly forgot (yeah, like I could forget), the 50-60 shots in the stomach at the rate of 3 a day for 2 rounds of IVF,
- the daily blood draws out of the only vein I have that gives blood
- near daily internal ultrasounds… I know, the concept is lost on those who have never had the ‘pleasure’.

At times, I was defined as a woman by the stage of treatment I was going through, I lost my identity for a long time.

So I cut her some slack, I swallowed that lump in my throat, I swallowed the tears. We aren’t close anyway, we’re just acquaintances. I know she would never ask about things nor could she acknowledge she just crossed into territory best left alone for ‘acquaintances’. Acquaintances meaning those we aren’t friends with but who we know by name. So I go with the flow, I mention to her helpful stuff like those with migraines often go through pregnancy migraine free, something about the hormone levels that can give you a migraine free pregnancy, like my sister-in-law Brandi. She suffers from debilitating, life changing, daily migraines. Her entire pregnancy, though half spent on bedrest, was migraine free. Then there’s people like me, an occasional migraine sufferer, normally tied to rapid changes in humidity or temperature or sun exposure, I spent every day with a migraine, so severe I had trouble working and functioning. They call it pregnancy induced migraines.

I mentioned to her that I was prescribed a medicine, safe for pregnancies, that can minimize the migraines and stop them in their tracks as they start to evolve in a normal day. She may want to switch to that now so she can see if it works and can then take it throughout normal life, whether or not she was attempting to get pregnant.

All the while during the conversation I am thinking in the back of my head… please please don’t ask me how I’m doing. I’m on the verge of tears as I give you helpful advice on your hopeful pregnancy and best wishes for good luck.

I don’t like to cry with strangers, I don’t like to share anything personal with strangers. The opposite is true with my friends, and family, I want to share, I want to be asked, ‘how are you really doing’, I want people to ask and then tell me it’s ok when I cry.

Life is interesting… sometimes the people you want to ask never do… I’ve heard the comment over and over “we didn’t want to upset you”…

But here are my thoughts from the perspective of someone who lived this hell last year ...silence is upsetting, not being asked is upsetting, seeming like people don’t care is upsetting, losing our daughter and delivering her silently into the world, that’s upsetting. How do I feel about the silence from the ones we wish weren’t silent… simple words define it… sadness, depression, exclusion, loneliness, coldness, isolation, distance, walls, wonder, confusion, etc.

Talking about it, being asked about it, how does that make me feel? Easier to describe all the words that come to mind when someone actively takes part in our grief, our current life, etc.… relief, love, kindness, inclusion, support, bonding, friendship, warmth, caring, freedom, trust, respect etc. Life is getting easier and we’ve been blessed to have some very wonderful people actively support us through our loss of Sophia and the roller coaster journey to Magpie.

One of Eric’s Aunts and I had a very long talk a few weeks back, we never shared and talked about Sophia, about how Eric and I were doing until that moment. And trust me, there is never any time like the present to share… there is no expiration date on asking, it’s not like milk in the fridge. Caring, asking, involving and listening, has no expiration date. The act of asking and really listening to what we share and showing the desire to hear it, can erase the walls that silence and time created. For those we have yet to share with and talk deeply to about it, time will never run out, you just need to let us know you want to know.

During those early weeks, we just had to concentrate on keeping alive, we could barely share anything. We could barely do anything... I don't think we even showered or ate much for days, it was that bad. But months after, nowit's a different story, we can talk now, we can share now, we’ve moved through ‘shock’ and into ‘living’ again. The risk on our end to ask for support anymore is just too great, we’ve been through too much to reach out and risk silence, we just won’t ask. That delivery room contained more than a lifetime of silence, I tell people to think of the quietest church moment, then multiply the silence by 10 or 100, and you still haven’t reached the silence of a stillbirth delivery room.

So back to E's Aunt and I, we spent an hour or so sharing, listening, crying, both of us crying. It was one of the best moments in the last few months… upsetting? No, it was a great feeling to know I could talk to her, she cared and she wanted to support both E and I. She mentioned that if she had known before the delivery she would have driven the 6-7 hours to be there, that really touched E and I. That day Sophia died they wanted us to deliver immediately, in the end we waited 12 hours or so, we were too shocked to know what to do or even what we’d need. If we could have slowed the hands of time down and thought and known who would really be there for us, we would have asked for support. It was way too much for E and I to have faced alone. We wish others were there to help, I think of my mom especially when I think of it. Looking back, I wish people didn't ask what we needed and just stepped in and went overboard, we were not capable of any decisions, any thoughts or even any rational behavior, it's a wonder we drove to and from the hospital without killing ourselves or someone else.

So to E's Aunt, I love you, thanks for the support and love, I needed it, we probably both did.

The post a while back about giving thanks is my way of letting people like her know they will always be precious to us for what they did and still do to support us. They understand the death of a child lives on forever in the life of their parents. Magpie will be surrounded by these people, we’ll try to have her spend as much time with them as they will likely be the ones to help her as she grows in a world that is different from one she would have known otherwise. And at times I’m sure a very tough world for her to be in.

So today with the computer person, just like the list of those who’ve been pretty much ‘silent’ for both E and I, I found it best today to ignore the pain/lump in my throat and try to help her out instead. She didn’t mean anything by it, probably didn’t even realize what she was saying until it was out of her mouth. If she thought anything, awkwardness probably filled her mind and I felt bad for her.

Sometimes life is about moving on, letting go of the pain, letting go in general. I hope the pain of losing Sophia dulls eventually, I’ll be glad to let go of that, but I know Sophia is with us for life, that’s a fact

In Memory

I've borrowed this poem from a favorite blogger.

In honor of our daughter Sophia Madeleine who was born 6 months ago today, less than 48 hours after we lost her.

So many months I carried you
and I couldn't wait to see
What a wonderful little person
you would turn out to be.
I had my dreams of how it would be
just to watch you grow.
But now those dreams are faded
Because I shall never know.
Now the rocking chair sits silent,
and the lullabies won't be voiced.
But in heaven there's a celebration
as all of the angels rejoice.
My tears, they won't be quiet,
They flow like a river roars,
And I know my life is forever changed.
To be the same no more.
I must be a special mother because I've been set apart.
Some mothers carry their children in their arms,
But I carry you in my heart.

Poem by Beverly Tinney

Mother's Day

I had been lurking on other's AP (Adoptive Parents) websites seeing what those without children were blogging about for Mother's Day. I was a bit unsure how to handle it, do we pretend we never delivered a child? Do we recognize me as a Mother? It's hard to know how to handle things, I know many around us don't know what to do and tend to be silent about all the normal things parents are recognized for. That's just it, that's the hardest part of all after delivering a child silently into the world, the ongoing and long lasting silence around you. The silence over the last 6 months has been very trying and difficult and we still don't know how to deal with it, we may never be able to, you just can't force support to happen, it's either there or it's not, and when it isn't you sort of have to move on.

But I remembered, that this blog is about E and I, our experiences, our life, our future and our past. No matter what anyone thinks or believes, we need to do what's right for us and what we need for ourselves. And so I've decided on a short post this Mother's Day.

As I lay in bed this morning deciding whether or not to even get up I thought a lot about a post to write. It goes something like this:

Mother's Day is a day to honor those who've experienced being a mother. This includes those who've lost their child(ren) too. My sister-in-law K helped me when she sent an email to me for Mother's Day. It validated my feelings and helped me feel a little bit better about it all. We all need a little validation from time to time.

This post is for our little girl who's left impressions in our heart as real as her footprints in the framed plaque above, yes, those are her footprints. That plaque is one of the many momentos that we can 'touch'. We were fortunate to have delivered at a hospital where those delivering a child 'silently' into the world are treated at least as well as those with a living child.

Sophia will always be both the Older Sister to all future children we have and also the Youngest child in our family.

Hope is the thing with feathers...

I've always had a love of butterflies, so many different and unique ones exist, they are a mirror of the fabric of life. They are mystical winged creatures with an incredibly short but amazing life.

I caught sight of this butterfly in our landscaping 2 weekends ago, just before heading to NY to visit mom. I grabbed the camera and took some shots on the lilacs. They really couldn't have turned out better if I had tried, the colors, the light and the moment were just right. It was only the dogs who kept more shots from happening!

That weekend, our friends J and A gave us a gift as part of our adoption journey, it was so thoughtful, a wonderful set of CD-rom's to learn Mandarin, something we've been thinking of doing. But what was really wonderful was the card, the picture is posted here. It had a butterfly pin and a brief story.

I am a butterfly
A symbol of new beginnings
A token to get you by
A symbol of new winnings
Yet to Come

Wear me on your shoulder
Let me make you strong
Make you bolder
Let me be your wings for a while
So you won't forget
How to fly

About half the quilt squares we've received are butterflies, the card from J with a beautiful butterfly and then the announcements of our pregnancy with Sophia were hand made note cards with butterfly picture windows and butterfly handcut out vellum prints that E and I made. We aren't religious by any stretch of the imagination, but we are spiritual. Maybe there is a connection between our past and our future, maybe there isn't and as people read our blog they think we're crazy. But that's their choice, for me, it makes me think.

It makes me feel better and makes me think back to a few days after Sophia died, back to a conversation with Joan, when I'd really lost hope. I quoted her a line from my all time favorite poem, HOPE BY EMILY DICKENSON and told her hope had just flown out of our lives for good. Those were very dark days for us. Here's the poem:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

J also wrote a note inside the butterfly card which was touching for 2 reasons. The message was beautiful, about not giving up hope for a better day and for a happier life than we've been through to bring a child into our family. It also touched me because few people now adays take any time to write a simple note or card, let alone a thank you card!

It's like in the last 20 years, the art, the symbol and the spirit of writing notes has vanished, sucked into oblivion and replaced by a quick sign on the bottom of a card and a stamp on the envelope, did you ever wonder if all we've become is a Hallmark generation by convenience? We live in an automated, quick fix, instant pleasure, drive through, 7-11 society, we forget to take time to do the simplest of wonderful gestures, like a couple lines in a card that make someone's day. Why is it so hard to write notes nowadays? Why isn't it worth the time anymore? Are we really, come on now, are we really that busy?


I can honestly say, I will probably read that card more than once in the coming months and it will always bring a smile to my face. Thank you J & A.

Honorable window to the past

I've read a lot of blogs since I started this one in January. Very few have touched me and brought a tear to my eye. That's not a reflection of what other's have written, it's a reflection of what E and I have been through, it's put it all into a different perspective.

So when I read THIS blog, I felt a sense of kinship, understanding and actually relief. Until reading this one, I felt alone in the experiences E and I had been through with the loss of our first daughter Sophia, who will always be the big sister. This person's blog made me realize that we are not alone.

It helps me to understand that you don't actually have to forget or remove your past in order to move on into your future. Honoring your past is just as important and dreaming about your future. We anxiously await the day we bring our youngest child home from China, what a journey it's been and what a journey it's going to be.

Here's what I wrote in response to her BLOG:


1 Comments:
said...
I was touched when I read this post. Our daughter Sophia Madeleine was born still just a few weeks short of her due date on November 19, 2005. We'd suffered other losses, that one the worst and last.

When we made the decision to adopt, we didn't close the door on Sophia, but opened up the door to her little sister from China. We honor her in that way too.

All the best to you in your journey

thebryantbunch.blogspot.com

7:09 PM

Missing the Train

So, I'm having one of those days. I'm entitled to it right? Aren't we all?

No, not one of those crazed "why is this adoption such a long, expensive and intrusive process" kind of funks. No, the more serious "life just isn't fair" kind of funk. Because, well, life really isn't fair, it's just life and sometimes, even the "strongest" of people feel the weight of the world and the sadness in their lives that they try to block out.

So what's got me in this funk of sadness? Well, the most joyful of all occasions, ..., pictures speak a thousand words:







Funny thing was, E mentioned last weekend about wondering if we'd get a shower at all... good question, I've wondered it too. The sad thing is, nearly everything we got for Sophia inthe only shower we had was for a newborn, there's little to nothing we could use for a 1 year old.

A good friend of my husband and his wife are having a baby. They are wonderful people, they'll make wonderful parents, they're the kind of people who should be parents. I was invited to the shower and if it weren't for the plane tickets to visit Gram in Florida the same weekend I don't know if I would have attended.

I've noticed, that a woman who's child has died, tends to be like a leper at a nudist colony... the nudists know the leper is cool and all, but the nudists think they might catch something... it's an odd sensation to see it in people's eyes, the discomfort and silence is horrible, I don't think some people realize they get that look. It's the first occasion like that since Sophia died. Not sure I would have been a happy sight and (sad) blubbering idiots just don't belong at a shower anyway.

Probably better I checked out the registry and sent a gift instead.

We're so truly happy for them, but being happy for someone doesn't stop you from feeling like the world is rushing by you on a train. A train you barely caught onto the outside of and were hanging from a lifetime ago, only to fall off... more than once... you finally realize you aren't actually supposed to be on that train and will never be. Though you'll be on a different train one day, you'll only ever look in on the original train from the outside. And that's ok.

So I'm taking this moment to say how wonderful I feel for the 2 of them and how sad I still am for E and I. Just because we are adopting doesn't mean we stop mourning the death of our first daughter, what kind of horrible parents would we be if after jsut a few months we'd "moved on"?

Congrats to M and P, may time, health and happiness always surround you and your family. You deserve this wonderful blessing and joy, soak it all in and know we are with you in our hearts.

past vs present

Sometimes I think about the recent past and feel guilty for posting about Sophia on a blog that cronicles our story to a child in China.

But then I think some more about it all and realize that the future is just a reflection of the past, you can't have one without the other. As hard as one might try to 'put the past behind' no matter what that past may be, it is deeply imbedded in you like a fingerprint. It molds you, it shapes you, it is who you have been, who you are now and what you may experience in the future. The past can impact your future and so put it aside and try to leave it way way in the past, well, that's not always possible or practical!

So I take solice in the past and remind my self that it's the sum of who I am today, it's a lifetime of learnings, of experiences and a rolled up ball of hope for the future.

With that I think I've got my monthly dose of philosophizing (is that a word?) and reminiscing all out of my system... thank goodness!