To Hold You Again...

5/17/2012               9:45 a.m

Dear Brynna,

I love you.  I love you so much.  And I miss you.  So much.

So much has been going on in the last month or so and I feel like a robot who is frozen in time, watching life pass by around me.

I ache to hold you, touch you, see you smile, hear you laugh, hear you cry. 

I have thought so many times about writing but I can’t seem to complete any one thought.  So much feels undone.

In 9 short days, you will be 7 months old.  Do you know how hard that is for me to write?  7 months you have been missing from our life.  7 months we have longed to have a “do-over”, a “second chance”.  7 months we have wondered what we could have possibly done to deserve this level of pain.

Earlier this month, your Daddy and I took your brothers to California for your Uncle Conner’s wedding.  We were there for a week, and before the wedding, we took the boys to Disneyland.  3 days in Disneyland felt like holding our hand over a fire.  There were little girls and baby girls everywhere. It felt so unfair.  Why does everyone else get their daughter while ours is in heaven?  Of course, I know in my logical head, that there had to be other people there among us who have suffered such pain or are suffering now, but it’s hard to get your heart to believe what your head knows to be true. 

That’s one of the really hard parts about this whole grief thing.  To those on the outside, we appear normal.  Standing up, putting one foot in front of the other….

But on the inside, it feels as if our arms and legs have been cut off, and we are trying with all that we have left to crawl across the floor toward some sort of salvation.

I love you, Brynn.  Daddy loves you.  Your three wonderful brothers love you.  And right now loving you continues to hurt because we want so very badly for you to be here with us.  Is that selfish?  I don’t know.

The wedding was beautiful and it was so wonderful to see your Uncle Conner so happy.  He and Cassie are a wonderful match for each other.

Again, though, I was having a hard time “gearing up to be happy”.  It still feels so far to fall if we take a chance on “happy”, because inevitably we are faced with our reality which is that this is permanent.  And that is devastating.

People smiled and laughed and danced around like crazy, happy people at the reception.  I used to be one of those people.  But now I am different.  I sit here now writing this and I am sobbing with that knowledge.  I am different. 

I am sad.  My heart is broken.  I am broken.

I used to be one of the first ones on the dance floor and one of the last to leave.  Your Daddy and I used to dance around like fools, not caring one little bit what “everyone else” thought.  Now, I can’t sum up the energy, or the interest, or whatever it is that I would need to get out there and be happy dancing.

So I sat and watched.  For some of the time, your brother Jackson sat on my lap and kept me company, but for a good amount of the time I sat there alone.  Alone.

Alone.

I feel alone in a lot of this now.  People are calling less and less.  Some people never call.  Some people call and ask “how are you?” but really I know they are asking, “are you back to normal yet?  Is it okay to talk to you?  Will you be the old Laura we knew and loved?”

Don’t get me wrong, we have a small, very consistently loving and supportive core group of family and a few friends that are still here holding us up, but it is much, much quieter.

That’s a really hard reality.  On one hand, I can understand.  Nearly 7 months have passed and people have their lives to live and their own heartaches and trials.  However, to me it still feels like yesterday when you had to leave us in just the blink of an eye, and I hurt as much today as I did then.  I don’t wish this pain on anyone, but I also don’t want to do this alone.  It’s too hard.  We need all the support and love we can get.  Otherwise we run the risk of fading into the darkness.  Becoming only shadows of the people we once were.

And very, very few people ask about or talk directly to your Daddy about how he is doing.  He is going to work every day, doing the best he can to support our broken family, and not very many people are comfortable acknowledging or helping to carry his burden of grief.

The Saturday before Mother’s Day was a very sad one in our house.  Daddy and I spent a lot of time sitting side by side on the couch staring out the window in silence.  What is left to say?  We know each other’s pain.  We are in exactly the same tiny boat in this ocean of tears, trying to maneuver our way toward shore with broken paddles and aching, tired bodies.

We cried.  We talked about you.  We held each other.  We played with the boys. We did our best to muddle our way through the day.

Then, that night, when your brothers went to bed, Daddy said he had to get out of the house for a bit.  He said he’d be back in about an hour, but he just needed to go and clear his head.  I completely understood, and told him I’d be waiting when he was ready to come home.

After almost 2 hours, the front door opened and Daddy asked if I had gotten his text.  I told him I hadn’t and he suggested I check my phone.  Long story short, he had sent a voice memo saying he was going to do Mother’s Day differently this year, and instead of a cheesy, store bought card, he was going to tell me how he felt.  He proceeded to acknowledge that this was not how we planned or hoped our life would be, but that he is grateful to have me to navigate this awful road with.

Then he asked me to go upstairs and wait in the playroom for him.  I did.  He told me to close my eyes.  I closed them.  Then he placed something soft in my arms and said, “7 pounds 11 ounces feels like this.”

He had taken the stuffed pink frog he bought from the hospital gift shop for you, and filled it with enough craft sand that it now weighs exactly what you did when you were born.

Oh, how my arms tingled and my heart leaped with joy when my body remembered what it felt like to hold you!  How empty my arms have been.  How my heart has ached to feel you against my chest.  I held that frog right over my chest where I held you, and I closed my eyes and I cried.  And Daddy cried.

I wrapped the frog in your soft, pink blanket and I stood and rocked it like I was rocking you.  I know to the outside, I must have looked crazy.  But I just closed my eyes and let myself go to a different place.  A place where I get to hold my sweet, newborn baby girl.  A place where my heart isn’t broken and my arms don’t ache with emptiness.  I went to the place I have been wanting to go for over half a year.  I went to the place where you exist with us, not apart from us.

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What a wonderful man your dad is!  How lucky I am to have him in my life!  He loves me like nothing I’ve every known.  He loves you and your brothers like nothing he’s ever known.

I am not telling you all of this, my sweet girl, to burden your perfect heart.  I am not attempting to call you back from wherever you are or tether you to us with the ropes of grief that surround my own heart.  I am telling you all of this because I love you.  And I trust that wherever you are, you know this.  I trust that you feel our love for you, and you are strong enough to stand witness to this pain.  This love is unending, and so I guess so is the pain.

I love you, Brynna.

Love,

Momma

P.S. I brought you home a stuffed Minnie Mouse from Disneyland and she is in your room with your other dolls.  Your Auntie Andrea also bought us an ornament from Disneyland for our tree this next Christmas.  It’s a “Sleeping Beauty” ornament and it is perfect….. for so many reasons.

What can I say that hasn't already been said?

4/25/2012        9:10 a.m

Dear Brynna,

What can I say that I haven’t already said?  I feel the pain of missing you every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep.  I also feel it much of the time in my dreams.  It’s a pain that never goes away.

Yet, try as I may, I can’t find the “exact right” words to put to it.  I feel like if I could just “say it right” than maybe just a little bit of the pain would subside.  If I could just “get it out” and “off my chest”, I could get a tiny bit of relief. 

But, there are no “exact right” words.  Nothing to describe “just how I’m feeling”.

I’m trying really hard, sweet girl.  I am.  I am trying really hard to be at least a little bit of the momma I would have been if you had been here with us.  But it’s hard.  It’s so hard.  I can’t get my heart to listen to what my mind is trying to tell it.

I don’t know how to do this.

I am not used to doing things without at least a little bit of an understanding of how to do it.  It is so hard to wake up each day and hurt right from the moment my eyes open.

This isn’t to say, I don’t get up and “go about my day” because I do.  I go about cleaning the house, doing the laundry, running errands and making meals.  I get together with friends and go to Little League baseball games.  But it all takes so much more concentration and will power.  It seems that the days of doing things on autopilot are gone.  I have to force myself to focus and get done what needs to get done.  Because my mind, especially when the boys are all at school, is on you.

What would you and I be doing while the boys were off learning?  Would you be joining me at the gym?  Would you be crawling around the family room while I folded endless piles of laundry?  (That’s another thing that makes me sad because I thought at this stage, there would be a lot more pink in those piles waiting to be folded).  Would we lay down together for a nap in my bed?

Tomorrow you will be (would have been) six months old.

Half a year.

Half a year has come and gone since the day you were born, and I am standing here reeling with that knowledge.  How did that happen?  How has that much time passed when I feel like time should be standing still?  Why doesn’t time stop when it feels like our hearts have?

I love you, Brynna.  I love you as much as a mother can love.  More, I think….

Your daddy and I were talking last night, and we both seem to be kind of in the same place right now.  Just really sad and frustrated that there was nothing we could have done to help you.  As parents, it is our job to keep our children safe and we were not able to do that for you.  We are both so sorry. 

I am so sorry, Brynna.

I would have gone to the ends of the earth and laid down my life to save yours.  I swear, I would have.  And Daddy would have done the same. In a second.  Just to give you a chance at this life.  It is so very hard as a parent to feel powerless like this.  We love you and your brothers more than life itself, and we just wanted more than anything, to keep you all safe.  But, we couldn’t and that makes us so sad.

Little girl, I need you to know, wherever you are, that you are still in my heart all the time.  Everyday, everywhere, all the time.

I will keep trying to move ahead, because I love you and the boys and Daddy.  I will try really hard not to beat myself up too much over “not being further down this grief road”, and I will just keep going to bed each night, and maybe one day I’ll wake up and feel like loving you doesn’t have to hurt so much.

I love you, Brynna.  Always, I love you.

Love,

Momma

I'm Tired.

This is making me tired.  Grief is painful, tiresome, seemingly endless work.  I feel like I give it 100% each day, and each day I run the risk of being right back where I started.

A while ago, when trying to explain my grief to a friend, I likened it to running a marathon. 

When it’s laid out in front of you, it seems an extremely daunting task, and people really think you’re crazy to try it.  You know you’re crazy to try it. But, there you are, on race day, at the starting line ready to take what comes your way.  The gun goes off, and off you go.  Running a pace that seems manageable. One mile down.  Two.  Three.  Maybe four. But then all of a sudden you blink and you are back at the starting line again.  What just happened?  What about the “progress” you just made?

Tough shit. 

Here you are back at the beginning, so off you go again, except this time you’re more tired.  What choice do you have?  You can’t quit.  You ready yourself again and off you go.  Running perhaps a bit slower this time, but steady nonetheless.  Before you know it, you may be half way done and feeling pretty good about your “progress”, but again you blink, and when you least expect it, there you are again at the starting line.  Now everyone else is much further down the road than you ever managed to get, and you are more and more alone.  Running this same road over and over again all by yourself.  What are you supposed to do?

Running again seems impossible, but giving up is not an option because this marathon is a run toward your life.  Your future.  Your family’s future.

Now, your body is exhausted and your mind is foggy.  What is the point?  How can anything you do really matter, because it seems you are destined to “start over” forever.

The biggest way that this run differs from a regular marathon, I am beginning to understand, is that there is no definitive finish line at mile 26.2.  This course stretches to the rest of my life.  There is no “half way” or “almost there”.  There is only the course. 

And there are hurdles along the way as well.

I am not only dealing with the grief of losing my daughter.  I am dealing with the grief of being unable to bring another child into this family.  I am dealing with the insecurities that go along with that.  Being 33 years old and as barren as the Sahara.  It’s heartbreaking.  Every day when I have to apply my pseudo estrogen so that I feel “a little closer to normal”, my heart breaks.  It’s not what I planned.

I am dealing with the fact that I have three amazingly loving boys who miss their sister more than they know how to express.  Every day trying to navigate this confusing course with them, attempting to explain it all in ways their young hearts and minds can understand.

I am dealing with the fact that if Steven and I do decide that our hearts are open and ready to travel down the road toward adoption, we will face many more hurdles (financial, emotional, spiritual) and possibly heartbreak.  Are we strong enough to stand that?  Are we strong enough to stand it if we don’t adopt?

This is so far beyond frustrating.  There don’t seem to be any real answers.  There is no plan.  No protocol.  We just have to keep going, because we have No. Other. Option.

Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine a pain so great that nothing- NOTHING- exists to take it away? 

Some say, “God will take it away.”  Some say, “time will take it away.”  Some don’t say anything at all because they know there is nothing to say.

I have turned and will continue to turn to God and Love for support, but nothing can take away this Brynna shaped hole in my heart.  A hole that will never be filled with anything else, because nothing else fits.

Some people wonder (and have said in so many words), “how can she love her so much? She only got 6 days, she didn’t even have time to get attached.”   Or they wonder, “isn’t she ready to go back to work yet?  It’s been 6 months.”

I ask you all to think about your own children.  Now, tell me the day you became “attached” to them…

Was it after 6 days?

Now think about your child being gone.  Forever.

Would you be “over it”, “through it”, “passed it” in 6 months?  6 years?  Ever?

I am tired.  This grief road is a painful, tiresome, seemingly endless road.  And I miss her.

#2 Turns 7!!

Aidan turned 7 on April 17th!  On the night of his actual birthday, we had a family dinner of his request- spaghetti, strawberries, bread and salad.  And of course, cake too.

It really is hard to believe that our second born is already seven years old!!!  He is such a smart, sweet, kind hearted, funny boy!  He is so very creative and constantly amazes us with his artwork and "paper creations."

It was nice to have a break from the sadness we've all been experiencing, while planning for Aidan's party.

He requested a Spiderman theme and invited friends from school, and baseball as well as family and longtime friends.  It was a great group and the kids (and adults) seemed to have a good time.

 There were chocolate and vanilla cupcakes...

Lots of Spiderman decorations....

 even a Spiderman web complete with Spiderman balloons (I have to admit I was pretty proud of myself on this one)

Jackson and Aidan trying to guess what was in the growing pile of presents.

 It was a BEAUTIFUL day for a party!

 All the Spiderkids lined up for a picture.

 Getting ready for cupcakes and ice cream

 Is it time for presents yet??

 Aidan was so excited to have received Skylanders for the Wii!  It's actually a really cool game.

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After all the kids had gone home, the boys thought it would be a good idea to send some balloons up to their sister in heaven.  We are so blessed to have boys with such tender hearts!

 Getting ready to launch.....

Up, up and away!  We miss you baby girl!  Thinking of you always.

A Momentary Break from the Sadness....

The other night, I heard a sound coming from upstairs.  When I asked the boys what it was, Cole responded that he was working on his beatboxing skills.  I asked him to come downstairs so that I would be able to hear it more clearly.  I caught him on video showing us his talents, and also managed to capture Aidan's "talent" as well.....

"Someday" is not Good Enough Today.

4/19/2012        8:46 a.m

Dear Brynna,

I miss you.  There really are no other words than that.  I miss you. 

The past several days my arms have been aching again with how empty they are.  I want so badly to hold you close to me.  I want so badly to feel your soft, baby skin and smell your sweet, baby smell.

I miss you.

The missing you never stops.  Ever.  It is heartbreaking.

Why did it have to happen this way?  How could it have happened this way?  How can a family that wanted a baby so deeply, be made to suffer this way?

I know in my heart that this is not the end.  I know we will see you again some day.  But today, “someday” is not good enough.  Today, I need to see you now.

I need to know what you would look like at nearly 6 months old.  I need to know what color your eyes are, and what your voice sounds like.  I need to see you smile.  I need to know that you are okay.  I need you to know how loved you are.

Two days ago was your brother Aidan’s birthday.  He turned 7!!  His birthday party is this Sunday and there stand to be a lot of people here.  On the night of his actual birthday, though, we had a family dinner just the five of us.  After dinner we had birthday cake.  When Aidan went to blow out his candles he said, “I wish the wishes you make when you blow out candles really came true, because I would wish only for Brynn to be back with us now.”

Me too. 

I’ve never wished, hoped, prayed for something more in my life.  I would give anything to trade places with you, and give you the chance to grow up in this wonderful family.

I miss you, sweet baby girl.  I love you too.  More than you will ever know.

Love,

Momma