the last time i went through loss and bereavement, it was for losing a grandparent. it’s tough, but at the very least, you kind of digest it a bit more immediately as a fact of life, especially as they grow older.
this year, it’s tougher. it’s tougher when you lose someone closer to you. it’s tougher when you don’t expect it. it’s tougher because even though your mind and heart tells you that given the illness she suffered, she’s in a better place now.
but it’s hard. it’s hard when you’ve got so much to share. it’s hard when you’ve realized so many things, but you can’t apply what you’ve learned because it’s too late.
i think i’ve been able to move on from the fact that you’re no longer with us dear sister. the only thing i really haven’t been able to get over is wishing that you were here for all the good things that has happened since then – i know you are, quietly watching over us, we may not feel or notice it, but i know you do. i know that every good thing we got going for all of us is you letting us know that you’ve got our backs, things like that.
i miss you, anna.
we remember you today, but frankly, we don’t need a day like today to remember. we think of you a lot. on good days to smile and laugh about and celebrate. on bad days to forget and just know that we’re not alone in having bad days.
“she is dead. you are alive. so live.”
easier said than done, Morpheus. But i’ll keep trying.
P.S. – I decided to make things a little brighter in here. Anyway. Not like anyone would notice.
Dearest Hannah Rose,
Twenty days ago, you were born – while no one ever remembers themselves being born into this world, I hope that when you get to read this, it helps you learn about this very special day – I’d prefer that you hear it from my lips, with all the feelings that went along with every moment we had; this is here, so that in case you want to keep coming back and read about it, you’ll know where to go, and you know that I wrote it down not just for me, but also for you. But I would really prefer to be the one to tell you.
Tell you how I broke into tears as I heard your first cry, and how your mother shed tears when your nurse put you on top of her chest to be with you for the first time.
Tell you how worried we were that you had to be taken into the NICU due to respiratory distress, despite the best attempts of your nurses to tell us that it was purely for precautionary reasons to help you acclimatize to your new surroundings.
Tell you how painful it was for me to watch them try and put in IV lines on your hands and feet, and how painful your cries were at each attempt.
Tell you how each visit your mother and I had to your room at the NICU gave us the perspective of how lucky we were that you only needed a few hours there, seeing how dire and precarious the conditions of other newborns in the NICU were.
Tell you how each and every doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist, and support staff cared for you and helped us be prepared to take care of you when you were finally brought out of the NICU and over to our postpartum room.
I’ll do my best to hold on to the details of this special, special day – the day you made our family complete.
This was the day that your mother and I fell in love again – we loved you from the very moment we knew we were going to have you, but that love takes off to a whole different level when you’re there for us to have and hold.
P.S. – Thank you, Kaiser Permanente, for preparing us for the whole childbirth experience – for preparing me enough in your classes to be in that room the whole time, to be able to hold my wife’s hand with every contraction, count up her pushes with every contraction, see the slow but steady progress of our little one come into our world, and to cut the cord.
I’ll always be thankful for this experience as I know it further enriches our marriage, being the one there for my beautiful one in her time of pain, to help her manage her anxiety and fears. I truly believe that my right to be called a father was earned not just during our little one’s creation, or in our child’s care after birth, but in the whole process being my wife’s support during pregnancy, preparation for delivery, actual delivery and postpartum. To be a father and a husband means to care for both mother and child and not just provide for them materially.
I’ve felt your hiccups. I’ve chased your hand all over Moomie’s tummy, with my lips. I’ve put my ear on her belly and heard that sweet, pulsing sound of your heart beating. I’ve read aloud stories to you and felt your kicks of approval. We played some of the songs we love and felt either your thumb stick up or down. I’ve played some songs on the guitar that you got wild about. I’ve told you a few things about your late aunt, saving some more for when you’re here with us.
I learned a few things along the way – putting a crib together and gambling that Amazon’s definition of “extra crib screws” would fit the crib we inherited from your cousin Kaelyn when I lost the screws that came with it; moving our heavy mattress to make room for your crib; installing a car seat base on our reliable Swan (our 06 white Accord, because all the two cars I’ve owned have been named after Jennifer Morrison characters); taking the fabric parts out of the car seat and the Pack-N-Play bassinet so they can go into the washing machine so you can sleep on clean sheets when we take you home; make space in our horribly cluttered hall closet (damn proud of the finished product); massage Moomie’s feet and legs as you grew in her belly, as we come home from nearly nightly walks to help her manage her GD.
The last 34 weeks have seen a mix of ups and downs. More ups than downs, with the downs really tough to swallow and get over. But knowing you’ll be coming around soon makes each and every down worth trudging and powering through. Knowing you’re going to be our pride and joy makes every single thing wrong with the world worth fighting against so you can live in a world less wrong than the one we lived in. Knowing you’ll be here makes us want to take the chances we used to never entertain because you’re worth every chance and risk.
I think I’ve learned so much about life in the past 34 weeks, my love. Maybe not as much as Moomie, as she was just a machine about learning all about what would be best for you and it’s hard to keep up. I won’t be perfect, but I’ll make sure I’m only yours. Well, yours and Moomie’s. I know there are at most 6 more weeks to go, but I am already so excited to welcome you to our crazy, beautiful world, Hannah Rose.
i’ll never see you again in the flesh, but i know i’ll see you in my dreams. and i’ve been hoping just to catch a glimpse of you in my dreams, just to see if you’re ever able to hear or listen to the things my heart wishes for.
and i did today, just for a moment. it seemed like a family dinner of sorts, and there you were, in a blue floral pajama top with a pink glove on your left hand, just looking pensive, even seeming to be just looking at what’s going on around you.
until i called for a waiter to ask for a drink. maybe for me. maybe for us.
then he started asking questions. what was this gathering for? what were we celebrating?
i did not remember what I answered, but suddenly he asked me who was it in the room who passed away? and then my look went to your direction and at the same time you slowly faded away (no, not like in The Avengers: Infinity War – please stop) and your seat at the table was empty. And right about then I slowly feel a tight embrace from behind. maybe it was the waiter trying to take me, or maybe it was you trying to protect me from anyway harmful.
when i woke, there was a smile in my lips. you knew what was in my heart.
because if there was one other place i knew where i could see you and still be alive. it was in dreams.