Goodbye 2012

Man, do I wish I was still sitting in Jamaica, on the beach, drink in hand, in the lovely company of my wonderful husband, with not a worry in the world.  Not a bad way to end a hellish year. 

It is with absolutely no hesitation that I say, goodbye and good riddance 2012.

Dear 2013, please go easy on me.  I'm not sure I can take any more heartache. 

Vacation Eve

Christmas has taken on such a different meaning for us this year.  I remember the excitement and anticipation that typically surrounded Christmas as a child.  It was so fun and exciting and carefree then.  Just presents and Santa and family and food and fun.  But as I've gotten older, Christmas has changed.  The stress of buying gifts for everyone on my list, scrambling around and getting just the right thing, rushing to make an appearance at all of the parties and celebrations.  Much of the original meaning began to slowly diminish.   The gifts, although fun to give and receive, are not what's important.  What's important is family and spending time with those you love the most.  It's an interesting paradox this year.  Christmas is about family more than ever, yet here we are preparing to celebrate this holiday in the absence of both of our families.  Our idea of family has changed this year.  We are our own little family.  We always have been, but never has that been more clear than this year, the year we both expanded and then shrunk back down again.  For 9 months, there were three.  And now, we are back to two.  I don't quite know how to make sense of that, and Christmas this year serves as a solemn reminder of the major transitions that have happened within our own small family. 

For the first time in my entire life, I've been a Scrooge about the holidays this year.  Up until pretty recently, I didn't want to put up a tree, decorate, attend any Christmas parties, or even acknowledge this holiday, the first major milestone of many without our sweet daughter.  All of that changed when we started receiving some wonderfully thoughtful gifts from those close to us, a few of which are ornaments.  About two weeks ago, we decided to drag out our little Charlie Brown fake Christmas tree and decorate it with ornaments from our own childhoods, along with ornaments and gifts given to us for Virginia.  Here are a few pics:

 "The ones we love never truly leave us"

Tomorrow, we leave for the Caribbean, so I'll be off the grid for awhile.  Five days of sun, relaxation, and no worries.  Ya, mon. 

During the holidays this year, please remember to cherish each moment with those close to you.  Hold them close, tell them how you feel about them.  Be present in that moment and try not to get caught up in the chaos and stress.  And if you get a moment, say a little prayer for us and for others who find themselves struggling during this time of year. 

Merry Christmas to you all. 

Love and light,

The Upward and Downward Spiral

CS Lewis compares losing someone close to you to amputation of a limb.  Losing an arm or a leg doesn't kill you.  Physically, you can live without either.  Eventually, you learn to walk again, to smile again, to become a functioning human being again.  But the disability is always there.  The sadness is like an elephant on your back.  An invisible elephant.  Even though you look on the outside like an invidual who's returned to a normal level of functioning, you're still that person with a missing body part.  There is no "back to normal".  I ran across this quote online over the weekend and it really hit home with me.  I wake up many days and in that moment in between sleep and consciousness, I forget for a minute that Virginia's death is my reality.  This is not a nightmare, this is my life.  And that fact just keeps sinking in over and over, and the grief feels incredibly fresh, as raw as it felt in that first few minutes after we lost her.  Today is one of those days. 

For in grief, nothing "stays put".  One keeps emerging from a phase, but it always recurs.  Round and round.  Everything repeats.  Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am in a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often--will it be for always?--how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, "I never realized my loss until this moment"?  The same leg is cut off time after time. 

~CS Lewis, "A Grief Observed"

Dear Virginia (The Four Month Letter)

I have been writing Virginia letters ever since about a week after we lost her.  I wrote furiously during that first few weeks, as every moment and smell and the feel of her little body in my arms was so fresh in my head.  I was (and still am) so worried that if I didn't get it all written down right away, somehow I'd forget.  Memories are all I have, and once those start to fade, there is very little left to legitimize her existence here.  I think a lot about aging and the toll that getting older takes on our minds and memories.  It hits very close to home with me because of a family member who's struggling with dementia.  Although it's likely still many, many years off for me, I dread the time when my brain reaches the point where my memories fade and the black hole of nothingness takes over.  So many incredible individuals leave this world with their mind gone, and their body but a frail, sad shell of what it once was.  I've always been of the mindset that our body is nothing but a capsule.  It's exposed to the elements, the weather, and, if we're lucky, many, many years of hard use and even abuse.  But the mind is something different altogether.  If our mind starts to go, what do all of the memories we've made even mean?  What does any of this mean?  These are the kinds of philosophical questions I ponder when I lie awake at night. 

But I digress.  What I was wanting to convey is that I've almost filled up an entire notebook of feelings and thoughts over the last 4+ months.  I've written several letters to Virginia, most of which are far too personal for me to share here.  However, as the time between journal entries and letters becomes fewer and farther between, I decided it was time to share this sentiment with you all, as this provides a little more insight into what my life looks like now that some time has passed and we've started to integrate Virginia's loss into our "new normal".   


Dear Virginia,

It's hard to believe that we've survived four months, including Halloween and Thanksgiving, without you.  Halloween was particularly difficult.  The holiday is such a paradox, somehow merging two seemingly opposite themes.  Death and celebration.  All things scary, gory horrific.  And yet we teach kids that this is also a time to dress up and collect candy.  It's such a strange, conflicting holiday.  The mix of emotions I felt that day was confusing as well.  Sadness, anger, anticipation, nervousness, anxiety, the list goes on and on.  We attempted to get away from the holiday hoopla by going out to dinner and getting out of our very family-oriented neighborhood for a few hours.  But even at the restaurants, we couldn't escape the families and kids and excitement.  Right next to us, a family was seated with a toddler all dressed up.  Although your dad and I never discussed it, I know we were both thinking the same thing.  We were thinking about you.  What would we have dressed you up as?  What would you want to be when you were old enough to pick out your own costume?  It's so difficult knowing that we have so many more holidays without you ahead of us.  These questions about the "what-if's" and the "could-have-been's" will always go unanswered. 

Thanksgiving brought with it less emotional confusion.  I suspect this is because this holiday is slightly less children-centered.  We traveled to Montana to spend the holiday with Mommy's family.  It was a hard day.  A sad day.  The only bright spot in my day came when I was able to sit down and talk with your Great Grandma Ginny (your namesake!).  Mommy's family did a great job of talking with us, supporting us, letting us know that they miss you too.  But the day just felt depressing.  The feelings of glaring emptiness were obvious among most of the extended family.  I struggled with finding anything to be thankful for this year because between losing you and all of the other struggles our families have faced, this was not a year of happiness and celebration.  2012 has been the year of heartache and struggles. 

We are headed to Jamaica in less than one week for Christmas.  We needed to do something different this year.  I think your dad and I both fully understand that we cannot run away from all of this, from our feelings about being a family of three with just the two of us.  But we need to not feel obligated to do the usual Christmas things this year.  We need to not have to pretend to be ok about facing this huge milestone without you.  We are not ok.  The fact that you're not here is not ok.  And having to put on a happy face and gut through a traditional Christmas would not be good for us or anyone else we'd be spending time with on Christmas.  We are getting away this year for us, to remember you in a way that honors the missing piece in our lives.  Participating in a celebration similar to years past feels too much like pretending you never existed. 

Today marks 18 weeks without you.  I cannot fathom how we've gotten to this point.  Much of this journey has felt like a blur.  We have somehow continued to put one foot in front of the other to get through each day.  At times, I've allowed myself to crumble, to feel the heaviness of each step, how painful moving forward without you can be (some days, I've allowed that feeling to settle in, and I stopped trying to fight it).  Time always keeps ticking along.  Seconds have turned into minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, then weeks.  Soon we will be marking the time in months.  Eventually, we will mark the time in years.  But regardless of how long we've been without you, we will always, ALWAYS carry you with us. 

Mommy loves you, Sweet Virginia. 

A Straggler

I know we are well into December now, but the events of today made me want to revisit November's theme of being grateful.  So consider this post a straggler, an add-on to November's gratitude series.  As I was skimming the bimonthly newsletter put out by the organization that facilitates the infant loss support groups we've been attending, I ran across something that made me burst into tears.  Happy tears.  But big, ugly ones none the less.  The last page of every newsletter is dedicated to recognizing the donors that have sent a "love gift", or donation in memory of a specific baby or family.  I was utterly shocked to see what's pictured below.  Cue huge bawlfest at my desk.

(Please excuse the poor photo editing)

Grateful does not begin to describe my feelings toward the wonderful, caring individuals who did this for us.  I am at a loss for words.  Somehow, almost 4 months after losing Virginia, we still continue to be humbled by the kindness, generosity, and compassion of others.  We have a handful of people who continue to check in with us and send thoughtful emails and texts on a regular basis.  People are still taking time, energy, and even money to do things in memory of Virginia (including checking in on her parents and making sure they're ok).  That is unbelievable to me.  So to those who made this donation, and to those who continue to show unconditional support and love, please know that we appreciate you and we are grateful to have you in our lives. 

Love and light.



Gratitude Project Post #6

Just for Today

Just for today I will try to live through the next 24 hours

and not expect to get over my child's death,

but instead learn to live with it, just one day at a time.

Just for today I will remember my child's life,
not just her death,

and bask in the comfort of all those treasured days and moments we shared.

Just for today I will forgive all the family and friends
who didn't help or comfort me the way I needed them to.

They truly did not know how.

Just for today I will smile no matter how much I hurt on the inside,

for maybe if I smile a little, my heart will soften and I will begin to heal.

Just for today I will reach out to comfort a relative or friend of my child,

for they are hurting too, and perhaps we can help each other.

Just for today I will free myself from my self-inflicted burden of guilt,

for deep in my heart I know if there was anything in this world I could have done to save my child from death,

I would have done it.

Just for today I will offer my hand in friendship to another bereaved parent,

for I do know how they feel.

Just for today when my heart feels like breaking,

I will stop and remember that grief is the price we pay for loving, and the only reason I hurt is because

I had the privilege of loving so much

Just for today I will not compare myself with others.

I am fortunate to be who I am, and have had my child for as long as I did.

Just for today I will allow myself to be happy,

for I know that I am not deserting her by living on.

Just for today I will accept that I did not die when my child did, my life did go on,

and I am the only one who can make that life worthwhile once more.

~Vicki Tushingham

I've come across many poems, songs, and quotes about loss over the past few months, some of which spoke to me more than others. The one below resonates with me on several levels. It's become a prayer of sorts that I read on a regular basis, and often find myself reciting parts of in my head.  The bolded section is one that's been on my mind a lot lately, as I crawl out of the deep, dark hole that is early grief.  Moving on with life is bittersweet.  I've read about how baby loss moms struggle with moving past the intial, deep grief, toward a higher level of functioning.  I can see why.  We don't have those concrete memories of time spent together that most people have when they lose a loved one.  Sure, we have those months with that baby growing in our bellies, but we were just getting to know that little life when it was so quickly ripped away.  The grief, no matter how lonely and sad, is all we have.  Returning to a state of higher functioning feels like beytrayal, like moving away from the only connection we have left.  Sure, we eventually smile and laugh and enjoy life again.  But with the return of those happy feelings comes guilt.  Those conflicting thoughts and emotions are confusing.  Just like so many other parts of this experience, I don't have the answers.  I can't sort out my feelings (or actions even) in any way that makes any logical sense.  The emotions just are. 

Today I am grateful for the return of certain parts of myself that I feared had gone missing forever.  I've found myself doing lots of exploring with my new, fancy camera lately (the camera we orignally bought in June for the purpose of documenting Virginia's babyhood and childhood).  I've always enjoyed photography (I think it runs in the family).  A few weeks ago, I went to a park in East Sacramento with a friend to walk and talk and enjoy some fresh air.  I brought my camera along and was able to take some pictures of the rose garden in the park, as well as my friend Julie's adorable dog, Sadie.  I left that day with a smile on my face.  It feels good to have a part of me back, even if only for an afternoon. 

Gratitude Project Post #5

I've come to realize over the last few months that successes can be small.  Tiny.  Minuscule, even.  I guess I'd call this Thanksgiving a success.  I made it through the day.  And it was not nearly as bad as I had anticipated.  It was even tolerable, thanks to the support of friends and family.  But there was something huge missing.  There was supposed to be 3 month-old in my arms.  She was supposed to be meeting her great grandparents for the first time.  She was supposed to be taking her first trip to Montana.  We were supposed to be thankful for this miraculous bundle of joy.  The holidays will forever feel empty without her.  Sure, we will celebrate and enjoy holidays with our future children, but there will also always be something missing.

This is where I am today.  Thanksgiving has come and passed.  And just as we have over the last 15 weeks, somehow, we survived.  That's something to be thankful for, right? 

Grandma Ginny and I.  Thanksgiving 2012

Gratitude Project Post #4

I'm kind of a music junkie.  If it wasn't evident from my previous post in October about all of the songs that remind me of Virginia, I'll say it again.  I am constantly amazed by how certain songs seem to be able to portray exactly how I'm feeling at different points in my life, through both the struggles and triumphs.  So what I'm grateful for today is the power of music.  One of my oldest girlfriends sent me this song, and I wanted to pass it along to you all.  Enjoy. 

Gratitude Project Post #3

Over the last few days, I've been battling an internal struggle.  How is it possible that we could have anything in our lives to be grateful for after losing our daughter?  This just goes to show how up and down the grieving process can be.  I am often able to look at our experience and appreciate the ways our lives have changed for the better because of what we've been through.  But that's not where I'm at right now.  In fact, it's been almost a week since I last felt like that. 

Our lives have done a 180 over the last 13 weeks.  Everything in our lives has changed.  Every single thing.  Work feels eerily similar, yet completely different at the same time.  Our marriage has changed.  We have lost friends.  We have gained friends.  Even our house has a different feel to it.  It's so unfair that, not only do we have to mourn the loss of our daughter, but we also have to deal with all of the changes that accompany loss.  It's like someone takes your life and flips it completely on its head, and then, as the dust settles, you realize that nothing will ever been the same.  There is no way to pick up all of the pieces and put them together exactly as they were before.  Maybe you can come close, but now there are things that just don't quite "fit".  We may look the same from the outside, our lives look the same from the outside, yet we are totally different people now.  We will never go back to being who we were before.  In some ways, this is terribly sad.  But at the same time, we have a unique perspective now.  We are able to let the insignificant, petty aspects of our lives fall away.  We realize how short and fleeting life is, and how little time there is for things that don't bring us peace or joy or fulfillment.  We have a daughter who is always watching us, who we want to our live for.  We feel compelled to live our lives to the fullest, in honor of our daughter who will never have a chance to.  We appreciate the little things, like quiet time spent alone, a long walk with the dog, the beauty of nature. 

My love affair with sunsets continues.  Today, even as I struggle to find the positive in this heap of crap in which we've landed, I am grateful for the beautiful skyscapes.  On those days, like today, the deep ache in my stomach hurts so bad I can barely eat, and my arms feel both heavy and incredibly empty at the same time.  But when I look up at the sky and see something so wonderfully beautiful, I know that is a gift from my little girl, her way of saying, "Mommy, don't be sad.  I'm here with you every day."

Gratitude Project Post #2

I've been pondering this post for the last few days, going round and round about where to start.  There's no eloquent way to say this, but today I'm reflecting on how grateful I am that other women have been through this before me.  Allow me to explain. 

I hate the fact that there are so many women in this world who have had to walk this path that I now find myself on.  It's not fair that so many others have felt this deep, searing pain of losing a baby that they barely had a chance to know.  Nobody should ever have to say hello and goodbye to their baby in the span of hours.  Or go to the hospital intending to hear a healthy heartbeat, only to leave with nothing but empty arms, a broken heart, and a box full of stuff.  But I am grateful that others have walked this road before me, and can serve as sources of hope and inspiration. In some of my darkest times, when I have been reduced to a weeping puddle of nothing, the only thing that's been able to pull me out of that abyss is the comforting words of another baby loss mom.  Some I communicate with via email, telephone, or the internet.  Some I've never actually communicated with directly (I've only read their blog).  In fact, I've spent many sleepless nights reading the blogs of women who have been so brave as to write deeply personal, touching posts about their own grief journeys.  These women have no idea how profound their words are to me.  I wish I could write individual thank-you notes to each and every one of them. 

It's not that any of these women have the magic combination of words that can suddenly make everything better.  Sometimes the best words to hear are, "I know it hurts right now.  You will always miss your baby, but it won't always hurt this bad."  For now, I have to have faith that they are speaking the truth.  I have to have hope for the future, that there will be better and brighter days ahead.  And in the meantime, I will count my blessings and be thankful that, although I find myself living in every parent's worst nightmare, at least I'm in good company. 

If you are one of those women who has cried with me over the loss of our babies, and has held my hand (either physically or virtually) and offered words of encouragement throughout my grief process, THANK YOU.  Sincerely. 

The Gratitude Project

I've seen several blog writers participating in a projects which revolve around giving thanks during the month of November.  After having spent the last month discussing nothing but grief and sadness, I feel like it would be good to switch gears for the month of November, and do some posts on the many blessings in our lives that we have to be thankful for.  I don't know if I have the stamina to post every single day, but I'm going to try to create some posts that discuss the many things that we have to be thankful for (some of which have arisen out of losing our daughter). 

So here we go, post #1 of the Gratitude Project. 

Today, I am thankful for the newfound simplicity in my life.  Over the last few weeks, I've done a lot of emotional "housecleaning", taking stock of what I have in my life that's just not working for me anymore.  I have enough in my life that brings me down.  I have enough heartache, sadness, and grief.   I have no more mental space for anything that no longer brings me happiness or joy.  I've learned so much about myself throughout my grief process.  I've learned that it's okay to be selfish.  I've learned to be gentle and let myself off the hook.  I've learned that I can let others off the hook as well, because not everyone in my life is going to be able to give me what I need right now, and that's ok.  I've learned to not take things so personally.  And you know what?  I feel good.  I feel like I'm living again, rather than just existing.  The grief is still there, waiting in the shadows to sneak up on me when I'm least expecting it.  But I have more good days than bad lately, and I think a large part of that has to do with letting go of the excess and simplifying, getting rid of the BS.  And I truthfully don't think I would have been brought to this point if we hadn't lost Virginia.  So I have her to thank for showing me what's really important.  I am so grateful for that. 

Day 31: Sunset

Day 31: Sunset

Capture Your Grief Project

The Capture Your Grief project concludes with a sunset picture.  October 31st was a cloudy, overcast, yucky day here, and I was not really in the mood to be out of the house at that time of day, being that 10/31 is also Halloween.  So I decided to post the above picture instead, of Pat and I in Ventura Beach a few years ago.  I look back on older pictures now and wonder how we could've been so naive.  What if we had known the pain and hardship that we would face down the road?   Would we have done anything differently?  Some days I start spinning, thinking about all of the what-if's.  Maybe if I had done one small thing differently, my life would have taken a different trajectory and Virginia would be here with us.  Maybe if I had waited to get pregnant...  Maybe if I didn't eat so much sugar while I was pregnant...  Maybe if I hadn't exercised as much...  Maybe if I had gotten a 4-d ultrasound... 

But then I think about what my therapist said during our first appointment with her: we trick ourselves into thinking that we have control over every aspect of our lives.  We are so mistaken.  The most important things in life are those that we have absolutely no control over.  We can control so much: our education, our jobs, our finances, our relationships, the accumulation of all the material crap that we deem as important.  But we can't control life and death.  Realizing that is both liberating and terrifying. 

I'm not sure how I got off on such a tangent, or what any of this has to do with sunsets.  So kudos to you if you were able to stay with me for this entire post.  I'm so grateful I participated in this project and was able to share some of our grief journey with you all.  And to those of you who have commented on enjoying reading the blog, thank you.  Thank you for continuing to think about us and pray for us.  Thank you for being respectful of this place, this tiny corner of the internet that I've used to share some of my most personal thoughts and feelings.  Your support has meant so much to both of us. 

Coming soon, a new project for the month of November.  Stay tuned. 

Day 30: Tell the World

Day 30: Tell the World

Capture Your Grief Project

What do I want the world to know about my grief? 

That I know very few people have been through what I have, but I can't walk this road alone. 

That, although it's been almost 3 months, people still think about her and remember her. 

That silence is deafening.

That I would rather have you put yourself out there and risk saying the "wrong" thing (as if there is a "right" thing), rather than avoiding me altogether.

Just say something.

Day 29: Music

Day 29: Music

Capture Your Grief Project

I've always been a person who deeply connects with music.  Throughout different trials and tribulations in my life, I've found that music somehow has a way of "finding" me; certain songs come on the radio and speak to me in such profound ways.  So it was hard for me to pick just one song for this topic.  Instead, I've picked a few that are really meaningful to me. 

For the days I feel angry:

Offspring "Gone Away"

"I reach to the sky and call out your name.  And if I could trade, I would.  And it feels, it feels like heaven's so far away.  And it feels, it feels like the world is so cold now that you've gone away."

For the days I'm just missing her, missing being pregnant, missing her physical presence (I have yet to listen to this song without breaking into uncontrollable sobs).  I would give anything to go back to the start.  Anything.

Colplay "The Scientist"

"Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part.  Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be so hard.  Oh, take me back to the start."

For the days I'm struggling with my faith, desperately searching for answers in all of this (I've had a lot of those days lately):

Rufus Wainwright "Hallelujah"

"Maybe there's a God above, and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.  And its not a cry you can hear at night, its not somebody who's seen the light, its a cold and its a broken Hallelujah."

This song will ALWAYS remind me of her (most of the time I can smile when I hear it, other times it makes me incredibly sad):

Adele "To Make You Feel My Love"

"I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.  Nothing that I wouldn't do, go to the ends of the Earth for you, to make you feel my love."

Day 28: Memory

Day 28: Memory

Capture Your Grief Project

This is my grandmother Virginia (Grandma Ginny for short).  She is Virginia's namesake.  She's an incredibly strong, brave, independent woman who has always been a role model for me.  I have so many wonderful childhood memories connected with Grandma Ginny: sleepovers at her house, eating her delicious Macaroni and Cheese, doing ceramics projects in her basement.  I'm so glad we could honor her by naming our sweet girl after her.  Even though things didn't work out as we had hoped, I am still glad my Grandma Ginny got to "meet" her great granddaughter Virginia (even if only through my belly). 

Day 27: Artwork

Day 27: Artwork

Capture Your Grief Project

I have found a lot of solace in embarking on some new creative endeavors since we lost Virginia.  I've never thought of myself as an artistic person at all.  But I've heard from several people that intense grief can be a good catalyst for creativity.  My theory is that the creative part of the brain becomes more active as a defense mechanism after trauma or loss.  The brain allows us to feel different emotions throughout grief (sadness, anger, numbness) as a means to shielding us from feeling nothing but intense despair all the time (otherwise, none of us would recover from falling into what seems like an endless black hole).  Similarly, I think that having a creative outlet serves as a means to release some of those emotions, even for those of us who wouldn't consider ourselves artistic individuals. 

I've done quite a bit of painting, beading, and playing my guitar lately.  I typically turn on the Pandora lullaby station, set myself up with a cup of hot tea or a glass of red wine, and just let those creative juices flow.  Sometimes this process is accompanied with crying (even screaming), but I've noticed that I always feel better afterward.  As far as the artwork goes, I don't share much of what I've done with anyone (even Pat).  I don't paint because I'm hoping to create some masterpiece; I paint because of the release of emotions that occurs.  It's a beautiful, sacred, intense process. 

The painting above is from our first art therapy session with our therapist about a month after Virginia was born.  She asked us to paint something that was representative of how we see our daughter's presence in our life: past, present, or future.  This is my painting, and I'd rather not get into the interpretation of what it all means, because that's a little more personal than I'm willing to share right now (and it's probably pretty obvious anyway).  The title of this painting is "Everywhere". 

Day 26: Age

Day 26: Age

Capture Your Grief Project

We have no way of knowing exactly when Virginia died.  From what my doctor said, it could have been anywhere from 24-48 hours before she was born.  

I wish that I would have spent more time with my hands on my stomach, eyes closed, being fully present in those moments and taking in what that sensation felt like.  It seems like another life now.  I wish I would have cherished that time with her more.  I wish I would have known that feeling her move in me would be the only time I'd have with her while she was living.  If so, I would have done things so.much.differently. 

When we arrived at the hospital for my routine monitoring the morning we found out she didn't have a heartbeat, I could not truthfully remember when I had last felt her move, or what that last movement felt like.  Was it a jab?  A punch?  A kick?  A roll?  I don't know.  Not having that distinct memory will always, ALWAYS haunt me. 

Day 25: Baby Shower

Day 25: Baby Shower

Capture Your Grief Project

I'm not a huge fan of baby showers (or showers in general for that matter).  So much so, that when one of my girlfriends here in CA offered to throw me one, I politely declined.  However I did want an opportunity to get together with my close friends and family in Montana to celebrate the upcoming arrival of our "Baby G".  My mom and friend Abby threw a perfect little informal party--no games, nothing cheesy or overly "babyish".  Just a small gathering of some of the most important women in my life.  It was a perfect day. 

Day 24: Siblings

Day 24: Siblings

Capture Your Grief Project

Our siblings.  When Virginia was born, 3 of them became uncles, and 1 became an aunt.  I am so honored that our daughter was able to give them that gift.  ((By the way, can you tell who the "special" uncle is??))

Day 23: Something Yummy

Day 23: Something Yummy

Capture Your Grief Project

I’m taking a cue from a fellow baby loss mom and taking a break from all of the heavy stuff today to post something a little different.  Something that has absolutely nothing to do with my grief.  Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale.  Yummm.  Virginia would want her mommy to continue enjoying a good microbrew every now and then, no?  ;)

Day 22: A Reminder

Day 22: A Reminder

Capture Your Grief Project

 

Today I had one of those moments where the grief hit hard and out of the blue (I’ve had several people tell me that I would have times where this would happen, but up until now I’ve been able to keep my composure at work and in public settings, for the most part). I was at work this morning, and all of a sudden, from the other side of the cubicle came the sound of Brahm's Lullaby (as it turned out, one of the employees in the Early Childhood Education Dept was replacing the batteries on a toy). Immediately, I panicked. Insert knife in heart. Twist.  Repeat. 

This is the song they play at the hospital whenever babies are born. I remember being at the hospital for twice weekly monitoring in the month leading up to Virginia's birth thinking, "Someday soon, they'll be playing this for my baby." This song was never played when Virginia was born. As it turns out, the hospital administrators have decided that this special ritual is reserved for those babies who are born alive. Yet another part of this experience that we were deprived of.

I really struggled with regaining control of my emotions, but somehow, I managed to avoid going into a full-blown panic attack. I think part of that had to do with the fact that there was a coworker there with me who saw what was happening, and, God bless her, found the person in charge of the suspect toy and told him to please turn the music off. She took me into a quiet room, and I explained to her why hearing that song feels like a punch in the gut. Her response was that Virginia knew that I needed to hear it. We see signs all the time that she is still here with us, even if only in spirit. And today, she was there with me.

Day 21: Altar/Shine/Sacred Space

Day 21: Altar/Shrine/Sacred Space
Capture Your Grief Project

We have too many sacred spaces to choose just one.  Virginia's nursery, in all of its messy glory, is probably where I feel the most connected to her.  But we also have a few shelves in our living room dedicated to pictures and mementos, as well as a rose bush right outside her bedroom window that was given to us by my coworkers (and I've somehow managed to keep it alive and blooming!). 

Day 20: Charity/Organization

Day 20: Charity/Organization

Capture Your Grief Project

There are two organizations I'd like to recognize:

Sharing Parents has been a lifesaver for us.  They are a local, completely volunteer-run nonprofit that provides support to families who have experienced pregnancy or infant loss.  They put on a memorial service every year, and also facilitate support groups and short-term grief groups (both of which we have attended).  This organization has connected us with other baby loss parents, a few of whom have become good friends to us in this short amount of time that we've been a part of this community.  We always talk about how we are members of a club that no parent wants to be a part of, but for some reason, we were chosen to take this journey.  And because of Sharing Parents, we don't have to walk this difficult road alone. 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep is another organization that does incredible things for grieving parents.  NILMDTS collaborates with hospitals to provide professional photography services to parents who have lost a child prior to, during, or shortly after birth.  The photos of Virginia that were taken by the volunteer photographer from NILMDTS are an incredible reminder of the gift that Virginia was to us, in all of her perfect beauty.  We will forever be indebted to NILMDTS for the gift that they have given us.   

So with that in mind, I'd invite you all, if you feel so inclined, to make a donation to one or both of these organizations in Virginia's name.  These nonprofits depend largely on private donations to provide these valuable services to grieving parents, so every little bit helps.  We have made small donations ourselves, and will continue to in the future, so as to give other parents the opportunity to receive the same supports.  We are so blessed to have been connected with Sharing Parents and NILMDTS.

 

Day 19: Project

Day 19: Project 

Capture Your Grief Project

Virginia's baby book.  This has been weeks in the making, and will likely take a few more months for me to finish.  But it's nice to have a way to channel all of this nurturing energy and pride I have for my daughter.  Her short little life has greatly impacted more people that I could have ever imagined.  What a gift.