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.