That kind of joy

And still, it seems, I don't have much to say. Of course I do it is just a matter of how to phrase it. For the joy of Emma seems to have transformed. It used to come in a well timed breeze, a knowing look, a song on the radio, a creative moment. She still does, arrive in these intangible ways, yet there is more.

For the longest time I intentionally separated her potential being from the two other vibrant ones skipping through my home. It was a habit, I think, begun over seven years ago when a lab tech said the three words I desparetly didn't want to hear; "It's a girl"! His face radiated good news. My brain immediately began it's training: You will not compare. You will not wonder. You will not saddle this girl with the ghost of her sister. You will not project unknown expectations. You will not. You can not. How could I not?

I spent years fighting mind-spinning urges, like smoke as it entwines with itself, creating yet another stream, another answerless possibility. I beat the ideas away, inwardly chanting She is her own person. She is her own person.

If I went down that road I wouldn't be able to stop. If I allowed the train of thought my journey would cease to be in the present. A single, I wonder if... would have launched me back to a hot summer night when my labor cries failed to produce the same from my baby.

Her nose. Were they the same? Her fingers. Were they long like Emma's? From there, it would only have been a quick and seamless leap to her temprament. Did they share a love of 'aloneness', needing only to be swaddled tightly and placed in her crib to put themselves to sleep? And on, and on, I would have gone.

That road, that dangerous trecherous road was one I knew I could not walk. So I didn't. It was self-preservation. And yet, I did myself a disservice. By setting that roadblock I masked the ability to see that Emma and her sisters may have shared traits while still maintaining their indiviuality. Alive or dead, this is the truth.

Moreover, by refusing walk on paths thay may intersect Bear's joy's were isolated as were Comedian's, as Emma's contined to be etherial, intangible, mine.

As of late this has shifted. Without a conscious effort I've noticed how she lives within them, within their play, their moments of elation, and in their tears of dissapointment. She is not just in the breeze, but in their movements, the manurisims. Of course, I cannot know with any certainty what is 'hers' vs 'theirs', but it seems not to matter. Not anymore.

I suppose this is the integration I speak of so often. Whatever it is, it feels good. My children, all three of them, live in this home. They inspire me. The educate me. They love me. They are all mine, however they exist.

The First Snow

It’s happening. The first snow. Isn’t it funny, that the first of anything is gorgeous, beauty without measure?

The first kick within our womb

The first steps before they take over our world

The first day of Kindergarten

The first recital

The first time you drive a new car

The first kiss

The first success
Their first real love

For me, it’s the first snow. It’s stunning. The snowflakes flip and swirl, landing on the ground with near intention. I can still see the grass, playing peek-a-book under the thin blanket of white. A funnel of perfection, for each flake has a personality all its own. Each is designed independent of the others. One hits my window and I see its angles, it’s pattern and take solace in knowing that it has many brothers and sisters, but none just like it.

Are there identical twins in a snowstorm? I don’t know. But I love knowing that Bear and The Comedian are here, in my arms, in my life, and in my lap as we watch a movie for the twentieth time. And yet, it is overwhelmingly comforting to know that Emma was not them, is not them, and could never be her sisters. And therefore, I cannot torture myself by looking for her in their reflections, actions or words.

They are sisters, born of the same snowstorm, but never the same. They carry their own designs, their own patterns and always will. I don’t know Emma’s design, her hair color, her eye color, or her whims and idiosyncrasies – but I know not to look here, in this world for them. Instead, I feel her. I allow her to exist in my heart and soul. I let her lead me in my actions. Emma designs my purpose.

The first snow is like my first child; peaceful, calm, quiet and soft. Stunning in her perfection.

(For a perfect demonstration of an "opposite sister design", click HERE)

We - The NEARLY 1500!

Mel just reported nearly 1500 sites on the blogroll. "That is astounding!" I thought. 1500 brave women sharing their dreams, heartache, losses and success with one another. A plethera of opportunity for one hurting soul to find another who has suffered the same category of loss, even if (as it was for me - and so often is) a rare and freak incident that took your baby's life.

But then, my mind returned to researching statistics for my book. This, in itself is a daunting task for, finding accurate statistics in the world of baby loss is like trying to count the fish in the sea, especially when you consider MY definiation of baby loss (as mapped out in MY MISSION) SORRY I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THOSE PRETTY BLUE LINKS YET...HELP ANYONE???

Anyway, based on the latest updated research including stillbirth, infant death and SIDS, "on average" (and I abhor this term because every baby is a soul and I want to know exactly how many have been lost!!!) 99,000 babies died last year. This does not even include the sweet little souls lost to miscarriage, because that is represented by percentage. So take the 99,000 and add in the 20% of all pregnancies ending in miscarriage and our faboulous 1500 brave mothers are only a drop in overflowing grief bucket.

Where are the others? How are the others? How are the fathers coping out there? What about the living sisters and brothers, how are they doing? What about the grandparents who feel like they lost a child? I don't have answers, but I do know that what has begun here...in the world of the blog...is huge! It is just the beginning, but the world is ready for us. The nation is ready to hear of our babies, our boys, our girls, our faceless 9 week losses and our buried 40 week bodies. Elizabeth McCracken's book just released last week, is already getting good reviews indicating that the living are ready to at least...hear about and acknowledge the dead.

I am so excited to be part of this, to reach out and hold a new hand, listen to a new friend, and support others who have lost recently, or a long time ago. Each of us follows our own path but knowing that the path is paved is of some consolation.

This line of thinking led me to wonder, What would my blog have looked like if it had been an option when Emma died? In that period when I was feeling raped by life and like someone had their boot pressed firmly on my heart at all times, I needed this web of knowledge, statistics, love, support, and yes - a hopeful tone from someone who was past the first year of hell. I did search the internet for answers and for groups of women battling the same emotions, but I came up dry...so I turned to something more physical - scrapbooking.

I know it sounds odd to say I can chronicle a dead baby, but I did and I still do. Or maybe its more accurate and honest to say I chronicle my life as it has been forever affected by her. Obviously I only have a handful of pictures of Emma but I journal, put pictures of her burning bush, of her sisters as they arrive, of the red leaf and the rainbow, and rarely...of myself - but when I update my scrapbook every September it becomes my mirror. It evolves into a looking glass where I can see my reflection, differing from year to year. So, even though I don't have a blog of old to compare with the tone of my blog of new, I do have year one in her book and it reads and looks VERY different from year eight.

I can see my growth, I can feel my healing, and I am overwhelmed that we, the nearly 1500, can be that for all the other mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters and brothers who have yet to face their grief and take the first step on their road to healing.

I love you Emma Grace, and every other heavenly soul.

4 Days And Counting

A few years ago after falling apart year after year I made a promise to myself, I will never again work on Emma's birthday. For me, it became a family holiday. Regardless of my current job, September 8th was a day off. In the beginning it was a logistically sound idea so I could cry all day without worry that I had to leave my house. But, in the past few years we have come to treat the day as a special celebration and make plans that we would never do on an ordinary day.

Some years my husband and I take the day alone and revel in the silence as we do whatever we choose. One year we re-created our first date at the state fair and drove the back roads antiquing (that was my favorite!). Last year we included the girls and spent a family day navigating a local farm's corn maze, splitting up, getting lost then finding each other again and rolling down hills until we were dizzy and covered in hay.

Also last year, at their instance, we had a "real" party with cake, ice cream, presents and singing happy birthday. I wasn't sure if I was ready for any traditional spin but we just couldn't say no to their serious little faces scrunched up with concern that I might vito their well presented idea, "But she is our sister and she is turning seven! Every seven year old gets cake, ice cream, presents and the birthday song. But" Bear added her tone now equally serious as if trying to figure out a math problem, "since Emma lives with God and not us I guess she would want us to play with her presents". And so, that is how it happened. Our first traditional celebration.

This year, they haven't mentioned anything and I am really not up for it. I am feeling very internal, not broken, just introspective about the magnitude of the year. I decided to spend the day alone. I don't know why I feel so inspired to do this, but something about this eighth year has really struck me as "my time". My journey is being so vastly effected by the power of this number that I feel called to attend to my innerself on Monday. This year I celebrate Emma by feeding my body for the day. I am not sure of all the details, but I know I am more in touch with my inner voice than ever before. I will start, like always, at her grave and follow my heart for the rest. I will medidate for as long as I like and a massage sounds good at the local spa, maybe a yoga class and a definately a long soak in the hot tub.

I like that every year seems to have a life of its own, similar to the evolution of birthday party themes. When Bear was 3 The Comedian 1 a Dora party fit perfectly, but this winter when they turn 6 and 4 it just wouldn't work. I can look back and see how I spent Emma's day in year one, year three, year six and now year 8 and just that glance back reflects my annual growth in healing, affirming each powerful step, even the teary ones.

A similar soul,

Cara