Poetry in Motion

Dear Analin,

Daddy got a new job. It's all the way across the country, of course.

This is why you were cremated. We knew this move, or some other, was likely in our lives. This way, you get to come too. Your ashes, your hand and foot molds, your memory books, a lock of you hair.

What can't come are your other things.

Blankets.
Outfits.
Diaper bag.

I have them all. Not for long.

I found a family for your things.

They lost everything in a fire. Every thing. The people are safe. Including a baby girl and her twin brother.

This is so poetic on so many levels. Poetry can be damn painful.

We lost a girl.

Friends lost one of their twins the same year.

There are all different kind of tears. These tears are small, light, and hot enough to burn.

And we're moving on, all of us.

Poetry in motion.

Things lost in a fire, things given. Comfort found in our families. It's beautiful and I can't stop crying.

I love you so very much, Beautiful.

Mommy.

Daughters

Dear Analin,

This has been the year of the girl. As in, I don't have one.

Ugh. I feel ... not great ... writing that, but it's the truth.

My grandfather tried to say something once. It affected me differently than he'd hoped, yet I've come to understand he was walking a fine line between trying to let me know he understands and not criticizing his faith. He said something along the lines of it being unfair when God doesn't give us the chance of both daughters and sons. It was after you were born, I don't exactly know when.

The words shocked my brain and got buried somewhere until I could deal with them and sort through them. Emotions tend to filter what we say and what we feel, so allowing time to pass was perfect for this. I hope I figured it out right. He was saying it was unfair I didn't get my chance despite the promise of it. I have said as much myself.

The thing is - and I may have written this before because it isn't a new feeling - I am a good mom. I am having an amazing experience raising your brothers. I am devastated I won't get my chance with you.

This year, through a lot of silence and thinking, I've been sorting through quite a bit. I wrote earlier that I was in denial. Yes and no. Denial, a lot of pain, and those things tend to shut me down on the outside. On the inside, it's all still going, all still burning. I miss you. I really do. I feel robbed. But I also feel cheated. Because I was given a daughter along with my sons, and she was taken away.

I prepared. Not only with clothes and toys and blankets, but mentally, psychologically. Dreams were spun, possibilities abounded. Clothes shopping, spa appointments, lessons on being a girl, on becoming a woman, all of that plays through a mother's mind while her daughter grows. And I can't. Not with you.

This year has been about figuring out my pain and the different levels, of separating what I want from what I'm going to miss. I want a daughter, I do. I know she could never be you. But I do not want to be pregnant again. It's too hard, too scary. And there's a chance I simply can't carry girls and if I tried and failed again .... Nope. I cannot do it.

There are other ways of having a daughter. Now that I've sorted through all of that, perhaps your dad and I can think about those other ways. Honestly, I'm not ready for any new baby right now, but that's okay, too. As with my grandfather's words, time can be your best friend with decisions like these. There is a lot to think about, a lot to learn about myself and our family. Still a lot to learn about living without you.

You are forever in my heart.

Mommy.

Connections

Dear Analin,

The "A" stocking has brought you to your second brother's attention this year. He's almost 5 and though we always talk about you, he hasn't been able to comprehend you yet. This year, he has. He asked who in our family starts with an A. He asked to see your books. He told me you are the best girl he ever missed. That he misses you so very much.

I'll admit I was worried about teaching you to him and to your little brother and if they could connect. This year, I'm not so worried. You are a part of our lives, every day, and this is where it shows, when a big brother who was too little to remember connects with his little sister through the memories we've kept and the words we share. It's powerful. You're powerful.

Thank you, my beautiful girl.

I love you.

Mommy.

Full Disclosure

Dear Analin,

I haven't written in a long time because I am currently in denial. I fully recognize it won't change anything, but right now, it's what I need. Not having a girl was harder than I thought, though nothing could replace Benjamin. Nothing can replace you. As hard as it is for me to be pregnant, having a girl to wear the clothes in that big box doesn't look promising. Having another girl won't change what's wrong, anyway. It's a hard place to be right now.

I love you each and every day.

Mommy.

Happy Birthday.

Dear Analin,

happy birthday beautiful girl. I think about you every day and I miss you more than you can know.

If you had been here, I would have gotten you one of those big silly pink electric cars - either as a Jeep or Corvette. I wonder if you would have liked Frozen or Barbie better - maybe Brave - actually I think definitely Brave.

I love you so much. I always will.

Daddy.

When you have a daughter in Heaven...

Dear Analin,

The day after you died, I was talking to a good friend. I told her that I didn't want this. I didn't want to be a parent who had lost a child.

At the time, I didn't know what specifically I was talking about. I didn't know what exactly I meant. I knew that this hurt was too deep to ever go away. But I didn't understand just how profoundly losing you was going to change me.

I didn't realize that I would, two and a half years later, still feel a pang of pain and jealousy when friends would announce pregnancies; that talk of baby girls would still cut deeply into my heart; that I would still look for baby clothes for you, because it could be a bad dream, right?

Your father is a happy person. I care deeply for other people and their happiness. So it hurts so much that I feel sadness when people tell me about their happiness. A year after we lost you, it got to the point where I had to seek professional help. One night, I broke down in front of your mommy. How could I react to happy baby announcements with such sadness, such anger?  People who did that were broken, I thought.

That night was a turning point for me. Things got better - as things tend to do. I no longer think that I'm broken. Being broken would mean that I could and needed to be fixed. And that's not the case. But I do need to admit to myself that I have changed.

I still hate it when people ask me how many children I have. A seemingly simple question, I stumble every time. If I answer 3, I feel guilty because I have 4. If I answer 4, I feel like I have to qualify the answer with 'but one died'. Why is it so much harder for me to share you with people than it is for me to share your brothers? I hate it and you don't deserve that.

It's not meant to be like this. When I said to my friend that I didn't want this, this is what I meant. Feeling conflicted, feeling guilty for feeling hurt.

But I take comfort from opposites. The pain I feel makes me love more fiercely. My guilt makes me work harder at being a better friend, husband and father.

And in the end, you have play to the cards you've been dealt.  It doesn't matter whether I wanted this or not. It happened and we deal with it. We take what lessons and what strength we can find. And we love more, laugh more, cry more and live more.

I love you so much and I miss you every day. At least there I know I'm not conflicted and that's a thought that brings me smiles.

Forever and ever,

Daddy.

Tired

Dear Analin,

I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.

That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.

Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.

I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.

To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.

I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.

I miss you beyond what you could ever know.

Love, Mommy.