2012

It's the 31st again. The last day of December.  And the last day of 2012.

This year did not go as expected. In fact, by all accounts, it was pretty miserable.  My husband was more sick than not, culminating with major surgery over the summer. It was hard having a father and a husband out of commission, taking care of two littles and being pregnant.

And then we lost Sarah.

2012 was horrible.

But if I had to do it all over again, I would. I didn't enjoy my husband being sick.  But he was home for more time than we've spent together in years. Yes, it was hard. But it was also good. And at 6 months post-op, he's now free of all the symptoms which caused his pain.  We prioritized and he finished (and passed!) another semester of his post-grad semester. For this, I am thankful.

My Jonah started kindergarten and took the world by storm.  His teacher adores him and has truly nurtured him during this trying time. For this, I am thankful.

And my Rachel exploded in words and personality.  She speaks in full sentences, challenges her big brother at every step, and appears to be one of those girls who will always have an opinion.  Kinda just like her Mama.  For this, I am thankful.

And we lost Sarah this year.  But we also had her.  We had her safe, warm and loved for 41 weeks and three days.  She knew our voices, she knew she was wanted.  And all of this was in 2012.

So 2012 was horrible. But I'm glad we did it, together.

Surprise

I hadn't realized that the genetic counselor's office was smack-dab in the middle of one of the largest OB-GYN practices in the area. I think I was fixated on the date and time on the letter and not at all on anything else.

So when my husband pressed the elevator button for the second floor, I snapped at him. "I'm not pregnant. I'm not going to OB-GYN." To say I was mean would be an understatement. My response was visceral.

Of course, he was right. The second floor was where we needed to be.

So we walked into the office and stood in line. Waited for a receptionist to help us with the paperwork. Signed away. Then waited in the waiting room. It was loud, with one flat screen TV showing a cooking program. And the other was showing public service announcements on health issues. You know, like the importance of taking folic acid to prevent neural tube defects? Yup.

So now I'm really filled with angst. In an office filled with pregnant women and babies, waiting for a stranger to give me statistical odds of whether we should dare risk another pregnancy, and the TV is freaking me out with it's mind-reading abilities.

Clearly, I've become very accustomed to seeing my midwife - and the stark contrast of her office compared to this bustling place.

Michelle rents space, inside of an old Victorian-style house, from a chiropractor. No need to remember to get your parking ticket validated. You just roll up in front of the building. There's no waiting room. Just a chair or two outside her door. Which I usually bypass, because her door is open and you can see her balancing on a ball that is pretending to be a chair. I get a smile, a hug and get offered a cup of tea. No name tags, no badges. No secretary, no nurse. No surprises about who I will need to meet and explain myself to.

But i was surprised by the form I had to fill out at the OB-GYN's office. It was a short notification that they could not accommodate your gender preferences for medical providers. And if you didn't like it, you were free to find a new place to get care.

I signed it, of course, because I wasn't there for them to look under the hood. But I wondered: did the patients know it didn't need to be like this? Did they know that they didn't have to be a number? Did they know that small, intimate practices exist, that their insurance would cover it in full? And that bigger doesn't mean better?

Our meeting with the genetic counselor was fine. And everyone I interacted with at the practice was polite, courteous, and professional.

But I couldn't help but let my mind drift - if I was a patient there, would they remember my name? Would they have cried with me, remembering Sarah's birth? Would I have wanted them there, at Sarah's funeral? Do they understand that it's not just the medicine to fix that matters, but the compassion to still be there when things fall apart?

I'm so glad that we did see the genetic counselor and that perhaps we will know more in a few weeks. But I'm more pleased that the results will be sent to my midwife, my Michelle. And that we'll be able to review them, together.

Half full

Had an extensive and detailed conversation with the geneticist. She took a full family history on both sides and gave us many options.

Three items of interest:
1. We both gave blood to the lab for DNA sequencing, looking for an explanation of my recurrent miscarriages.
2. Yes, I need to be taking a metric boatload of folic acid
3. The risk of having another child with a neural tube defect, assuming the blood work doesn't reveal anything else, is less than 2%. Or as my midwife says, a greater than 98% chance s/he won't have a NTD.

Results will be back in about 2 weeks.

Feeling relieved that the appointment is over. But remind me to blog about their enormous office..

Avoid

My favorite genre of movies are post-apocalyptic thrillers. People in dire circumstances, making life or death decisions. Volcanoes erupting in LA, zombies in Walking Dead. It's all fair game.

With these dark gray days and early sunsets, it feels quite like my own apocalyptic horror show. It's not that I can't find reasons to laugh. Because I can. And I do. But nothing feels quite real.

I made myself go for a haircut yesterday. I wanted to do it, but it's hard to put effort into looking nice. I did a walk-in appointment at my salon and ended up with a perfectly nice cut from a young stylist.. whose name is Sarah. I almost choked when she introduced herself. It's not like it's an uncommon name, but one of the reasons why I had put off the cut was the awkward chitchat that accompanies the visit. And the day before Christmas, who doesn't make small talk about families and kids? So I bit my lip and kept it light. I avoided talking about my Sarah. And instead asked her about her own life.

I survived the visit. And my hair looks fine. But I had my own zombie-inspired nightmare last night. My conscience was unsettled.

The end was most remarkable; a dark man with a sickle carrying a car seat, saying, "You forgot her."

To the moon and back

My husband is a private dude, so I've refrained from mentioning him much on this blog to respect his privacy. But there is something specific that I would like to share.

One of our first conversations after we came home from the hospital, without Sarah, was a promise to each other that we would not allow this tragedy to pull us apart. I had remembered reading that many couples do not make it through the loss of a first child and I told him this. Our marriage has always been strong - and he has been my best friend for almost 15 years. But I know how quickly grief can turn to anger and resentment. Losing Sarah was an unimaginable tragedy, and there was no way I could bear to lose him.

Saying it out loud was important. And allowed me to move forward by acknowledging my fear. That we wouldn't hold back, that we would face these feelings together. I love you, Joe.

Not quite there

I spent the morning with just my five-year old.  It's something long overdue that we don't do nearly enough.  Usually I like to send the kids off with my husband to run errands on weekends and to take a break from it all. Or I soldier the courage to join them and we go off as a family to conquer several stores. Yes, I'm comparing it to war. It requires patience, planning and often results in injuries. 

So today Jonah and I went off to the grocery store. It was delightful. He was kind and helpful. And watching just one child out of my peripheral vision rather than two (and going cross-eyed) was amazing. Afterwards he asked if we could spend more time together. And we did. We went to the library, borrowed an iPad for an hour and nerded out together.  Our visit was finished with Legos and of course, checking out books for the week.

It was the sort of time and full attention that I could never have given him at this point in the game, had Sarah lived. And so I was there with him, doing all of these things, putting on the bravest face possible. But all I could do was think about her.

Tests

We have the genetic counseling appointment set for late next week. I'm hoping that they may be able to provide us with some answers as to why Sarah developed spina bifida occulta, a Neural Tube Defect (NTD). I wonder if a folic acid problem contributed to the bleeding I had in all my pregnancies. I wonder if they will find anything that would lead us to believe that future pregnancies will yield a happy, healthy baby.

This is where my blog tackles what has unfortunately become a political issue in the US - the right to terminate a pregnancy.

I am pro-choice. It's not that I want to have an abortion. Or that I could give you a set of absolute circumstances that would make me choose to abort.

But I am adamant that every woman has the right to healthcare that comes from a place that respects her faith, values and medical history. This means that she consults her doctor, her midwife, her clergy, partner, family and friends - not a politician looking to be re-elected.

I bring up abortion because it's one of the reasons we previously avoided extensive prenatal testing. My logic, up until Sarah was born, is that we had two previously perfect children with no factors that suggested that future pregnancies would be any different. And knowing about a potential defect would mean having to make decisions that I did not even want to contemplate. I preferred to do standard testing and not investigate any further than necessary.

But now things have changed. In this post-Sarah world, another pregnancy could never be considered normal, typical or unremarkable without ruling factors out.

It's the flowchart that I don't want to draw. What if we discovered that we conceived another child with a NTD? Could they predict the severity? Would she be viable? And could we deal with another loss, whether through a deliberate decision to terminate or another stillborn experience? And of course, all the shades of gray in the middle.

I write all this because it needs to be said. None of this is easy to write or ever consider. But they are the thoughts in my head and they are true. And these days, it's all I've got to hold onto.

I wish

There is an act of faith in deciding to bring a third child into your family while caring for a 4.5 year old and 1.5 year old.

One of the reasons why we felt so good about our decision was because of the support of our friends, family and community. Parenthood, particularly motherhood, should never be done alone. You need your tribe.

Today, I had the most delightful snuggle from a girl in our neighborhood who would have been 5 months older than Sarah. They would have played regularly over the next few years. Giggles, shrieks and screaming. They would attended kindergarten together.

As I held this girl today, her mama and I both shed tears.

No words needed.

Sarah's time with us was very short. But like a drop of water, the waves cascade out and her loss is felt much further than just me. It's our friends, our family, our community. They knew her. She was real. And Sarah may never grow up like the sweet babe I held, but she will live on in their memories.

Moving on

Had to move the furniture in our family room this morning. Took me 3 hours of shifting everything around before I realized why I needed everything in a different spot.

The recliner was the place where we first tried to find Sarah's heartbeat.. and couldn't. Every time I sit, I think about Michelle with the machine and my husband walking in, pretending to make the "swish-swish-swish" noise of her heart.

Still

I can't look at photos of Sarah without scrutinizing them in great detail. Each time I find something new to focus on.

Today it was her pale eyebrows and light lashes, contrasting with the dark hair on her head. I have to wonder that if like Jonah and Rachie, she would have slowly become more golden and blonde, with silly tips of dark hair as the roots grew in.

And then I pause. Because her hair will never grow. And I choke back the tears.

Likewise, I wonder what color her eyes were.. or would have been.  She never opened them. I couldn't bring myself to pry them open, for fear of seeing them unfocused, crossed or gazing eerily. So in my mind, they are deep gray that would have also settled into a gorgeous hazel, like her siblings.

I love you, my Sarah.

It's all good

A friend called me up this morning. I could tell she was feeling nervous and awkward, before she even said so herself.

Death, dying and grief isn't something I'm good at, either. I'm good at solving problems, finding creative answers and speaking Sarcasm. Turns out these things really aren't compatible.

But I'm also good at writing about what I know. It's the most useful thing I learned from the prolific Stephen King.

And I also know when things don't make sense, when you hurt and you don't direct those feelings in a productive way, that they just gnaw at you until you pop. So I write. And some of those things end up here.

I told my friend that there's really nothing "wrong" that you can say to someone like me, other than perhaps "congratulations."

Yeah. Such Sarcasm. But true.

And like a true friend, she pushed through her own emotions and did what she thought was right. She called. She put it out there. And really, who can't use a little more honesty in their lives?

Thank you, my friend.

Sculpture

Do not judge the bereaved mother. She comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. She smiles, but her heart sobs. She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS, but she IS NOT, all at once. She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.

-Author Unknown

Patti Ramos Photography  - 

Sculpture: Memorial Of Unborn Children by Martin Hudack of Slovokia

My sister

My sister wrote this in her own blog, Blogging for Boobs, as her own account of Sarah's birth.  Reposting it here, because her words capture so much.  Love you, Chana!


++++

Sarah Tzipporah

Life never really goes according to plan, does it? Neither does death. On October 31st, 2012, I awoke to a phone call from my sister. "I think I'm going to have a baby today. Maybe baby!" I pretended to be calm and collected as I told her that after I ate my breakfast I would be right over. She only lives 5 minutes down the road. I fried up two eggs, all runny and yolky in the middle, and placed them like eyes on my plate. A ketchup smile completed a happy-faced breakfast. A great beginning to the day.

When I got to my sister's house, her curly-headed 2 year old greeted me at the door with a big grin. We chased each other around the house a few times before settling into the living room. My sister was surreptitiously stifling her own excitement, knowing that even though she was 10 days past her due date, even though she had been having steady contractions since 3am, birthing is unpredictable - it could be an hour or a day. We chatted idly and flipped on the television. "Ooh, let's watch 'The Office,'" she said gleefully. "Laughter makes the baby come out." She wiggled around on the birthing ball throughout the episode, shifting positions, walking around, breathing deeply as contractions rose and fell. I was mesmerized. Yeah, I had labored through 2 natural births myself, but it wasn't any fun. This woman before me, sister of my blood, seemed elevated with grace and knowing even in the throes of her primal ache. What a great laborer, I thought to myself enviously. I wish I could do that.

Shortly after I had arrived, her husband had taken their toddler on some errands to afford his wife some peace and quiet. Now it was almost noon, and the contractions were coming a bit less frequently than the morning. "When they get back from the store, Rachie will nurse," my sister said confidently. "That will get the contractions going again." Sure enough, the arrival of her big girl sent strong clenches through her uterus as we awaited the midwife. Not just any midwife, but the woman who had gently steered and caught my son and both my sister's older children.

Michelle arrived and set about fixing her doppler on the swollen belly to get a heartbeat reading. And she placed it low. And high. And to the side. And. nothing. As minutes passed without a reading, I saw my sister's eyes widen with worry. Perhaps laying down on the futon would help position things correctly. She moved into the birthing room that had been set up in the study, door closed, as I entertained my niece in the living room. More minutes. Then the midwife came out, gently shutting the door behind her, fingers dialing her phone as she quickly explained to me that there was no heartbeat to be found. Maybe this was a tricky baby. Maybe there was a problem. Either way, they were calling ahead to let the hospital know they were on their way for an ultrasound. My sister came out of the room like shackles were on her feet, her neck bent and eyes searching mine. "There's no heartbeat." She collapsed into my arms. I held her tightly. "I don't know what to do if she's dead," she whispered. I spoke to her calmly saying, "Let's just take one thing at a time. We'll figure it out."

They left for the hospital, my instructions to care for my niece and bring our parents up to date once they arrived at the house. I was frantic. I called my brother's house and got my sister-in-law on the phone, "They can't find the heartbeat. Hospital." Unable to stay still, I took Rachie for a walk outside, around the block, just like yesterday when we had all taken that walk together to help gravity and motion induce the baby's coming. Should we not have gone for that walk? Was there something I could do that I hadn't? No answers. As we circled back to the house, my phone rang. "She's dead. The baby is dead." Oh G-d.

As the message repeated in my mind, our parents pulled into the driveway. My dad noticed there was a car missing, probably thought her husband had run to the store. No. I walked up to my dad. "Something happened. It's not ok. Let mom get out of the car so I can talk to both of you." I explained the labor, the midwife's abbreviated visit. Their assent to the hospital. The phone call. "They couldn't find a heartbeat. The baby is not alive." No child should ever have to look her parents in the eyes and say those words. My father's face sank, "Oh no. No. How horrible." He could not comprehend. My mother crumpled and cried, "No. No!"

The next few hours were in a haze. I left my niece in her grandparents' care as I went to meet my children's school bus. It was Halloween. We always went trick-or-treating with my sister and her kids. What now? I pasted on a smile and hugged my son and daughter too tightly as they jumped off the bus. They had a snack, put on their costumes. We went back to my sister's house. I arranged for my husband and some close friends to take the kids trick-or-treating while I went to the hospital. The drive was too long. Memories of my sister's previous births flashed through my head.

When she had given birth to her eldest, my son was only a few months old and couldn't be left. It was a long and difficult hospital labor, and I struggled with the knowledge I couldn't be there. But in the end, I gathered up the kids and had their dad play with them in the waiting room while I tended my sister for just a short hour in the hospital. I simply could not bear the thought that I could do something that might help ease her along. That one hour in her room was a productive one, dialating another centimeter with my presence and words. Visiting her the next day to see my beautiful nephew. Showing her husband how to hold the baby gently. I changed his diaper, gave him his first bath. Demonstrated how to wrap him to her body so that he was snug, secure, and able to sleep. Then the next baby - a homebirth with the same midwife. A baby that came so smoothly, so fast I missed the entire labor. The first picture I saw was my sister resting in the recliner, hair damp from the birthing tub, smiling shyly, cradling her sweet little girl.

I had no idea what scene would greet me at this morbid hospital scene. Visions of crying, screaming at the earth so visceral as to pull down the mountains filled me with coldness. Michelle met me at the elevator, enveloped me in a hug. "She's going to have the baby. She will deliver the placenta. And when she stops bleeding, she can go home. They are doing ok. They're listening to Bon Jovi." I sputtered a laugh, feeling disbelief. We walked down the hallway. The staff had placed my sister at the end of the hall, empty rooms surrounding hers. "So she doesn't have to walk past crying babies," Michelle offered. I opened the door. My sister was laboring quietly in bed, her husband seated next to her, holding hands. My sister. We hugged. She had been given some pain medication that had a calming effect but kept her lucid. She decided to sit on the birthing ball. I rubbed her back. She was hungry. I cut up her baked potato, added butter. We remarked on the Sprite can which was really iced tea. An hour passed.

"Rachie knows the baby's name," my sister whispered. "I didn't tell anyone else but her. She knows it is a secret. If you ask her she will say 'Shhhh.'" as she mimed a finger to her lips. "Sarah. Her name is Sarah Tzipporah." We cried.

That moment of release, of truth, gave way to logistics. I would go back to the house and take her children back to my house. Her 5 year old son would think it was a treat to stay over at his cousin's house - the 2 year old may be trickier, since she had never spent the night away from Mama, but I would manage. We hugged. I wished I could stay to see her through this birth, to finally get to see her through her birth, but being a Mama means you must take care of all the baby birds in the nest.

Sarah was born around 10pm that night, just as little Rachie fell asleep cuddled up to me on the couch. From the front, she was perfect. A beautiful head of dark hair, rosebud lips and a cleft chin. Chubby thighs and wrinkly feet. 10 fingers, 10 toes. But laid on her stomach, it was apparent that her spine had not formed properly. There were divots and fissures where there ought not be. The umbillical cord was short, slimy, indicating possible infection. No autopsy. Nothing to be gained.

My sister labored and birthed all 3 of her children with grace, compassion and love. She showed such strength of character and mind, even when the walls of the world were crumbling beneath her feet. Life never really goes according to plan. Neither does death. But our lives are forever changed by my sweet little niece. She is still Sarah.

Dates

I try not to give due dates when people ask - I learned that people get fixated on Late and Early. So Sarah was very quickly referred to as our October Otter.

When I woke up on the last day of October, right around 3am, I knew it was going to be her birthday. She had been teasing me relentlessly for days with regular contractions. And in fact, she made her appearance soon after 10pm that evening.

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. Making costumes, having an excuse to spray my hair blue?

While I was at the hospital, saying hello and goodbye to Sarah, Jonah and Rachel were oblivious to it all, thanks to my family and friends. They had their last normal Halloween. When gravestones were just rocks and joking about scary dead things were truly pretend.

Now? We'll forever have to deal with the pairing of their sister's death alongside a holiday that makes light of it all.

Halloween will never be the same. And so much so that until today, I could not bring myself to look at the photos that my dear friend took that day of the kids in their costumes. Because it's impossible to look and not want to see Sarah in those shots, wearing a matching giraffe costume that had been made for her by her Bubbe.

There will always be parties on the anniversary of Sarah's death. Parades at school, knocks on the door, people to face. A constant reminder that I won't be able to hide from the world on the very last day of October.

6 weeks

I find myself stuck between trying to desperately remember every moment of my short time with Sarah - and torturing myself relentlessly with pieces that are only painful.

The other night all I could think about was Jonah coming home from school and being SO excited to meet his new sister. And the confusion on his face when we tried to explain to him that she had died. This loop played over and over in my head.

I think about holding Sarah, so warm from the heated blankets that they wrapped her in. Studying her toes, opening the blanket to find the sacral dimple on her back and not knowing, at the time, what it was.

I try to remember - when was the last time that I was sure I felt Sarah kick me?

Details that are true, painful and real.

But most of the last 6 weeks have been a blur. For the first time in 5 years I am actually using a calendar. I no longer trust my brain to remember anything. Falling asleep is usually okay, but I dread waking midway. If my brain turns on, it's never productive, positive thoughts. It's only the negative second-guessing that I can rationally talk myself out of during daylight hours.

There have been nearly 20,000 hits since I started this blog. My hope is that losing a baby will never happen to you or a loved one. But if it does, perhaps you'll understand a bit more about how they may be feeling. And to remind you that a baby born still is still a baby. Still a sibling. Still a grandchild. Just one that left too soon.

Shall we play a game?

"Strange game. No winning move. How about a nice game of chess?"

Who would have thought that a Matthew Broderick movie could hold so many answers and yet none at all?

The end of my October really sucked. And so did all of November. Turns out I'm not the only one who has had such a horrible time. One of my readers emailed me privately to talk about her own pregnancy. Prenatal testing has revealed that her son won't survive outside her womb due to a chromosomal abnormality.

My immediate thought is to rationalize - at least she knows. OTOH, how horrible - she knows! It's the same evil game of which is worse, could it be better, what would I do?

"Strange game. No winning move."

But you still have to play the game. There's no opt out, like in the movie. It still goes on.

Traditions

My favorite Chanukah tradition is taking an annual photo of my kids with a large plush dreidel. At least it used to appear large, in those first, early photos. Now, as the kids grow, it appears to get smaller and smaller.

This year's photo was supposed to include Sarah. I had spent all summer looking for matching outfits. And through some luck and frugality I had found green and white striped dresses for Rachel and Sarah at a consignment store. And a green and white striped shirt for Jonah. Newborn, a 2T and a kid-sized 5.

But Sarah isn't here. And up until this morning, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to take the photograph. Until I realized that it might be worse to not document this year. Sarah died, but Jonah and Rachel did not. And they deserve to have everything as "normal" as possible.

So I combed Rachel's hair. Left the kids in their pajamas rather than think about the tiny dress that Sarah would not be wearing, and I plopped them on the couch. I balanced myself on a step stool and did what any mama needs to do for a smile - I offered lollipops in exchange for a few more frames of cooperation. I stopped after less than a dozen clicks. Good enough.

Away

I started with the infant cloth diapers, then the sweaters and buntings.

At the bottom of a drawer, I discovered the beloved "first onesie" with the giraffe on the tushy. The one that both Jonah and Rachie wore - and that I never found in time for Sarah's birth.

Today it isn't so much about the loss of Sarah. It's about how to move forward. The several sizes of clothing all over the bedroom. The maternity wear. Keep, toss? And the taunting of the clothes that are too small. Along with the motivation to drop weight being directly related to the decision to conceive again.

No neat boxes to check off for me today.

Excuses

A few months before Sarah was born, we started to tackle our "junk" room. The bedroom that still had boxes from when we moved in. I had a list of excuses to not to deal with it, including:

+ being pregnant with Rachel when we moved in
+ then having a newborn and a preschooler
+ busy with Other Things
+ pregnant again

But this summer, we said enough was enough. And I threw money at the problem. I drove down to IKEA and bought bedroom furniture for the room, forcing the motivation to deal with the room.

And we sort of did. The room got transformed... there are photos on FB to prove that the room was tidy for as long as it took me to point and click.  Except... those pile of boxes were picked through a bit and moved to MY LIVING ROOM.

They have been sitting there ever since. Several friends offered to help me deal with them. And my sister even said, "If you don't do it now, you'll never have time once the baby comes..." But I couldn't face them.

And so they sit.  Right there.  Overflowing.  And possibly multiplying at night.

The excused are plentiful.  And the solution is easy.

Just
do
it.

Thank you

I have some pretty amazing friends. People have brought food, both planned and drive-by style. So much food that we actually had to ask you to stop. (My midwife, while visiting, commented that we had every type of carb available.) Gift cards for take out, brownies, and so much more.

During those first few weeks there were dozens of offers to run errands, watch the kids and be all types of useful. Packages arrived with books on grief and silly fun things for the kids. And then there are those of you who keep on calling, e-mailing and letting me know you are still paying attention.

Thank you.

But there was also something going on in secrecy. A bunch of you got together, collected donations, and plotted.

Today, I was handed three envelopes by Suz and Katie. The first was about making new memories - a gift certificate for a hotel with an indoor water park. The second was for a ridiculously large number of hours for a maid service. And the third included the names of everyone who contributed.

Thank you for the incredibly thoughtful gifts. We've always wanted to go to the water park but Rachel had been to little and then I was too pregnant. And its no secret that its impossible to clean with kids, much less deep clean in the past year.

You and I both know that nothing will ever replace Sarah. But all of these acts of kindness and generosity have slowly made things easier as we're working to find our new "normal."

Thank you.

Again, but for the first time

I showed Jonah a photo of Sarah today.  He saw it on my computer and asked, "Who is that baby?"

I replied with my own question, "Who do you think it is?"

And he said, "Baby Sarah!"

He was a bit concerned. He was worried that she wasn't moving.  So I explained that it was a photo. He paused, thought about it. And then asked if she was okay.

I explained again that she was dead. But he repeated again, "Is she okay?"

"Yes, she is okay. She is with God."

"Okay. But why did she chose to die?"

Sigh.  I love him so much. And his questions are so hard and relentless.

"She didn't chose to die.  She was very sick.  And just like you don't chose to get sick, she didn't either."

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Like no one is watching

Rachel and I were early morning shoppers at Trader Joe's this AM.

As we were rounding the corner of the aisle, Rachel nearly ran right into a gray haired woman, probably in her 70's. Except it wasn't totally Rachel's fault.

The woman was dancing, spinning off her partner's arm, clearly lost in music that we could not hear.

She apologized, in a thick, Eastern European accent. And all I could do was grin. Because I finally saw what I want to be when I grow up - someone who is really is that happy.

Live

"Live for truth, not consistency."

I love knowing what to expect. I like the anticipation of knowing what is next. I spent a year losing baby-weight, then a year being pregnant with Sarah. And assumed it would be a challenging year following, with a kindergardener, two year old and infant under my care. Not easy, but exactly what I wanted.

It was a solid plan, derailed in the worst and ultimate way. I didn't think beyond this. And now I need to. Except I can't. It's painful, it's uncertain. And for today, it's too much.

Daughters

In so many ways, Rachel has become Sarah. She is the one I stare at, wondering if they would have looked alike. Rachel is the one who snuggles in my arms, nursing way more often in the past few weeks than she did in the past few months. The cheek I stroke, soft and luscious? My Rachel.

And she is the one who looks deep into my eyes, offering a tissue and asking curiously, "You okay, Mama?" far more often than a two year old should.

Thank you, Rachel, for being there for me.