Button

The last time I know for sure that Sarah moved was around 3am on the 31st. She woke me, pushing on my bladder. I had contractions off and on for days, previous to that, but they petered out like an engine revving.

But when I woke up on October 31st, I knew it was the day. My October Otter. I sent Jonah to school with his bee costume, I called my sister to come keep me company, and I dispatched my husband to take Rachel on a jaunt. (Later I would learn that they went jewelry shopping and bought me a necklace with three circles.) I called my parents and asked them to attend Jonah's costume parade, so he would see his people waving to him.

I was having contractions all morning. I was carving pumpkins. I wasn't paying attention to Sarah's movements. I was anticipating a long day and a victorious finish. 

Later that morning I checked in with my midwife and asked her to head over. But no rush. I knew it was still going to be a while. 

I often wonder about the moment Sarah died. What was I doing when her heart beat for the last time? It's the sort of thoughts that torture me. And do no good.

Its easy to get stuck there, in a loop with no answers. I have to consciously press the stop button.

Because what matters isn't when she died. There were a full 9 months before that where she was peaceful and safe. Where she experienced nothing but warmth, love and the adoration of her family.  And that has to be okay. Because that's all she had. Because that's all we had.

We love you Sarah. Always and forever.

Click

Sarah was supposed to be my last pregnancy. My last child. The end of anxiety ridden first-trimesters and months and months of morning sickness which always lasted all day.

She was supposed to be the end and simultaneously the beginning of my perfect size family.

And when she died, it felt like the end. How do you go on? How do you live life, knowing that your baby is dead? How can you do the mundane things, like brush your teeth, or engross yourself in a novel? How do you care if your shirt is wrinkled or even remember to look in the mirror before leaving the house?

I've had some huge ups and downs in the past 11 months. I've had days where I really did feel like it wasn't worth getting out of bed.

Somehow that gets buffered by the days where the giggles of my children sound like clinking champagne glasses in heaven. Where the sunshine hits the autumn treeline and I think back to The Office, where Jim turns to Pam and pretends to "click" his imaginary camera. A perfect memory, saved away for future viewing.

There is something quite astonishing that happens when your child dies. The worst possible thing has already happened. Its done. And it only repeats itself in your mind.

Yes, it is horrible and devastating.

But within the experience of death is this amazing freedom of perspective. I went through what will likely be the worst thing ever and I'm still here. When petty things start to tweak inside my head, I'm able to say, "No, that doesn't matter. No one got hurt, no one was harmed, no one died. It will be okay."

So as we approach the anniversary of Sarah's death, I'd like to ask all friends and family to take a moment and reflect on their daily gripes and complaints. Think about what is really important. And clear your mind of all the unproductive talk and focus on the here and now. Make a new beginning and make each moment one worthy of a "click."