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."