Space

So many wonderful friends and family joined us on Black Friday at the cemetery for Sarah's stone unveiling. It officially marked year of mourning, a year of everything moving way too fast and at the same time creeping along, dreadfully slow. 

My kids did well at the ceremony, and eventually, when Rachel became antsy, I reached into my pocket to find a distraction. Gloves, tissues.... And a shiny pink jewel.  Which she promptly place atop Sarah's marker. (You can see it nestled on the right side of the stone.)  

Never has such a crammed space felt so comforting to look at.

No, you remember correctly

Sarah's death came two months after Jonah started Kindergarten.  He was terribly proud that he already had one sister, Rachel. And he was so very excited to tell his class that he was going to soon have TWO sisters.

I never did get the hang of his Kindergarten school year. Figuring out the school culture, the special sharing days, the school spirit events. Even things like birthday parties and play dates, I just avoided. Socializing and making small talk was the last thing I wanted to do.

Luckily, my better half is much more socially adept than me and did manage to get Jonah to several birthday parties, where they both had a blast.

But Jonah's now in first grade, and he's made it abundantly clear that he is an Aspiring Social Butterfly. If there is a chance to play with friends, he wants IN.

So I summoned my courage, and I escorted him to a classmate's party at the Y this evening. I was hoping to drop him off and run out, but he insisted that I stay. And while it was likely good that I stick around (holy boy party craziness) it left me in the not-so-enviable position of having to chat with folks I really don't know well.

Telling people that Sarah died makes me die a little inside, each time. And sure enough, when I introduced myself to the lovely mama who was hosting the party, there were several awkward moments where she wondered where the baby was - and me trying to not die as I explained that yes, I was pregnant last time she saw me, but no, there is no baby.

It's only the second time it has happened. And yet I feel like I brace for it every day. Because it's the most innocent of conversations - the basis for all conversations with a fellow mom: how many kids do you have? How old are they?

Nothing's true and nothing's right

Throughout this entire ordeal, I find people often refer to me as "strong." Which still baffles me, because I don't really see myself like that at all.

I've made lots of decisions, in this post-Sarah world, to keep my family intact. I get out of bed every day, not because I always want to, but because my kids need me. I stay up late at night, watching zombie movies with my husband, because I need Us to laugh. (Yes, at zombie movies.)  And occasionally, I make myself do something nice for myself (like accept help) because I know it is the right thing to do.

Like lots of things in life, sometimes you have to fake it until you make it true. I don't think that makes me strong. But I do think it makes me determined. That while Sarah's loss will always be in my heart, I can't let it be the end of me or of Us.

One

Yesterday Sarah should have been one.

We should have:
+ watched Sarah take her first steps, likely last week according to how her siblings rolled
+ had a fantastic Halloween birthday party
+ fed Sarah a gooey piece of cake
+ let a wobbly walker climb into a wet pile of leaves

Instead, we cried a lot. Hugged a lot. And rejoiced with our friends that love can carry us through.

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."

Full harvest moon

They say the days are long but the years are short. And whoever "they" are speak the truth. 

I'm amazed at the sophisticated conversations I'm now able to have with my six year old. On the way home today from our Sukkot celebration he asked me what happens when everyone dies. 

Everyone.

So we talked about how everyone doesn't die at once - and that most people do not know WHEN they will die - and that this isn't something he needs to worry about.  What's important now is that we love each other and we do our best to be kind.

Besides, I said, maybe someday you will get married and have kids. And then your kids will have kids. And then you will be a Zeyde (a grandpa). He smiled, then replied, "Maybe I will marry Nomi.... Maybe."

Earlier in the day I had carefully brought up Halloween. I reminded him that we needed to start thinking about costumes. Did he remember last year? Did he remember that I wasn't there to take him trick-or-treating? In fact he did, and gave me some details. 

Then he frowned and asked why I hadn't been there. 

I don't think anyone ever told him that I was in the hospital. That I was in labor. And that it was the day that Sarah died. He was young, no one wanted to scare him, so he was pushed through the day in the most normal way possible. Which was necessary and appropriate.

But now he is six, and his capacity to process has grown. So we talked about it. His eyes went big and his eyebrows wiggled around. "Mama, did you cry? Mama, were you so sad that you cried even when you were asleep?"

Yes. I did. And I sometimes still do. Which is why it's important to say the "I love yous" and pause for the big hugs. To love and be kind. Because sometimes the days are long, but the years are short.