Kittymomma's Adventures

Dear Max,

Just now at bedtime, you made me and Daddy laugh so hard we cried. We couldn’t stop. I almost wet myself. I was singing “Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)” by the Dixie Chicks to you. You have definitely entered a silly stage and you often sing nonsense based on whatever I’m singing. Well, “Godspeed” became “Godjam” and then it became “Goddamn”. I have to believe it was an accident, because I doubt I have ever said that word in front of you. In fact, I hardly say that one at all. You obviously had no clue why we were laughing so hard. You seemed pleased at first, but started to get a little miffed that I couldn’t calm down enough to sing very well.

You are so smart. You are sweet and sensitive. You have been testing your limits, but most of the time you are so darn lovable. I can tell you want so much to please us, which makes me happy and worries me at the same time. If you realize we are displeased with you, you do everything you can to make us happy again. In fact, one time, when I was irritated with you after you had an accident, you kept asking, “How are you feeling? Are you happy now?” I felt so guilty for getting angry at you, but it is kind of hard to NOT be angry when you have to wash poop out of someone’s underwear.

After almost a year, you have finally started telling us occasionally when you need to go potty. I don’t really blame you for that. I think we started seriously training you too late and picked a really bad time for it.

Tonight, as we were reading, you looked at the book and said, “It was published by Penguin, wasn’t it?” You saw a book with a penguin on it at Half-Price Books one day and still remember my explanation. Now you point it out every time you see a penguin on a book.

You are such a good big brother. I can tell you love Lucy so much. You have already had to sacrifice a lot for a three-year-old. You were unexpectedly separated from us for most of a three week period recently when Lucy was hospitalized and her condition took a sudden turn for the worse.

I know that this situation will, and already has, given our family some blessings. But I know it is going to be hard on you to have a chronically ill sibling. We don’t know what the future holds for Lucy. I am hoping she will have a long life, but it seems almost certain that she will have a rockier path than some. And that will make yours rockier.

I worry about you losing your only sibling. I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to go through that heartbreak at all. I know that having another sibling would not ease the pain. But it would lessen the chance you would be alone. I still don’t know what will happen with that. But we will do our very best to make the best decisions we can for everyone.

I am so grateful you are healthy. We had your heart checked. I was so afraid you would have DCM, too. But, thank goodness, your heart looked perfect. I guess you aren’t completely out of the woods, since the doctors now suspect Lucy’s condition might be genetic. But I think you will be fine.

We spent the last two days mostly just the two of us. You have been sick with a nasty virus and Daddy took Lucy to her appointment with the transplant team, so I could stay with you. It has been so lovely to just be with you. It seemed so easy, despite the fact that you were sick. It seems strange to think it used to just be you and me most of the time. I am so glad we got this time and our date night last week.

I really did start this letter to you last January when you turned three and a half. It looks like it might end up being my letter to you at four instead. 🙂 Oh, little man. So much has happened since I last worked on it. Your baby sister died on Mother’s Day. She didn’t wake up from her nap.

This was one of my worst fears for you and her. I am so afraid you won’t remember her. I am going to do my best to help you hang on to some memories, but you don’t always want to talk about her right now or see pictures. That is understandable.

You are doing much better now. The first week was so hard. You threw lots of tantrums and cried. I’m not sure if this is a memory we really want to preserve, but one night, a few days after Lucy died, you flipped out in the bathtub. You were screaming and crying. I have hardly ever seen you like that. I suddenly knew it wasn’t about the bath. You were in pain. Your were screaming and crying in confusion and pain over your sister being gone. Your little heart was broken. And it broke my heart to see you like that.

I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it’s a blessing that you felt so much pain when your sister died. The more pain you feel, the more you loved. I know that sucks, but the love is worth it. The bond you and your sister had was worth it. I hope you realize it one day and can still remember her, with happiness.

I am so glad I still have you, my cherished boy. I hope you will not be an only child for too very long. Really, you are not one. You will always be Lucy’s big brother and she will be your little sister. No matter what happens in the future, you and Daddy and I have each other. And we will always have our love for Lucy in our hearts.

This experience will make you stronger and more compassionate. I know you would rather have your sister, but we have to embrace what we have and believe that everything happens for a reason. At least, that is what works for me.

I love you very, very, very, very much. To the moon and back. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. You are the most amazing boy in the world. I am so grateful and honored to have you as my firstborn.

These have been the most wonderful four years of my life, even with all the pain we have gone through. Onward, little man. We can face and do anything together.

Love, Mom (As you insist on calling me these days.)

Dear Lucy,

This is my first school morning alone since you died. Five whole hours to myself. This was my fantasy as a busy mom of two littles a few months ago. But this is not the way I wanted to get it.

I went to HEB after I dropped Max off. As is usually the case in the early morning at the grocery store, I saw many moms with 1 or 2 young children. After I saw the first two, I glanced at the empty basket on the front of the cart and felt a pang. I tried to smile at them, to communicate to them somehow that I am still one of them. I feel like I need a sign that says, “I have two children! I still have two even though one died and the other is at school! I have not been deprived or cheated! I am still like you!” I want them to know I am still in the club. I feel this crazy defiance about it all. Defiance in the face of death. Defiance in the face of life and its cruelty.

I am grateful for this alone time in one way. I have barely had a chance to breathe since you died. I never have a chance to really think about you or let the feelings and tears come. The writing helps to unlock all that. In fact, this letter was practically already written in my head before I got home. The tears started to come at the stoplight by the entrance to our neighborhood. I wonder if anyone saw me wiping them away behind my sunglasses. I wonder what reason they came up with for them, if any.

As soon as I got home, I dashed in, unloaded perishable groceries, ignored three puddles of cat puke (Have a word with God about Angus for me, will you? I’m worried about him.), and grabbed my laptop to write to you. When I wrote the first letter, I said I would keep writing to you. I have had so many feelings flitting around in my head the past couple of weeks. I don’t know why it took so long for me to decide to put them in a letter to you. That’s the best way for me to speak from my heart. I wonder if I really fully intended to write more letters to you when I said that. Regardless, here I am. I will take it one letter at a time.

I have said before that it is bizarre to lose a child. I think it is even more bizarre to lose a baby. You haven’t really gotten to know them yet. I loved and enjoyed you so much, yet sometimes I feel bad, because I think I miss the things I was hoping to do with a daughter, more than the things we actually did. I know that’s not true. I miss giving you bottles and kissing your temple. I miss singing to and playing with you on the changing table to distract you while I let you air dry. I miss standing you up on the changing table and letting you hang on to the stair banisters for a minute. I miss playing peek-a-boo in the foyer mirror with you. I miss getting you up from naps and seeing you first thing in the morning. I miss dressing you up. I miss hearing your voice in the middle of the night talking to yourself and calling for Daddy. I miss saying, “Let’s go get Brother up” or telling Max I’m going to “go get Sister up”. I said those phrases under my breath for comfort one day. I even retraced my steps for getting you up from a nap when I was in your room one day. Lift you from the crib, walk over and turn off white noise, walk over and grab Moonie, walk out the door. I could almost feel you in my arms.

But I was looking forward to “Anne of Green Gables” (book and movie) and the American Girl store. Tea parties and princesses. Or whatever it was you decided to like. You might have hated all that stuff. I wanted to get to know you and have you know me. And we will never get to do that now. You had so much potential, baby. Our relationship had so much potential. I wanted a daughter so much. And even if I have another one someday, I will not get to have you. It’s so cruel. It breaks my heart.

I find myself clinging to any connection with you, even as I let others go every day. I look at the dish soap and think, “When we bought that, Lucy was alive.” I look at the date on blog posts in Reeder to see if they were published before or after you died. Same thing with TV shows on the DVR. Or watching a show for the first time since you died. I hated to let go of the month of May, because it was the last one in which I got to be with you. I still have one tiny piece of Starbucks candy left from a package we were given during your last hospitalization. I don’t want to eat the last one. Silly as those connections might seem, they are links to your living, physical presence here and I hate to let them go.

I am so glad I am able to write to you, to be able to let the tears and feelings out. To feel like a “normal” mom who lost a child, if there is such a thing. Listen to me, I want to be a “normal” mom at the store and a “normal” mom who lost a child. I’m nothing if not ambitious, right? That’s one of the things you would have learned about me. You probably already had learned that one.

I hope you somehow know about these letters. I hope you hear me when I talk to you every day and tell you I love you and miss you.

Love, Mama

One of my favorite books series is “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” series by Ann Brashares. You wouldn’t think it from the title, but they are beautifully written, emotionally complex books. In the final book, “Sisterhood Everlasting” (SPOILER ALERT), one of the main characters dies. The night they find out one of the other girls, Carmen, thinks about the fact that Tibby has died first and tries to imagine what it must have been like for her, so that she wouldn’t be alone in some way. She feels that it is “horrifically brave of Tibby to be dead” (Brashares 67).

That quote came back to me last week when I was thinking about Lucy. I have spent my whole life frightened of death, especially violent death. When I was little, I was very afraid of losing my mother or of becoming sick and dying before I had a chance to grow up and do everything I wanted to do.

I just can’t believe that, at the age of fifteen months, my little girl has done the very thing I have been so frightened of my whole life. She died. She went into the great Unknown. She lived and she died with no fuss or overthinking or the hang-ups about life and death that we all develop. She probably had no choice in the matter. She probably did not even know when it happened. But she did it. And I am just in awe of her bravery.

She is still teaching me, because I am no longer so afraid of death. If my baby girl was brave enough to move on when it was time, surely I can be, too. Maybe part of it is hoping to see her again one day as well. I’m sure the fear will creep back at least somewhat, but for now, I am going to be brave like my little girl always was.

Brashares, Ann. “Sisterhood Everlasting.” New York: Random House, 2011.

(My MLA is rusty, but I couldn’t leave that citation in the blog post hanging.)

Yesterday was my first day at home alone with Max since Lucy died. I dreaded it for the last few weeks, but it actually went quite well.

I missed her so much at lunch. Lunch with my two kids had become a special part of my day in the last few months. Lucy was older and on a different schedule, so we were all able to eat together sometimes.

 I felt Lucy’s absence acutely as Max and I walked into HEB, followed by a wave of sadness when I saw the shopping carts. I remembered how they rode in a racecar cart together for the first time on what would be our last trip to the store together.

I saw a mom with a new baby and looked after her wistfully.

As we walked through the aisles, I started to think how I just didn’t want to be there without her. My limbs began to feel weak and fuzzy, like they do every time the reality of the situation crashes over me. The first time I noticed that feeling was when we had the endless interviews with the transplant team in Dallas at the very same time we were reeling from being told she could have a severe attack of ventricular tachycardia and die at any moment. My limbs kept trying to disappear on me. I kept feeling like I needed to lie down. But I forced myself to stay upright and smile and look like a mom fully capable of handling a child with a heart transplant. It was the most important audition of my life. I had to be a good heart mom and save my daughter’s life.

That feeling tried to overtake me again at HEB. But I forced myself upright again. I talked to Max. I looked at my list. Suddenly, I realized I was buying school supplies for my son for the first time.

My kid actually needs school supplies! I have a kid big enough to need school supplies! How did I not see this first coming? Usually, I would be geeking out looking forward to something like this.

I proudly found the Elmer’s glue and reminded Max what it was for. I marveled at the joy and hope that still remains in my life.

The day of my daughter’s funeral started so normally. It was a lovely, sunny day. I wore a new outfit. I was pleased with what I had planned. But instead of the excitement I usually feel before an event I have planned, I felt a dull dread.

We drove to the funeral home. All of a sudden, I was very anxious to get inside and be with Lucy. I was afraid the funeral home would mistakenly let people in before us and we wouldn’t get our alone time with her. I snapped at my husband for running back to the car for something.

Chris, Max, and I made our way inside and there was the little, red casket we chose for her. I could see the ladybug panel we had chosen. It was perfect.

She looked beautiful. I’m so glad we chose not to embalm or cremate. She looked as much like herself as was possible.

She wore the beautiful Janie and Jack outfit from the bluebonnet pictures. Moonie, her nightlight and one of her favorite toys, was at the bottom of the casket. I moved him up and placed him in her hand, turning him on. I wonder how long he kept glowing.

She clutched mismatched socks in the other hand, one yellow, one purple. She always pulled her socks off and we didn’t want to cover her precious feet. Plus, no one in our family ever has matching socks.

There was a family photo from our Christmas session and a carefully hidden piece of train track. We knew Max wouldn’t miss it and thought he might like to know it was with her one day. There was actually a funny moment when we were trying to find out if the track was indeed in there without letting on to Max that we had taken it. I kept spelling “track” to Rebecca, the woman we worked with at the funeral home. She had no clue what I was talking about, because she thought it was a puzzle piece. I kept spelling “track” while she looked at me confusedly until Chris finally said “train” and it clicked. It was just so absurd standing next to my daughter’s casket spelling the word “track” over and over again.

 We had told Max he could pick something to send with Lucy, but several days went by without him choosing anything. Then, the morning of the service, he spotted Lucy’s heart-shaped sunglasses when I was standing at the foyer table doing my makeup. He said Lucy should have them. So, he placed them in the casket after we got there.

There was also a stone that said “Love” that I gave to Chris for his birthday right after we became a couple, as well as a seashell that said, “Believe in Miracles.” My friend Jill gave that to me during Lucy’s last hospitalization and I carried it in my pocket every day. It sustained me through some very hard times. It seemed fitting to send it with Lucy. I’m not sure why.

Max kept asking why he couldn’t play with her. He was fascinated with the Kleenex boxes attached to the back of the pews. He had a clicking tongue conversation with his little cousin Leighton.

I asked for a moment alone before they closed the casket. That was easier said than done, since Max was sticking to us like glue. There was too much to say and feel in that moment anyway, especially with a three-year-old howling in the background. I was glad I had held her and talked to her so long a few days before. I backed away and watched them close the casket.

It moved me more than I expected to see my stepdad, father-in-law, and brothers carrying Lucy’s casket. It meant so much to me that she was in their hands. I can’t believe we weren’t even going to choose pallbearers originally.

The service was everything I hoped it would be. Many friends and family came. Some wore black, some wore colors. The weather was beautiful. Chris and I managed to make it through our reading of “Little Owl’s Night” and Max unexpectedly chimed in on the last line, “He was fast asleep.” It was the perfect ending. We couldn’t have rehearsed it any better.

The celebrant read a poem shared by my niece Madi “Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep” as well as a prayer shared by my friend Jill.

Some of my new friends from the SoCo Women’s Chorus, a choir I just joined, sang Lucy’s favorite song “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”. Then, my dear friend Mary sang “Long Time Sun” through once, so the rest of us could join in on the second round. That song is very special to me. I sang it to both of my kids when they were born and I wanted it to send Lucy on the next phase of her journey.

After the service was concluded, red heart-shaped balloons were distributed. Lucy was born three days before Valentine’s Day and her first birthday party was Valentine-themed. Also, my mother-in-law’s mother’s maiden name was Valentine. Chris and I had our first date on Valentine’s Day 2006 and were married two years and two days later. Our wedding was a bit Valentine-themed, too. The red heart, along with the ladybug, is Lucy’s symbol. I hope that those hearts will also come to symbolize other children with the same heart condition, who will have better options and better quality of life thanks to the donations made in Lucy’s memory. Thank you so much to everyone who has donated so far.

It was quite windy, perfect for a balloon release. I had to work to hold on to mine. It seemed like Lucy was tugging on it saying, “Gimme, gimme!”

 I said, “Ok, everyone, let’s send our love to Lucy.”

The balloons sailed into the sky. It was even more beautiful than I imagined.

Max started to melt down as we were trying to hug and thank people after the service. I noticed that the choir members were all wearing tiny ladybug pins and that my friends were wearing ladybug ribbons. I was so touched to see that.

I was so relieved that it went well and it was done. I am proud I managed to plan a fitting service and write the eulogy (with a little help from Chris). I am so grateful to everyone who helped.

That is how I said good-bye to my daughter.

If I had to pick one word to sum up this whole experience so far it would be “bizarre.”

That’s probably not what you were expecting. Well, me neither.

Ever since Lucy was first diagnosed last November, we have had to face the prospect of her dying. But it seemed very remote in the beginning. Years away. In fact, they thought she would recover completely at first.

I remember being SO ANGRY at God after we first found out. I remember locking myself in the bathroom in the PICU at Dell Children’s and saying terrible things in a furious whisper to God. I remembered a line from “Reba”, one of my favorite TV shows, “God’s a big boy, Reba. He can take it.” But I felt like I’d really taken it too far later and was ashamed and embarrassed. Especially since, at that point, we were just looking at a chronic condition to manage her whole life. I can’t believe now that I was so angry at the prospect of her having to take medicines and see doctors her whole life. I would be so grateful now to still have that option. 

I went through so much anger and sadness those first few months. I could not tolerate the thought of Lucy dying or even being at risk of transplant. I didn’t want any of this. I refused to accept it. But when her condition worsened and we had the big vtach scare in February/March, I was forced to accept the intolerable. Transplant, anything, if I could just keep my daughter. Looking back now, I guess that was bargaining. 

Like any parent, I’ve experienced terrible fear of anything happening to my children. In my imaginings, the pain was unbearable. Then, the worst happened. My child died. I found her in her crib. I felt the chill of her skin and the lack of breath and snatched her up and saw the worst. I clutched her to my chest and ran downstairs screaming for my husband, knowing the worst. We both attempted CPR and watched paramedics work futilely. We knew it was futile. I tried to pray she would breathe. But I knew it was no use. 

It was all horrible. The worst thing that has ever happened to me. I still can’t quite believe it happened. Excuse my language, but how the fuck did this happen? How did my child die? Did this really happen to me??

The reason I say it was bizarre, besides the obvious, is that it doesn’t seem that different from other losses I have experienced. This one is more present. It stares me in the face everyday. It is such a shock to have a baby to care for all day, every day and just have it all stop. No more diapers to change or bottles to give. My arms feel empty. It feels strange to carry a purse instead of a diaper bag. I don’t know what to do with all this time.

 There is the inevitable guilt we parents torture ourselves with even in the best of times, not to mention a time like this. But I am still standing. I am still going. I don’t know how I am doing that. I even feel guilty I am doing that. But I am afraid not to.  

I know what it’s like to stop. I know what it’s like to let yourself fall into a pit and stop caring. And I refuse to do that again. That would not be fair to me, my husband, or my son. Or the rest of the people who love and need me. And it’s not what Lucy would want.

I feel like I went through stages of grief mourning the life Lucy would have had before she even died. I went through anger and sadness and bargaining and acceptance already. So, even though this was unexpected, we were somewhat prepared for it.  

But I worry that I’m not letting myself mourn properly. I don’t want to bury my feelings and have them come back and bite me in the ass. I’m doing my best to mourn and go on at the same time.

I am going to talk to someone. Don’t worry about that. The whole family probably will. But for now, I have to accept that the world is still spinning and I am still standing. I have to accept that I’m laughing while I’m also missing my daughter and scared out of my mind about what the future holds. I have to embrace the fear and embrace the future. I’m not naive enough to think we are insulated from further misfortune now. But I am doing my best to have hope.

NOTE: I wrote all of the eulogy, except for the part about what Lucy taught her Daddy. He wrote that.

We can’t believe we had Lucy and we lost her. She was everything we dreamed of in a daughter. Beautiful, smart, strong, feisty, and sweet. She let you know what she wanted. First, with a loud, shrill scream, later with her favorite word “no”. She had about seven different “nos”, all with different inflections to express her level of outrage and distress at the time.

We loved the name Lucy Blythe for so many reasons. “Blythe” was an homage to Sara’s favorite book “Anne of Green Gables”. But most of all, “Lucy” means “light” and “Blythe” means “happy and carefree”. We wanted her to be free of the anxiety and second-guessing that had plagued us for much of our lives. And I think she did spend her life free of anxiety. She often felt sick and tired, but she, like all young children, lived in the moment. Except for when unpleasant medical procedures were being performed or she felt especially sick, Lucy was happy. She did not hold grudges (much). She did not worry about the future. As long as she was with her family, she was happy.

She was the light of our lives and so many others. She was always observant and solemn, which made her smiles and laughs that much more special. You felt like she really looked at and listened to you. She saw into everyone’s hearts and accepted what she found there.

She brought happiness into the PICU at Dell Children’s Medical Center. Children there are often very sick and unresponsive. Lucy was very sick, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her a lot of the time. People would come by because they had heard about the cute baby in that room. They would smile and wave and she would usually smile back. We were so happy she could brighten the day of people who love children so much that they are willing to withstand the pain of being with them and their parents in their darkest hours.

She taught her brother his first lessons of love and sacrifice. He loved to suck his thumb and hold her ear, to have her next to him at bedtime, to smoosh her face. She taught him generosity by letting him do all of those things and respect for others by squawking when she wanted him to stop. She is now teaching him about loss and moving forward.

She taught her mama to once and for all stop doubting herself. That she is strong. That she needs to stop torturing herself with fear. That she can do and survive anything. That she doesn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

She taught her daddy that chaos is best faced with resolve, patience, and forgiveness. To take comfort in the strength of a loving community. To sacrifice anything that isn’t important. To love without hesitation and have faith in family.

Lucy seemed to be on the path to being the child we wouldn’t be able to turn our backs on for fear we’d find her on top of a tree or in the middle of the kitchen table. I don’t know why she was turned from that path. But she did her best to experience and enjoy life, despite the pain and obstacles and extra work that were thrown in her way. She loved our cats. She was starting to dance. She loved Elmo and stacking toys. We were all just starting to know her and find out what she loved. We wish we knew more, but will hang on to what we have.

In honor of her, do something you love every day. When pain is over, let it be over. Do your best to love hard and live in the now, so you can let go and be satisfied when the time comes. We believe she was satisfied and ready to go. Her body was no match for her spirit. She needed to be free.

Our baby girl was so loved and made such a huge impact. She lived a full life. She did her work. As Sara’s aunt Martha said on the phone a few days ago, “She was your greatest teacher”. We are so proud of our little girl. Well done, lady baby. We love you. Good-bye.  

Amazingly enough, there have been only a couple of nights that I really couldn’t sleep since Lucy died. There was the first night, obviously. But then, a few nights later, I found myself terrified of the very thing I wanted most – being close to my daughter.

I had been sleeping with an article of Lucy’s clothing every night, but it really wasn’t comforting after the first night. I kept it up, because I thought I should. Also, I hoped the comfort would come back. But it didn’t. And that last night, I think it actually made things worse.

The memory is a little fuzzy now, but I think I dreamed about Lucy. I heard once that if you dream about someone who is dead, that is actually them communicating with you in the dream. At first, that thought was comforting. But I took it too far.

I am honestly not sure what I believe anymore. I was uncertain before I lost Lucy. I believe in God and heaven, but that belief has been shaky for awhile. It actually got stronger when she had that amazing turnaround in the hospital in Dallas. I am actually surprised that I am not angry with Him now. That might come, but for now, I am just asking Him for help.

I also don’t really believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t stop me from being scared of them. So, basically, I tried very hard to welcome Lucy if she was trying to communicate with me. I wanted to be open to that if it was possible. It’s my baby daughter, how bad can it be? But it was still too scary. It was the middle of the night, I was only half awake, and I became convinced I could feel Lucy next to the bed and I was terrified.

That happened to me after my grandmother died, too. I kept thinking I saw her standing next to my bed, gazing down at me reproachfully. I’m not sure why, since I loved my grandmother very much and had a great relationship with her. I guess it’s because I didn’t like the way I acted during what turned out to be the last time I saw her. I acted like the thirteen-year-old I was. Not rude or anything, but not terribly loving.

I just couldn’t calm down and go to sleep. Chris eventually got me to relinquish the sleeper I was clutching and calm down and go to sleep. There have been no repeat incidents. I did have another dream in which Lucy appeared, but it did not wake me up. I was just happy the next day to have dreamed of her.

I just don’t know what to think about this sort of thing. I have had several uncomfortable supernatural experiences concerning Lucy. The night before she was diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy, I felt inexplicably worried about her. I was standing outside of her room holding her and I happened to glance over my shoulder. I thought I saw a dark figure in her room. It was probably an optical illusion of some sort, since the room was dark, but it seemed uncomfortably like the Grim Reaper after she was diagnosed.

The night before she died, I dreamed she was dying and there was nothing we could do about it. The dream made me feel so terribly sad, but she seemed normal the next day and I shook it off. You could call all of these things mother’s intuition, but I don’t know what to think. Are there such things as ghosts? Spirits? Intuition? Psychic phenomena?

I don’t think I really want to know. Most of these things could probably be attributed to the close bond I shared with my daughter. Perhaps that bond can transcend death. I hope so. I guess anything that bolsters my hope that I will see her again is a good thing.

What kinds of experiences have you had after you lost a loved one? Looking back, were there any strange signs before they died?

It is very hard for me to cry in front of anyone but my husband. I tend to hide my emotions and try to be strong. I hide away when I’m hurt.  I break down in private or have small moments here and there.

The moments and the emotions hit me at the weirdest times. I went to Barnes and Noble with my brother and sister-in-law last Thursday to pick up a present for Max. I had been at Barnes and Noble with Max and Lucy exactly a week before, on my birthday. I knew it would be hard, but I wanted to go. Got to rip off the Band-Aid some time.

We went to the train table. I did fine picking out the gifts, but wanted to move away after that. That’s where my little train fanatic always wants to go at B&N. Too many memories.

We all kind of wandered away from each other and I walked around looking at the books while I had a chance. I have always loved to look at all the wonderful books there are to read. I love the look and smell of them. In fact, that same Barnes and Noble was one of the first places I went after I found out I was pregnant with Max. I wanted the baby to feel the wonderful way I feel when I’m around books. I even told him that.

But my body just felt heavier and heavier as I walked around. I finally sat down in the mystery section. I closed my eyes, but then I just looked at the books towering over me and felt a bit comforted. I was surrounded by old friends, dream worlds I could visit to escape the pain.

Suddenly, I looked to the left, towards the bathroom and thought, “Changing table. I have to go to the changing table.”

So, I got up, walked over there, and walked in. The first person I encountered was my sister-in-law drying her hands. We smiled and then I saw that the stall with the changing table was taken. Sort of. There was a backpack hanging on the hook. The owner was standing at the mirror doing her makeup. I went into a regular stall to try to wait, but she was still there when I came out.

Seriously, lady?? You’re going to hog the stall when you’re not even using it??? I need to commune with my daughter at one of the most disgusting changing tables ever!

I politely asked if she minded if I used the stall and she graciously moved her bag. I went in, locked the door, pulled the table down from the wall, and let the tears well up. The stinky changing table made me cry.

I had so many moments with my two kids in that stall. We went to Barnes and Noble to play with the train table all the time. It was an easy activity for a mom with a toddler and a newborn. I changed some really disgusting diapers in there. Max embarrassed and amused me in there. (I probably shouldn’t say how. He might not want that on the Internet someday.) I felt heroic and utterly defeated at the same time after wrangling the two of them in there. Plus, I just knew she had been there. I could feel her there, as ridiculous and gross as that sounds. That changing table was one of the few places I really let myself feel my loss during that first crazy week. And it was such a relief.

I bit back the tears after a moment, as is my way. I didn’t want everyone in the store to know I had been crying.

It’s those moments. The frustrating, disgusting, mundane ones. I never knew those moments in that bathroom would come to mean so much to me. But they do. Or maybe I just thought they would be a source of laughter, not tears.

“Little Wonders” by Rob Thomas is one of my favorite songs. I still remember the moment I first heard it in the car. (Back when I still listened to the radio!) I considered it for the first dance at our wedding. It was on the playlist when I gave birth to Max. (Lucy came too fast to even think about music.) This week, it has provided so much comfort. Those small hours at the disgusting changing table provide comfort. They matter.  I want to share it with you now.

I will write a post about the service soon and probably share the eulogy on the blog. For right now, I will just say that it was everything I hoped it would be. I think we honored Lucy properly. I just feel love for her when I think about it. Today has been harder. I have felt a lot of sadness and anger. But, honestly, I am glad I am finally giving myself a chance to feel those things. It is a relief.

Let it go,

Let it roll right off your shoulder

Don’t you know the hardest part is over?

Let it in,

Let your clarity define you

In the end

We will only just remember how it feels

 
Our lives are made

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists and turns of fate

Time falls away

But these small hours

These small hours

Still remain

Let it slide,

Let your troubles fall behind you

Let it shine

Until you feel it all around you

And I don’t mind

If it’s me you need to turn to

We’ll get by,

It’s the heart that really matters in the end

Our lives are made

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists and turns of fate

Time falls away

But these small hours

These small hours

Still remain

All of my regret will wash away somehow

But I cannot forget the way I feel right now

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists and turns of fate

Yeah, these twists and turns of fate!
Time falls away,

Yeah, but these small hours

And these small hours still remain,

Yeah

Ooh, they still remain

These little wonders,

Oh, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away

But these small hours,

These little wonders,

Still remain

Lyrics courtesy of http://www.metrolyrics.com/little-wonders-lyrics-rob-thomas.html.

Performed and written by Rob Thomas for the Walt Disney film “Meet the Robinsons”

The English major in me won’t let me print this without acknowledgment. Plus, it’s probably illegal to do so.

I had so many good times with the kids during what I now know were the last few weeks of Lucy’s life.

They played with a dollhouse together at Terra Toys on her last Monday.

They had a picnic together in the Super Yard after they both had accidents in the living room.

They crashed trains together on her last morning. Lucy gave one of her rare laughs the first time Max crashed Diesel 10 through the other trains.

And my sweet boy will not remember any of it. He will be doubly robbed, both of the sibling and playmate I so wanted him to have and the memories that sustain a connection after death.

That has been one of my biggest fears since Lucy became sick and now it is one of my biggest sorrows. Max will not remember his sister. We will tell him stories and he will see pictures. But he will not actually remember her. He loves her so much. He misses her so much right now and doesn’t understand what it means when we tell him she died. He was so happy to have a baby sister. He doesn’t understand why we let strangers carry her out the front door and not bring her back. I am hoping tomorrow will help him to understand or have some closure.

The fact is, he will understand in time, but he will forget her. And that breaks my heart. All of it breaks my heart.