Saturday, October 15, 2016

Breaking the Silence.

This morning I went to a kids consignment store for a big sale. The line was wrapped around the store and took forever, so I struck up a conversation with the other moms around me. As we chatted casually about our children, one of the moms asked me "so do you just have the one daughter then?" I replied, "Yup! At least for now!" and we proceeded to discuss her brood of boys and a million other things moms like to discuss with other moms.

But in my mind I was focused on something else. I clung to the detail of her question, "one daughter." I clung to that technicality, in thanksgiving.

As a loss mama, I am not at all ashamed of my baby in heaven and I'm never afraid to mention his name, but I often feel like I'm not supposed to in public. The times I've been asked how many children I have, and responded truthfully, have often been met with awkward silence and uncomfortable looks. People clam up and don't know how to respond, and their discomfort is instantly my responsibility. So when someone asks me if I just have "the one daughter" instead of "is she your only child?" I take advantage of the technicality and am grateful to avoid the awkward response.

However, at the same time, it kills me. It kills me that we live in a world where lost babies are treated like Voldemort... They must not be named or mentioned. It kills me that I even notice such a small technicality in a strangers question. A detail I would've never thought of a year ago. It kills me that our culture respects and honors the grief of a parent who loses their grown child, but not the parent who lost their child to early miscarriage. It kills me that I second guess every mention of my second child, no matter who I am talking to, just out of habit. It has to stop. We need to change the way we view pregnancy loss and stop being silent.

Today, in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, millions of parents across the world are breaking the silence and speaking the names of their babies lost too soon. We are rallying together as a tribe of moms and dads who never wanted to share this connection, but sadly do. We are sharing our babies, our stories, and our grief in hopes of changing the world. And I really think we can.

So here we are, broken and grieving, brave and joyful, as we carry this heavy cross we never wanted. See us. See our babies. Break the silence.


John Simeon Xavier, pray for us, sweet boy.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Two.

Another year of life has come and gone for you, my sweet girl. A year of growth, physically, mentally and spiritually. A year of unimaginable joy and heartbreaking sorrow. A year of new adventures and more love than we knew was possible. And although I want to hold on to this second year of you, I am thrilled to dive into the next chapter and continue watching you become one of the best people I know.
 

The last 12 months brought with them so many memories, both joyful and sorrowful, that I will cherish forever because of the role you played in them. Little memories that may have normally fell to the recesses of my mind, but because of you, they still play like movies on the walls of our home. And memories that might have held a negative cloud in my heart for years, but now hang lighter because you knew exactly how to transform them. 

I remember you nursing back to sleep after far too short of a nap many afternoons. Snuggling close, needing me in order to drift back to sleep. 

I remember the joy you had learning to run outside and not being phased by the many falls and scraped knees. 

I remember when you learned to sing nursery rhymes and how they distracted you from far too many almost-tantrums. 

I remember when you learned to say I love you and it came out as "ah-you" instead. Oh how my heart soared. 

I remember the day we found out you had become a big sister! You had no idea what that meant at 13 months old, but that didn't stop you from kissing my tummy any chance you could!

I remember you learning to share and play with friends. But also struggling with a major biting problem... That thankfully was quickly outgrown. 

I remember the red of your nose in the chilly Colorado winter air. And how you played in the snow, always getting upset when it would stick to your boots and gloves. 

I remember the day we saw your brother for the first time and discovered he no longer had a beating heart. The moment you saw your mama and daddy crying, you knew we needed you more than ever. I don't like to remember much of those days, but one thing I'll never forget is the way you loved me then. Somehow, you brought joy into the pits of despair. 

I remember you experiencing the beauty of advent and Christmas in a much more powerful way this year. 

I remember you self weaning and how I cried for days about the end of our nursing relationship after 17 months. 

I remember your first ever pig tails. You looked like you had horns and I took a thousand pictures. 

I remember the Broncos winning the Super Bowl and the joy you had watching your daddy sing "We are the champions!" at the top of his lungs!

I remember you getting your first four molars all at once and how snuggly you became when they caused you pain.

I remember the way you'd welcome your daddy home everyday after work, waiting at the window saying, "Where daddy go? Oh der he is!" 

I remember all five snow days of the year, one of which dumped over 20 inches of snow on us and we, of course, took you outside to play in it! 

I remember your first time coloring Easter eggs. You kept saying "wow!" as the eggs changed colors. 

I remember when your speech exploded almost over night. I'll always love that you say "mo mo daddy" when you want more of something, even if you're asking me. And how you cry "I sowwy" whenever you are hurt or sad, even if you have nothing to be sorry about.

I remember how you literally became obsessed with your Minnie Mouse dolls and eventually your baby dolls. You're such a great little mama to them.

I remember the look you had when you met the salty Atlantic and Pacific oceans for the first time, within three weeks of each other. 

I remember the look your daddy had when he saw you enter the Happiest Place on Earth this summer. It was his dream come true.

I remember putting you to bed the night before you turned two. I held you close, kissed you, and with tears in my eyes, remembered the beauty of your birth, two years before. 



All of these memories and a million more flood my heart everyday. If I've learned anything this year, it is that I can never take any moment with you for granted. You're too much of a blessing to do so. 

You are my miracle baby. The one who made me a mama. You show me heaven here on earth. And I am forever in debt to our Lord for entrusting your soul to me. 

I love you. I am proud of you. And I cannot wait to see what the next year has to offer. 

Happy birthday, Cana Marie. 

Two.

One.

Zero.


Saturday, July 2, 2016

A Different kind of Celebration


Today, July 3rd 2016, I should have been waiting impatiently for your arrival. I should be googling how to induce labor and how to deal with two babies under two. Instead, today, I am visiting your grave, praying with you in Mass as heaven meets earth, and still coping with the ache of an empty womb... 

July 3rd won't always mean as much as it does today, just as August 26th doesn't mean much anymore. Just arbitrary due dates, neither you, nor your big sister arrived on. But today it's hanging here, heavy on my heart, tearing open the wound of December 23rd all over again. 

I can't help but remember the details of that day, the anger, the fear, the pain. It would be so easy to slip into the horrible sadness of it all. It'd be easy to lock myself away today and do nothing but cry and wallow in the miserable ache that comes with losing a child. It wouldn't take any effort and in some ways it'd be completely understandable for me to do. 

But instead, today, I'm at peace. I'm choosing to replace the ache of an empty womb with the joy of a full heart. I'm letting go of the awful memories and clinging to the reality of what I have been given instead: a saint. 


Over the last six months, I've struggled to fully understand the magnitude of my statement above because I was so often focused on what I had lost and not what I had gained. I held on to the loss of a child and forgot about the joy that comes from gaining a personal intercessor in heaven. But in the last couple of weeks I've felt such a shift. I've begun to see the fruit of your prayers for me, prayers of healing and comfort and trust. And I've begun to realize that although terrible things happen, we can choose to bring joy into them. 

We chose to name you John Simeon because of the comfort we felt while reflecting on Mary, the Mother of God, and the Apostle John at the foot of the cross. Despite the heartbreaking scene, peace flowed from Christ's words to his mother and friend: "Woman, behold your son... Son, behold your mother." Mary lost her only Son that day in the cruelest of ways; but in reality, she gained a son in John the apostle and, even better, eternal life through the sacrifice of her Son. John, too, lost the one he loved so well in such a horrible way, but in reality he gained a mother and the gates heaven were opened to him. 

The moment I held you in my hands for the first time was different than I ever could have imagined. Like Mary, my heart was breaking, but the moment I laid eyes on you, I heard the words of Christ, "Woman, behold your son." All the fear and pain and anger rushed away into the abyss and instead peace flooded in. In that moment of tragedy, I smiled. I stared in awe. I loved in a way I didn't know I was capable. I met a piece of heaven. 

That moment of peace and joy has always remained. It is a gift that cannot be given back, but it can be ignored. And to be honest, I've ignored it too often these last six months, choosing instead of remember the sorrow and loss. 

But today, I choose joy. I choose peace. I choose to focus on the gift of my saint and not the loss of my earthly child. I choose to celebrate and not mourn. I choose to remember the words of Christ, and behold my saint in heaven. 

This day will not mean all that much in the future, just an arbitrary due date, you did not arrive on, but today it means a lot. Today, it means peace. 



St. John Simeon, pray for us, sweet boy.