Five years

It was grey the day you died.

There was this weird misty rain coming down and I remember stepping out of the car as we arrived at the hospital thinking, ‘this feels like the day she'll die.’

I knew. In that moment. I knew. Something deep within me told me that you were not going to come home with us. Not that drizzly fall day five years ago. Not ever.

The doctors had given us hope the day before, they actually told us things were looking not-as-bleak and that we should go home and rest up because you had a week full of surgeries ahead. A week full of surgeries. What the hell kind of world do we live in where babies are put through the things you were? I am so sorry, Peyton. More than you can ever know.

We took the doctors’ advice and missed out on spending the last night of your life with you. A night that an intern later wrote to tell me she spent in your room with another doctor, dressing you up in all your cute clothes and having a ‘girl’s party.’

Things were looking up—so why, then, when I stepped out into the brisk fall air to see you, did I know? Is that mother’s intuition? I feel guilty to this day over having had that thought because a good mother, the mother you deserved, would have stepped out thinking, ‘today is the day our miracle will come. Today she will be cured.’

I failed you even in that.

This year is so, so different than the others in facing your death day.

What I would like to do is crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and lay in the darkness with my anger and my bitterness and my longing and my aching arms and my heavy heart and my depression and my ptsd and my never-ending sadness at the thought of what you went through and cry until my eyes are dry and my throat is sore and my body remembers.

I need to cry. To wallow. To feel, really, truly allow myself to feel how absolutely shitty this is… again.

But I can’t.

I know that with the sun of tomorrow comes the responsibilities of caring for your brother and sister and it is they who I need to focus my energies on even if selfishly I want it to be my grief.

In that way I was lucky that you were our first because I was able to go there, to really go where I needed to, to feel what I needed to, to hurt how I needed to. I used to envy the loss moms who had other living children to help them get through the day, but I know better now. I know how much more difficult and complicated grief is when you have to be responsible for more than yourself.

I’m in this odd place of having all I ever wanted with your siblings and still yearning for something that can never be. And though my days are so full right now I feel like I am getting to take less time to tend to my wounds and it shows; in the way my body always hurts, the weight I carry despite my best efforts with diet and exercise, my wrinkles, my awful sleeping patterns and ever present fatigue, and worse—the many ways I feel I am less than I could have been for your siblings.

When they tantrum or fight or do the things that two year olds testing the waters do, I wish I was better. I wish I didn’t get frustrated, or tired. I wish I was one of those supermoms that it feels to me that every other mom is, who patiently smiles through their child lashing out. Shouldn’t I be basking in the glory of motherhood every moment of every day? Isn’t that what’s expected of me as a loss and infertility mom? Aren’t we supposed to walk through life thanking every lucky star that we have been given the opportunity to do this thing that comes so easily to others?

I know firsthand to never take one single beautiful moment for granted and this is why I feel angry at myself for being tired, for being frustrated, for selfishly wanting to lay in my bed and grieve you on your death day. I am angry at myself for being five years out and still feeling so broken at the thought of you. I am angry that your siblings have been robbed of growing up with you. That we have been. That at twenty eight I had to buy a cemetery plot and I became an old woman. That this broken world had to throw in our face the horrific truth that no matter what God you pray to or how well you try to live your life, cancer doesn’t care.

I spent a lot of time wondering where God was when we needed him in the hospital and the early years of grief that followed your passing. I’ve since given up on wondering and even that is guilt inducing because if I don’t hold onto my faith how can I ever see you again in the next life?

Tomorrow marks five years since the most horrific of days. Five years since impossible decisions to live with were made. Five years since I held you knowing I would never hold you again. Five years since I watched your spirit leave your body.

I’ve worked to move forward, as I know you would want me to. I love your siblings with all my heart. I try to be what I think you would want me to be in this world but there is this raw undercurrent that is ever present reminding me that this is always going to hurt.

I’m so sorry Peyton. For what you went through. For what we couldn’t do for you. For all you were robbed of in this life. I am so, so sorry, and so sad.

On Facing Your Fifth Birthday

The night before you were born, I couldn’t sleep. I laid in the hospital a ball of nerves—a million questions running through my mind. What would you look like? Were you a boy or a girl? What would we name you? Would you have ten fingers? Ten toes?

The night before you should have turned five, I couldn’t sleep. I cried in the shower until no sound came out. I laid in bed, the all-too-familiar aching in my arms returning.  A million unanswerable questions ran through my mind. How could this have happened? Will grief season ever get any easier? How do I make it through this month without letting your siblings know how absolutely, devastatingly broken I feel?

Today I should be sneaking into your room to sing you Happy Birthday and wake you with a surprise. We should have a party planned for you when you return from school, because as a “big girl” now, you’d be going to Kindergarten, or, maybe I would have kept you home to spend the day celebrating together. Instead I am wondering how to make it through this day without you here.

I am wondering how to keep your siblings from noticing my swollen eyes, my tears and heartbreak, because they are so little and impressionable and they deserve all of me all of the time. I don’t want them to know they’ve never had that. I don’t want them to know that before they were born, a large part of me died. I can’t bear the thought that they might look at me and see the brokenness.

Today I should be planning your party but instead I am trying to find a way, some way, to mark this day in a way that feels worthy of you. If the weather cooperates we will head to the beach and release some lanterns, but it’s a poor substitute for the joy we would feel watching you blow out your own candles, marking another glorious year here with us.

I wish I could be that loss mom who only recalls the blessings you brought into this world. In years past I have focused on your love and light on your birthday post, knowing that there are twenty-seven more days in grief season to go to recall the pain, but the reality is that the hurt of missing you on this birthday hit me with such a wave last night that I don’t know how to do this gracefully. 

I don’t know how to find the beauty in the pain when the memories of all you were put through in your short time on this earth are still fresh. Just as I felt five years ago, I don’t know how any of this could happen.  I don’t know how our reality could possibly be that you are not here with us.

Today marks the first of twenty eight days, your whole life, that I got to touch you, but it wasn't holding you in my arms, it was putting my hand in your isolette. Today marks the day that I watched a tiny baby become a little warrior. Today is the first of a limited  number of times that I got to look into your knowing eyes wishing for more for you. It should mark the day we became parents, it should have been one of the happiest days of our lives, but in reality today marks the second most painful and traumatic day of my life—a close rival in emotion to the day we said goodbye. Today marks the day that we were utterly, and completely blindsided by the cruelty that is cancer.

I know where you are your birthday is Happy. I know you are free of pain and surrounded by those loved ones who have gone before us, and I pray you feel a level of warmth and security that is the opposite of the suffocating emotions that I am feeling down here in this broken world. I just can’t seem to convince myself to be happy about facing yet another birthday without you here.

Some Firsts Are Harder Than Others

There is something particularly special, and difficult, about this Fall.

Special in that it marks five years that my heart has beat for my sweet little Peyton, loving her as I do even though she is not here. Difficult in that this year should have held such a magical milestone.

Grief is so strange. There are so many firsts we never had with Peyton. No first steps. No first words, or even first tantrums. No first rides on a bike, or first "I love you Mommy," moments, though her heart beating against my chest when I held her told me she did. 

There were so many firsts that should have been with Peyton that at some point in my grief I almost, *almost, became numb to them. I think that's what so-called healing is, your mind and body deciding to either numb-up, or give up.

I posted this photo on Facebook today, with the following message:

In another life on the other side of the loss universe, I gave you a hug and sent you off to Kindergarten this week.

I imagine that had she been born healthy, I would have had so much trepedation and so many nerves about leaving my child in the care of someone else for the first time. The reality is that from the moment of her birth, to the moment of her death, Peyton was always in the care of someone else, down to my inability to even make decisions over when to feed or bathe her. 

If Peyton were here, and healthy, this would be the moment in time for me to watch as my little girl became a big girl, and root her on as she walked off independent of me, into a new experience. Because of the cards we were dealt, that moment came in the pediatric intensive care unit as I urged her to please let go and be free of the pain of this broken world, when she took her last breath in my arms and was finally, finally, pain-free and at peace.

Even five years later, you never get over a moment like that. I imagine that in fifty years, I still won't.

I received so many beautiful messages from friends, but one response to my facebook post by a dear babyloss momma friend especially resonated with me: 

Perhaps in that other life somewhere our little ones enter kindergarten together, holding hands and filling the room with joy.

So tonight I am holding tight to the beauty of that image, to the thought of all of the precious and much loved little ones from this community holding hands as they walk into their first day in kindergarten, and all the while I am hoping that wherever Peyton is, she knows how very, very loved she is by those of us left behind.

Birthday Bucks, and Band-Aids

Hi all. This September 4th marks five years since our sweet tiny warrior Peyton’s birth. It’s hard to imagine how different life would be if we had our little girl here, preparing for Kindergarten.

To honor what would have been Peyton’s 5th Birthday (9/4) and the 5th Anniversary of her passing (10/2), we are once again Doing Good in Her Name.

We are super excited to announce that Doing Good in Her Name has teamed up this year with the Kacey Rose Foundation, an amazing non-profit formed in the memory of Kacey Rose Mitchell, that provides assistance to families affected by childhood cancer.

This year’s drive is called: BIRTHDAY BUCKS AND BAND-AIDS

Why Band-Aids?

We are collecting boxes of LATEX FREE BAND-AIDS with FUN DESIGNS to be given to the children’s oncology floor at Yale-New Haven Hospital. The hospital only uses plain, brown Band-Aids, and the ones with fun pictures, cartoon characters, footballs etc. really brighten up the day for the kids fighting cancer.

This is an easy and inexpensive way to spread some love, smiles and sunshine to these amazing little warriors, and to help us pay tribute to our sweet Peyton’s memory.

You can purchase and ship the Band-Aids to the address below yourself, or order them online and have them shipped directly through sites such as Amazon.com, CVS.com etc.

Why Bucks?

We are also collecting cash donations to benefit the Kacey Rose Foundation. Depending on the amount raised, the Kacey Rose Foundation will be providing kids who are fighting cancer at Yale-New Haven Hospital with a fun ice cream party, and/or a lucky patient (or patients hopefully!) will receive a cool new gadget i.e. an iPod, Kindle, etc.

Please donate what you can to help us make these kids’ stay in the hospital a little easier.

*Please make your TAX DEDUCTIBLE checks payable to Kacey Rose Foundation and put “Peyton” in the memo field.

In her short time here, Peyton gave us the gift of her unconditional love. Thank you in advance for helping us honor her memory.

Send your BIRTHDAY BUCKS and BANDAIDS (Latex-Free) through October 2nd to the following address:

Happy 5th Birthday Peyton/DGIHN
c/o the Kacey Rose Foundation
P.O. Box 4412 Wallingford, CT 06492

About Peyton:

Peyton Elizabeth Binder was born Sept. 4th 2008 to Andrew and Kristin Binder. Unbeknownst to anyone, our “beautiful, perfect little baby girl,” was born with infant leukemia (ALL w/ MLL rearrangement) the odds of which fall somewhere in the range of 1 in 50 million.

Peyton fought with the heart of a prize fighter through chemo, spinal taps and multiple surgeries, until sadly, on Oct. 2nd, she left this world from her mother’s arms.

During our daughter’s too-short life, we were the recipients of many acts of kindness and compassion, and this is why we strive to give back in her memory. Our goal is to honor Peyton’s life by Doing Good in Her Name.

**The Kacey Rose Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) organization.

IBMD

Our lives go on. We smile more. We laugh more. We love more. But we never stop missing. We never stop loving. ♥ Peyton ♥

Looking forward to a day of peace, healing and remembrance as I celebrate International Bereaved Mother's Day with Janessa's Mommy, who I've spent every IBMD with since losing Peyton, and Stella's Mommy, who I look forward to meeting. 

I pray that on this beautiful Sunday, you all feel your child(ren)'s presence with you more strongly, and a sense of peace in your hearts. 
xoxo

A lot changes, a lot stays the same.

Good Lord it feels like it's been a million years since I last blogged. The initial whirlwind of parenting multiples is finally slowing down a bit. My two are now over two (can you even believe that?!) and keep me running from morning to night, but luckily they're allowing me some blog time today.

So much has been happening here. You may remember me mentioning that Hubs got laid off last August ('12) from a company he was with (and loved) for nearly ten years. It came as a shock and we both job searched for over five months before he landed a new role in a different state, so we are now mid-move, having packed up our life into the back of the family van, and moved to a rental until we can sell our house.

This, of course, brought a lot of mixed emotions on the Peyton front, with her hill being mere minutes from our old house. I don't know, long term, how that will make me feel to be several hours from her grave, but for now I am somewhat okay with it--because I just got to visit her there last week, and will be home nearly weekly for the foreseeable future until we get the house sold.

Leaving our house, on the other hand, was a no-brainer for me. Our beautiful yellow and white colonial that I so loved upon purchase, has been an unhappy place for me these last several years. I cried more tears in that house than I could ever count, and I'd be lying if I said that moving from there is anything other than liberating (though it is very stressful not knowing when/if our house will sell.) It may sound silly to hate an inanimate object, but I truly do hate that house.

It had represented so many things to the newlywed me, that just didn't come to be with Peyton, and while we had so many happy memories there with The Snowflakes, they couldn't dull the pain of all of the memories spent grieving there. I died in that house, or at least the carefree me died there.

Beautiful as it is, with it's daffodils and bay window, that house will always be the place that Peyton never came home to. Even now, four and a half years later, we still refer to the little yellow room with the green carpet as Peyton's room, despite that fact that her decorations are long gone, and the furniture was passed down to her siblings well over a year ago.

The kids are doing well. Really well. Bubba is still incredibly allergic to milk, but other than that, he's bright and funny and eager to learn, and honestly the boy just makes my heart sing.

Squeaks, ironically, has become the more physical/less verbal of the two, though she still Squeaks with the best of them at 72,000 decibels when excited, so we will keep the name going here for blogging purposes.

They are joyful and hard work and in the momma department they keep me very happy, though I must admit that personally I've been in a real funk lately. I don't know if it is the constant running around after them, the years of sleeplessness, the aging that grief has done to me, the reminders that PTSD bring, the stressing and worrying and hyper-vigilance of parenting after loss, the financial stress we have been under, moving, or a combination of it all, but I feel like shit and it shows. 

I am 33 but I feel simply ancient and look even worse and just wish there was some great rewind or delete button that would help me feel something other than worn out by life all the time. 

I envision myself doing something freeing and just for me, like going for a run (which is a funny fantasy since I hate to run), but the reality is that we are in a new town therefore have no one to watch the kiddos, and I don't get five seconds of daylight without one or the both of them (who absolutely refuse to sit in a stroller now) attached to me, so for the time being at least, that's sort of out of the question.

Anyway, that's where we are at for now. 

xoxo

Two years

Today marks two years since my rainbows came into the world.

Two years of laughter and love and sleepless nights and joy and tantrums and learning and teaching and all the wonderment that is parenting.

I have been so very, very blessed.

Today also marks two years since I last blogged here on a regular basis. 

I think of this space often, but life has a way of getting in the way of my writing, and right now, here, in this moment, is where I need to be.

That doesn't mean that I miss Peyton any less, of course, or that I don't think of this community every day. It's just that my heart and mind are in the moment, and that moment is a blessing to be taken in.

There have been so many changes over these last two years. So many milestones. Even as they pertain to how we remember Peyton, the kids' relationship with her is ever evolving. They say, "Bye Baby" when we wave to her grave now, and smile at her picture. I even think I heard Bubba call her "Peytey" one time. 

I feel so blessed by the incredible amount of love and healing that my Snowflakes have brought my heart. They've reminded me that life can be truly beautiful. Even a life once so broken down by grief as mine was.

Two years ago they came into my world and changed me forever.

They shined light in the darkness. Taught my heart to beat again. They are my world, my reason, my all.

They are, in a word, LOVE.

So here is to you my little Snowflakes, on the occasion of turning two.

You make me so proud and teach me new lessons every day. I wish for you a Happy Birthday and may many blessings be upon you always.

I love you xoxo

Momma

Fake It Till You Make It

I'm sure just about everyone in the loss blogosphere has now either watched, or heard about, the Ricki Lake Show, and the episode they did last week on the topic of child loss.

I am over at Still Standing today, talking about child loss, and why the advice Ricki Lake's expert gave to a grieving mother of just five months to "fake it till you make it," was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Sandy Hook

Columbine.
Aurora.
Virginia Tech.

Horror stories that feel a world away. You weep for the families, you watch the coverage, but you think, "That could never happen. Not here. Not where I grew up. Not in my back yard."

And then it does.

Sandy Hook Elementary School was just a few miles from my childhood home. A short drive from the ice cream shop I would frequent after dance lessons. Nearby the movie theater where I went on some of my first dates.

How?
Why?

If you can't safely send your kids to school in Newtown, Connecticut--there is no safe place left.

Prayers to the victims. Their families. To the heroes. The community. To our state. To the first responders. To the littles who have forever lost their innocence at the hands of a man so selfish and full of evil that he could steal these 27 people from our world.

Prayers.
Prayers.
Prayers.

For My Little Butterfly

I did not write this poem.
I don't actually know who did.
I just know that a friend who loves Peyton dearly shared it with me today,
and it really touched my heart.

If anyone knows who wrote this poem,
please let me know.

Peyton girl, this one is for you. xoxo

“Butterflies are Free”

I thought I saw a butterfly,

Flying in the sky.

The colors were so beautiful,

It made me want to cry.

I know you were the butterfly,

So beautiful and free.

No more pain and tears for you,

Cause butterflies are free.

Free to watch the children,

Playing in the sun.

Smiling, laughing, growing,

Always having fun.

They will see the butterfly,

In the sky above.

They will smile and laugh and sing,

They will feel your love.

A day will come when in the sky,

There will be two butterflies.

We’ll fly together you and me,

Cause butterflies are free.

-Anonymous

I say this. And I mean it.

I went to visit Peyton on Thanksgiving morning. I had to deliver a set of handprint turkeys to her from her brother and sister, and with the twins down for a nap, and Hubs home making mashed potatoes, it was a rare opportunity to get up and spend some quiet time with my girl.

Her hill is just as serene as it's always been. Just me, and Peyton, and the squirrels rustling through the leaves, and a very faint hush of traffic off in the distance, and sunlight working its way through gray clouds. It was, like my girl, pure beauty.

I sang Peyton the songs I always sing her. Smile, You Are My Sunshine, Smile Awhile. I even added the Mr. Turkey song that C, the daughter of our closest friends, taught me.

Mr. Turkey. 

Mr. Turkey.

Big and fat. 

Big and fat.

I'mma gonna eat you. 

I'mma gonna eat you.

Just like that. 

Just like that.

C was born just a few months before Peyton. It's hard to believe, watching C now, what Peyton would be doing if she were still with us. Singing songs about Mr. Turkey that she learned at preschool. Playing dress-up with her friends. I walk the line, between remembering Peyton as she was, and imagining her as she would now be. I suppose we all do, don't we?

I filled Peyton in on all the happenings in our life. My mother's upcoming surgery. Our continued job search. Our plans with family for the day. I cleaned off her headstone, wiped the dust from her picture, gave her kisses and said the rosary, and then, as I always do, ended our visit by turning back to blow her a kiss and say:

"Thank you for all of the blessings you have brought into our lives."

I say this. And I mean it.

I am thankful.

I am thankful to Peyton for the little messages and signs; the way she pushes the boundaries of separate universes, planes, and times to bring me comfort in the knowledge that there is something bigger than me outside of this life.

I am thankful that because of her, I love more, and know how important it is to let those that I appreciate know just how much.

I am thankful for the community of strong, powerful women (and men) that she has introduced me to, whose grace, resilience, and compassion inspire me every day.

I am thankful for those who are earlier on in their journey, who reach out to me and afford me the opportunity to be a listening ear, to be able to say (and know and believe) "Things will get better. There is joy ahead for you."  Because I have been where they are, and I have survived it.

I am thankful, even, for the hardships, and the lessons I have learned. That there is no point in living if you are not loving fully. There is no point in being human, without reaching out through bonds to your fellow man.

I am thankful for the depth that Peyton has instilled in my life. The way she has taught me how little "things" matter, and just how much people do.

I am thankful that in her short little life, she loved me despite my weaknesses. She let me show my emotion and my pain, and still cuddled up to my chest to reaffirm what I meant to her.

I am thankful to Peyton for inspiring me to start writing, and for teaching me that the time to write is now, not someday.

I am thankful to Peyton for the role she plays in keeping her father and I together, when statistically, child loss and infertility can easily rip apart even the strongest couple. And I am thankful for the hand that I know she played in bringing her siblings into this world, healthy and whole. Without Peyton, our twins wouldn't be here. Some people struggle with that, but I accept it now for what it is--a gift.

I am thankful for the way that a falling leaf now represents so much, the way that rays of sunlight through dark clouds feel like a hug, and a flickering of the lights is a special hello.

I am thankful in knowing that I owe the best, and closest, relationships of my life to Peyton. She showed me who to let in, who to let slip away, and most importantly to truly appreciate those who love her as much as I do.

I am thankful for the lesson that life is too short to spend being miserable or surrounded by the wrong people, even if it took me millions of tears to get to this realization, and the freedom that comes (when I let it) in realizing that most things are out of my control. Peyton's too-brief life, and the change she affected over the course of it, taught me that most hurdles in life can be overcome with the love of good friends, a smile, and a (sometimes twisted) sense of humor.

Mostly I am thankful that I have always felt her with me. From the depths of despair, to feeling the sunshine on my face, and everywhere in between. Love never dies, and some bonds can never be broken.

I am thankful for all the blessings that loving and losing Peyton has brought into my life...

How could I not be?

Cobblestone Streets

We walk down cobblestone streets.
I hold tiny hands
while a girl, maybe fourteen

whispers to her friend,
"My Momma used to hold my hand like that."
I look down and see

your brother,
those big blue eyes
like yours, but not--young, naive.
He smiles and turns to

your sister
as she toddles along.
A pair of pants on her head,

making sense of the uneven path before her,
and I can't help but wonder

how lucky can one person be?

Catching Up

The days are busy, I am spread thin. As a result my blogging suffers--I apologize.

Thank you so much to everyone who continues to follow us on this journey. Here are a few updates:

My husband was laid off in August.

This week marked 20 beautiful months since the Snowflakes were born. It is hard to believe how quickly they have grown, the time is truly flying by. They are saying some words (more Bubba than Squeaks surprisingly) running and jumping everywhere. They love books, give kisses, and do lots, and lots, and lots of giggling everyday. They also have hit some really cool milestones, like ENJOYING putting their toys away at the end of the day, so that's awesome. With twins, so much of each day seems to fly by that I almost can't believe it when I sit back and see how much they have changed right before my eyes. Blink and you'll miss something it seems.

They are healthy and happy and such joys. 

Here is a fairly recent picture. It's not as easy as one may think to get a pic of two toddlers looking at the camera, as is evidenced here, but I can't help but think those rays of sunlight are Peyton, and that all three of my children are with me in this one. Bubba is in my arms, Squeaks is in the background pushing her car.

And here is a closeup of them:

Bubba left, Squeaks right.

I hope this post finds you all feeling some measure of joy in your day to day life, and that those still early in their loss, or struggling with infertility, can see where my family is, versus where it was two years ago, and know that this is possible. 

There is joy waiting for you after the sorrow. 

There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

I'll never be okay with this.

If you are looking for a positive or uplifting post, you have come to the wrong place.

Four years ago today, Peyton's suffering ended and my suffering began. 

I would like to say that loving and losing Peyton made me a better or stronger person. I would love to bask in gratitude for all of the lessons she taught me, or feel joy that she is with Jesus. There are a lot of beautiful ways I would love to be able to spin this in my mind, but the reality is that four years ago today my child struggled for her final breaths in my arms.

I will likely never be okay with that. 

I am angry and hurt. I am sad and bitter. I walk a line between feeling incredibly blessed and grateful for the joys in my everyday life, joys that I know Peyton worked hard to bring me, and feeling an immense amount of sorrow over how incredibly robbed she was. Of life. Of joy. Of growing up. Of everything.

Peyton never even felt the sun on her face. She never breathed fresh air. 

She was born into a world where she gave only love, and knew only pain.

I guess four years is not long enough to blunt my anger at that.

The Catalpa

I watch the catalpa sway.
Wind catching her leaves just beyond the window.

Planted after you passed.
She is taller than I, now.

Her roots--a lifeline that winds deep,
through rock and sand,
before finally meeting fertile soil.

She is here for the long haul.

Despite the wind that sways her.
The heat of sun that burns her.

Despite the loneliness the cold nights bring.
Or the weight of snow that pushes down upon her.

At times she may seem stark--bare even.
You may wonder what is left of her.

Yet she continues on.

She spreads her limbs to embrace the wind.
Even if doing so may hurt her.

She turns toward the sun to feel its light.
Even if doing so may dry her.

She allows the cold to seep into her trunk,
Even if doing so may chill her.

She does so, because that is what it is to live.

And like my love for you, little one, regardless of the elements, she grows.

Reaching up toward the heavens you now call home

--Kristin Binder 9/18/12

BlogHer Book Club: Trust Your Eyes by Linwood Barclay

I'm not usually a big thriller reader, but something in the description of Trust Your Eyes, by Linwood Barclay, intrigued me, and I jumped at the chance to get my hands on this book to review for BlogHer's Book Club.

We first meet Thomas Kilbride walking through the streets of New York. He is a world traveler of sorts--though we don't know why. A spy? I wondered. An FBI agent? I was unsure reading the opening of this novel what Thomas' role was. What I was sure of, though, was that he was important.

Thomas stops to take in the sights, and looks up, to a window to an apartment above the street, where he spots what appears to be a woman with a bag over her head. I wondered at this point what Thomas would do. Would he run up there? Would he save the woman? Would he spring into action?

Thomas did none of these things.

Ray Kilbride's father has just died. Home for his funeral, and to settle his father's affairs, Ray also is unsure of just how to care for his younger brother, Thomas, a schizophrenic.

Thomas is obsessed with maps. He spends his days on a Google Maps type program, called Whirl 360, virtually visiting streets in every city in the world. He memorizes what he sees--down to the smallest details. It is a talent, he believes, that will save lives. Thomas Kilbride thinks that he is doing important work. He believes that Bill Clinton has asked him to memorize all the maps before they are wiped out forever. He doesn't know exactly what will take the maps away, a cyber virus perhaps, or a nuclear blast, but he does know that when that happens the CIA can count on him to recall what was lost.

Many of the things Thomas Kilbride believes, do not exist, so when he comes to his brother Ray for help about what he believes to be evidence of a murder on Whirl 360, it is hard for Ray to take him seriously.

Only--there has been a murder, and it is linked to a high profile politician. When Ray agrees to check things out on a visit to the city to appease his brother, his snooping alerts the wrong people.


The thing that Barclay does so masterfully in Trust Your Eyes is create several character's with truly unique and distinct voices. While Ray Kilbride is the main narrator of the book, the reader also gets to experience the POV of Thomas, a gold-digger, a hit-woman, a crooked union boss, a politician's manager, and others, each with clearly distinct voices and motivations.

As a writer, I appreciated this aspect of the book just as much, if not more, than the page-turning suspense.

*I was provided with a copy of this book to read and review, as well as compensation for my time, by BlogHer Book Club and Penguin books. All views expressed in this review are my own. 

To Peyton, On Your Fourth Birthday

Peyton,

Today should be your fourth birthday. I imagine you here, brown curls, blue eyes. This year feels so different, or maybe the wave just hasn't come for me yet. I am sitting here, next to the light that you have been turning on for me all week, thinking about how amazing and strong in spirit you are to continuously find ways to remind us of how connected we are. How can I feel anything but joy, love, and appreciation for that? You make me so proud.

It feels like Daddy and I have every ball up in the air right now, juggling a million decisions at once, but I know in my heart that no matter where they land, no matter where we land, you will be right there guiding us.

Some days I miss you so much I can taste the mint of your hospital room in my mouth. I can feel your head on that heavy place in my chest. I nearly believe that if I reach out just far enough, you will be there reaching back. I am learning to live with the fact that you won't. I am learning to accept a life of never again getting to cuddle and hug you. It's hard. It's always hard. It always will be hard.

Some mornings I hear your brother and sister laughing in their room, and like to imagine you in there whispering little jokes in their ears, or singing them songs. Maybe you are.

Squeaks reached out for your picture the other day. I explained to her that you are her "big, little sister." She just laughed. I promise you that I will raise your siblings knowing how amazing you are.

Peyton, there are so many things I wish could have been different. So many things I wish I had done differently. So many scenarios that I play, and replay in my mind, just searching for the one that would have saved you. I wish I could have, baby.

Daddy, Bubba, Squeaks and I are going to be sending lanterns up to you tonight. Will you look for them, baby girl? Will you feel the heat of my hugs in their flame? I hope so.

I love you my sweet forever-baby girl.

I will never stop wondering why you had to go.
I will never stop feeling grateful to have had you to love.

Happy Birthday.

Love,
Momma

Peyton Elizabeth 

9/4/08-10/2/08

First. Loved. Always.

****

September 4th is here already. 

To honor what would have been Peyton's 4th birthday, we are doing a Gift Card Drive to benefit families with critically ill infants at Connecticut Children's Medical Center. From Sept. 4th (the day she was born) through Oct. 2nd (the day she passed) we will be collecting gift cards to the following establishments:

*Dunkin Donuts 

*Friendly's

*Shop Rite, Stop and Shop, Walmart, Target, Price Chopper, etc.

*Gift Cards to Area Gas Stations (Sunoco, Shell, Valero, Getty, Gulf, Mobil, BP) 

These gift card donations are tax deductible. Please provide us with your address and keep your receipt.

Gift cards of any amount would be greatly appreciated and can be mailed to:

Doing Good In Her Name

P.O. Box 1281

Burlington, CT 06013.

What does it feel like?

The first year was intense.
The second felt like Groundhog's day.
The third full of anxiety and apprehension.
The fourth?

Next month would be her fourth birthday, so what does this fourth year without my little girl feel like?

Surreal. Distant.

I wonder did that happen to me? All of that?  Was she ever really here? She feels so far from me some days that the distance hurts more than the memories. Did I really watch her die? Was I that woman who cried and wailed and gnashed my teeth in agony over losing her and my fertility?

Sometimes it is so hard to believe that this life, this me, is the same person who lived through that.

Sometimes my days are so busy, and exhausting, and full of squealing toddlers, and diaper changes, and milestones that I almost feel... dare I say it... normal.

I never thought I would find myself here. In this place that feels a lifetime away from that place, and while my blessings are too many to count, and I am grateful beyond belief for this new normal (or as close to normal as I will ever be) I have to wonder at what expense to her memory this is happening.

My visits to Peyton's hill are few and far between these days. Most often they are (like all attempts at accomplishing things with twin toddlers) hurried as I race to say what needs to be said, or to feel what needs to be felt, before one or both of her siblings start to cry, or fuss, or... or... or...

My Snowflakes are now 17 months old. 17 months that have gone by both at the pace of molasses and in the blink of an eye and they are truly all consuming.

They deserve all of their momma's attention... don't they?

But what about her? The littlest big sister.  What about the one who came first and mewed at my chest and comes to me in the quiet time before I fall asleep?

Does she not deserve my full attention too?

There is no handbook for this. No "How-To" guide on how to be a mother here and there at once, and so my children who are here, who press for my attention and fill my day with the delights of their milestones, they get nearly all of me these days. As a result, I feel a distance from Peyton that I never could have anticipated.

Even things I want to do, like focusing on Doing Good In Her Name, just don't happen. I keep saying next week, or next month, and those timelines come and go without progress because my here and now of mothering twins, and trying to freelance for extra money every free second I have, gets busier (and more hectic) by the day.

Of course the love I have for her is no less, but that connection--the way I used to talk to her in my heart and mind all the time--it is fading.

So what does this fourth year without her feel like?

I guess I would have to say that it feels like I am losing her all over again.

Tough Questions

I'm over at Still Standing today, talking about choosing how to answer the tough questions after your child has died.

So much change, so little time.

Each Friday, Exhale highlights a piece from a former issue on our FB page.

Today it came time to re-run a post I wrote for our Spring 2011 issue entitled, "Sharing My Fears on Grief's Roller Coaster." In that post I talk about what happened when we lost Peyton, and in the year that followed, and why I chose to write about my darkest days here, even when I knew that in doing so I was exposing my own weaknesses and feelings of guilt.

Today I was re-reading my own words, lines written in what feels like another lifetime, and I came across this:

"Twenty eight days later, Peyton’s entire lifetime, with a still empty car seat heckling me from the back of our Ford, my car rolled to the front of the line, the pulley chain was attached, and I began my unsteady journey along the tracks of the roller coaster they call grief. A ride that, up until recently, I wasn’t even sure I had the strength to survive."

I wrote that a year ago. One year. That is all.

I read that post and I think, "was that me? Really? Still so hopeless. Still so unsure that I could find joy again."

I cannot believe how much my outlook has changed, how much I have healed. I cannot  believe how much my pain and love for Peyton has morphed into something beautiful.

Sometimes when you are living life without all of your children here on earth, each day can feel like the one before and the one before that and the one before that. A never ending cycle of Groundhog's Day grief where nothing changes.

But you know what? Even when it doesn't feel that way. Even when (as was the case when I wrote this) a happily-ever-after feels insulting in its impossibility, change is happening.

Sometimes it takes looking back to see how far you have truly come.