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.

My 100th Post...

Okay, that is a lie. This is actually my 124th post, but somewhere between grief, infertility, and the holidays, post number 100 got lost in the mix.

I feel the need to celebrate this blog and this community which have meant so much to me. What better way to celebrate in blog world than to do a little giveaway, right?

My mother in law was kind enough to donate these absolutely beautiful little angels for me to share with my readers. There is a pink one...

and a white one...

As always, my photography skills don't do them justice. They are just so delicate. I think they would be a nice addition to any memory box, but really you could use them for anything.

If you would like to be entered in the giveaway, just leave the word "angel" with your comment below. I will do two drawings on Sunday evening, that way everyone in all time zones can participate. Happy Give Awaying!

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So now down to business. We went to our first IVF seminar last night. It was a two and a half hour talk about the medical and emotional side of IVF. I have to tell you, I was pretty annoyed at the number of fathers in that room who were complaining about having to go to the seminar, or playing on their i-phones the whole time. I mean, in the grand scheme of IVF, the men have it pretty easy. A few specimens, and that's it. There were these few guys who laughed every time the word "sperm" was said, I mean come on, really? Man 30 has made me a real old coot!

There is a lot to think about with IVF, what to do with the embryos that don't get implanted, for one. As well as if we would be open to a few processes called ICSI (sticking a sperm directly into the egg) or assisted hatching (where they break the shell of the egg away if it is not doing it on it's own.) Something about the romance of creating a child really gets lost in the IVF process. That being said, I am still grateful for the process, it gives us a chance at having our own kids, a door that would have been totally closed for us because of my tube situation.

They discussed with us the side effects of the medications, and walked through all the steps that we will take on this journey. Lots of poking. Even more prodding. That's okay though, if I have to be treated like cattle to get to some healthy rainbow baby(s), that is fine by me. I have to admit though, some of the details did make me feel like I was in a twilight zone episode or something. It is very hard to wrap my head around making a baby in a test tube, then putting it in me, or that they can make an embryo from us, then leave it on ice for years until we want to use it. What happens to the embryo? What are they feeling? These were all the things going through my head.

This seminar is done twice a month for couples starting on this process. The clinic we are going through is the largest in our state, and I was blown away by the fact that there were probably forty couples there. That means roughly eighty couples a month come through this clinic to start this process. They said they do 1000 transfers a year. Once you are in it, isn't it amazing how big the ALI community around you seems to be?

I had a few commenters on an earlier post ask me why it was so expensive for the first round of IVF. There are a few reasons, probably not the least of which is where we live. This is a very expensive state. I used to work in occupational health, and when our clinic in Minnesota would charge $20 for something, say a drug test, the same clinic in our state charged $68. I am sure that has something to do with the price.

My understanding too, from what the financial people have told me, is that the first is most expensive because that cost involves lots of one time testing that is done to get you ready ahead of time, the medications, and the extraction of and freezing of eggs. I have been told that should they get more than enough eggs (this is not a given so we will have to wait and see) they can then freeze them, and if we had to go through more than one round because this round didn't work, or we wanted to try for more children in the future, it would be a less expensive process because they would already have the eggs so that cost on medications to increase my number of eggs, and for the extractions would be cut out. I am really, really praying that this works for us.

So this morning the hubs went in for his first portion of the process. Like a soldier heading off to war, he left here today, cup in hand, to do the less than glamorous work of giving a specimen while in the doctor's office. He was great about it though, donning a very brave face. I think if I had to do that, it might feel a little awkward. I have enough trouble handing over urine specimens without feeling sorry for the person who has to take them. Poor hubs, he really wanted to do it here and transport it, but it is SO COLD outside, we didn't know that he would be able to keep the cup at body temp for the half hour drive.

He told me that the experience was a little weird, but not too bad. He said they put him in a room with a couch (covered by a paper sheet haha), some porno mags and a tv. Like a very sterile motel room I would imagine. Now that he has done that deed, I think he is safe for a while.

Today I go in for some day two hormone testing. I think once that is done, and all my records are sent over from my doctor and the hospital that performed the HSG, we just wait for someone to tell us our next steps. I have to admit, even though I don't know where this is going, how, or when, it feels really nice to have some next steps.

PS... thank you for all the wonderful birthday wishes, and for those of you who commented on that pic of Peyton. I love it too. Haha she really did look like she was up to something or making some type of plan. I like to think of what she was thinking about when she would put her hand under her chin. She was my very own mini version of "The Thinker."

For those of you who don't know what I am talking about, here is that picture...

What a little beauty you were Peyton. I love you my sweet girl, and miss you in a way that no words typed here could ever really do justice to...

Today I turned 30, Mel's Show & Tell.

I am officially 30.

It happened sometime today around 3:25 in the afternoon. Feeling anything but Happy this Birthday would have been really difficult. The love of family and friends came through in many forms, making the day a joyous one.

The first was this beautiful bouquet from hubs, delivered to my front door.

More smiles followed with lots of facebook, email, and blog well wishes, and various silly renditions of Happy Birthday sung to my voicemail. I was sung to in an operatic voice. A pirate voice. Silly voices. The voices of my nieces and nephew (well not really, he is only a few months old, but I am sure he was there by the phone too so that counts), a Cha-Cha-Cha version of the song, and I was even sung to in Polish by my Hungarian best friend, a skill that until today, I never knew she had (and we have been friends 20 years!)

The second time the door rang, a delivery man brought these goodies. They are chocolate covered apples and pears, sent to brighten my day by one of my very best friends.

And then tonight, I rang in this new decade over a wonderful dinner with my hubs, parents, aunt and uncle.

When we got home, Charlotte even got into the Birthday celebration by sporting this cute bow.

Yes, today was a very Happy Birthday. The only thing that could possibly have made it better, would have been…

To see what others are Showing and Telling, visit Mel's blog here.

Bah Humbug.

Last Christmas came right after losing Peyton, in those first fresh months where I wore only pajama pants, and didn't run a brush through my hair. To be honest, it was about ten months till I cared at all about my appearance, and even now, it doesn't fall high on my list. I was angry last Christmas, that it had to come at all, that I had to watch my nieces (who despite this loss, I love dearly) open their little girl packages, while my little girl laid frozen, or worse, beneath the earth. I had worked so hard to be healthy while I carried her. I had held her. Loved her. Nursed her. Where were my little girl's presents beneath the Christmas Tree?

Two years ago on Christmas (Eve to be exact) I found out I was pregnant, and that night we broke the news to my family. The house was filled with celebration, and all felt right in the world. We were having a baby. That was going to be our last Christmas without a child. I hate myself now for assuming so much, and having taken the promise of her existence for granted.

This Christmas, two full years after first learning of Peyton's existence, I feel myself going through the motions, but really not "feeling" the holiday spirit. I don't even want to write out the cards. What is there to say?

"My child died. I fell apart. Your lives are all better than mine. Bah-Humbug!"

I try to remind myself of all the things I have to be thankful for. My husband. My family. My friends. My good health, and that of those I love. My new rescue puppy Charlotte. The generosity of those who have donated to Doing Good In Her Name. My writing. The friends I have met in this blog world. And yet, even among these many things that I list, there is a huge, empty, void. She is gone. She is still gone. Was she ever really here?

I would like to say that with the passage of time I have come to accept this loss, but it is not true. Instead I sort of cope, like an old man with a wooden leg, I limp along, but never truly find my way back to a comfortable stride. Something is off. Permanently.

Yesterday we set up our "Peyton Tree" which in reality is not a tree at all, but a plant. I wanted something living, something that I could try (crosses fingers) to keep alive in this house to always remember my sweet girl. I thought I would feel better after finishing the tree, but I didn't. Instead I was sort of pissed off. I shouldn't have to have a Peyton Tree. I should have a Peyton. A smiling, laughing, dancing, little 15 month old to thank the Lord and Heaven for having blessed me with. This is our second Christmas since Peyton was born, and this is our second Christmas without her.

I hate posts like this. Ones where I have no wisdom to offer, or comfort or inspiration to give others on this journey. I read some women's blogs and feel somehow "less than". They have unconditional faith. They find joy in the season. I read them and wonder what is wrong with me, why I can't see the forest through the trees, and then I remember it is because my branches are empty. There is no baby on this tree top. Little hope of fresh buds in spring. There is loss, and infertility, and a looming sense of failure and inadequacy, and that is the reality of mothering a dead child during the holidays.

This year I have a new nephew, he was born just after Thanksgiving, and his healthy arrival is another thing I recite on my Thankful list. I didn't blog about my sister's pregnancy, and how it felt for me, because I didn't know how to do those feelings justice. I would like to say I had been a better sister as she carried this year, but I didn't have it in me. She said she understood, but I feel bad for it nonetheless. It is not her fault that my attempts at having a family have been so tragic, and it is not my little nephew's fault that his older cousin, the one he will have outlived by the time we gather around that tree, is not here with us. He deserves to be surrounded in joy and celebration, regardless of my own personal crap, because his healthy arrival on this earth is a little miracle, and not one to be taken for granted, as we all know too well.

This year I will sit around the family tree and watch all the baby items be opened, and smile as my nieces, too, open their gifts. I will survive this Christmas, as I somehow managed to last year (thanks in large part to alcohol and some really bad Karaoke) because the world just doesn't stop for me. It continues to turn, even as ours has come crashing down.

I will go through the motions, and fight back the tears with a smile on my face, because that is what you do in babyloss land, and I will hope, that even if just for a moment, my smile will feel good, and genuine, and real. As I do, I will be praying that wherever you are, those moments of joy, no matter how brief, come calling for you, too.

Forever Young - Mels Show & Tell

It has been over a year since Peyton went to rest on her hill, and last week came a truly bittersweet milestone, the laying of her stone.

The old me could never have imagined having to do this. The old me could never have imagined being in a place so unfair and unnatural that I would have to design my child's gravestone. As much as the old me couldn't have imagined it, the task was before us, and as truly painful an obstacle as it was to face, as Peyton's parents, Dru and I were committed to doing it together, and committed to doing it right.

After many, many months of designing, scrutinizing, and redesigning, we finally reached a place where we felt in our hearts that our objective had been accomplished, we had captured Peyton's beautiful spirit in stone.

Today, for show and tell, I share this newest addition to Peyton's Hill with all of you.

 

Here is the full view. For those who cannot see it, the inscription along the bottom reads :  

An angel in the book of life wrote down our baby's birth, and whispered as she closed the book, "too beautiful for earth."

Our baby girl.  This picture doesn't do justice to just how beautiful she looks here.

The engraving really captures her spirit; the sparkle in her eye, and the sweet smile on her face.

In Peyton's honor, we included butterflies on her stone. We have always associated Peyton with butterflies, feeling her spirit in them as they fly all around us. If you look very closely to the top picture, there is even a little butterfly sitting on her name.

We also had them engrave her little hat. This hat was blue with a green pom on top. It is a hat that my mother in law made for her, and also the hat we chose to have her buried in.

I know it was a long time coming, our little girl has waited thirteen months now for her stone, but we feel in looking at it, that it was well worth the wait.

To see what others are showing click here.

A new dawn. An old reality.

A new day has dawned,

and with it a fresh start.

A blank canvas allowing for countless opportunities.

But you, my child.

You lay still below the earth,

as you did yesterday,

and the day before that,

and the year before that.

Thirteen months of mornings have dawned,

three hundred and ninety seven new days.

Where was your fresh start?

Where were your countless opportunities?

A year and a month of sunrises have come and gone,

and not one of them had the power to make this right.

Not one of them could bring you back to me.

~Kristin Binder


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For those of you who don't know her, Mel is an incredible woman who does a tremendous amount of good connecting those of us in the Baby Loss, Adoption and Infertility world. Please head over here and offer her some comfort, as she mourns the passing of her grandma... an incredible and spunky woman.

I will never forget...October 6th.

I will never forget...

the sounds of my own sobs echoing through the church.

I will never forget...

the feeling of Daddy's arm against my cheek as tears overtook me.

I will never forget...

the way your pacifier, the aqua green one, felt clenched between my fingers during the service.

I will never forget...

the notes of hymnals sung at the alter.

I will never forget...

averted glances as we made our way back down the aisle.

I will never forget...

how easily the man lifted your tiny casket in his arms and placed it on the back seat of a town car for transport to the cemetery because your small body didn't warrant a hearse.

I will never forget...

the way that ray of light hit your casket during the service at the grave.

I will never forget...

how deeply I felt I had failed you.

I will never forget...

Today marks one year since Peyton's service. Below is the Eulogy that my sister, her Aunt Kate, so beautifully delivered.

Eulogy for Peyton Elizabeth Binder
Monday, October 6, 2008
Saint Patrick's Church, Collinsville

Today we are here to say our farewells to my niece, Peyton Elizabeth. A child of God, whose life here with us was a brief moment when compared to each of ours.


It is so hard at this moment to think of the right words. I could talk about how unjust this is, that this innocent baby should be born with such a terrible disease. I could talk about how unfair it is that Krissy and Dru, two parents with so much love in their hearts should have to endure such a crushing grief and immeasurable pain. I could speak of Peyton's grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who all loved her so much and are completely heartbroken. But what I really want to do is tell you about a special little girl, who I had the honor to know, and who was very, very loved....Peyton Elizabeth.


We knew before Peyton's birth that she was going to be one special child, just by looking at her parents. But when my sister showed off the ultrasound pictures taken of Peyton in-utero, these pictures revealed such a laid back personality. I mean, Peyton looked in these pictures like she was on vacation, lounging around in a hammock with her legs crossed, sipping a margarita maybe. And when she was born, it soon became apparent that this was in fact Peyton's true personality. She was the most easy-going baby, who rarely fussed, even when things got tough. She enjoyed being held and taking in all that was around her with her bright, beautiful eyes.


Peyton had such a smart look about her. People, including myself, would say that her eyes and hair looked like Krissy's and her cheeks were all Dru. But the fact of the matter is that she was uniquely Peyton, inside and out. Even though she was only a little over 6 pounds, Peyton had the heart of a 200 pound prize fighter. It has even been said that she had a mean left hook and that Krissy and Dru would watch her practice her boxing stances, using her baby mittens as boxing gloves, getting ready for the next big fight. The truth of it is that Peyton, and her devoted, loving parents Krissy and Dru taught us all how to be brave and stay strong, no matter how good or bad the odds are.


Peyton, along with Krissy and Dru also taught us what it means to love and be loved. Peyton never knew a day without love. Krissy and Dru prayed over her, held her, stroked her head and cheek and gently kissed her forehead each day, virtually living at the hospital. Despite the odds, through their love for Peyton, they never abandoned hope. Kristin and Dru showered her with as much love and affection as two people could humanly give a child. As I said earlier, Peyton was an easy-going baby who liked to be held, but there was a certain look in her eyes that she gave only to her mommy and daddy. She basked in the love they gave to her, and returned that love to them in her eyes. Peyton was surrounded by love from her birth until her death. She was surrounded by love in the operating room when she entered this world. She was surrounded by love when she went to heaven in my sister's arms, with her daddy stroking her head.


And that love extended far beyond the confines of the hospital. Peyton touched the hearts of all who knew her and all who knew of her. In only four weeks, she left a legacy that will live on forever in the hearts of many. She showed us what is really important in life. She taught us to be brave when things get tough, she taught us what it means to love and be loved, and she taught us to forget about the petty things, because life is fragile. People: friends, family and strangers alike all came together to pray for Peyton, and to support Peyton, Krissy and Dru. Family and friends became closer and people who had become estranged from one another broke down the barriers to speak to each other again for the first time. Peyton is, and will always be an important part of our family, and her legacy will go on.


Now I will read you a poem which my sister gave to me this morning. It is a poem from Krissy and Dru to their beloved baby Peyton:


To our sweet infant daughter
who now dwells in our heart
we are aching just to hold you
now that we are apart.

To our sweet baby Peyton
with those eyes of dark blue
for your mommy and daddy
you were a dream come true.

We so loved to hold you
and staring into your eyes
the way you loved us back so strongly
was our life's greatest surprise.

Taken from us so quickly
this we cannot understand
we miss each toe on your footsie
and long to hold your little hand.

Peyton our angel we miss you
we pray you're peaceful at rest
Remember daddy's soft words and cuddle
and how mommy sang and held you at breast.

Even though just a baby
your fight for life would inspire
when we felt so helpless and hopeless
you forged ahead never tired.

This sense of loss unrelenting
long to see your eyes sparkle, that cute face
Remembering how you looked at us knowing
Then left this world in our embrace.

We love you so much sweet angel
you were a life made of our love
We'll always miss you darling Peyton
Please wait for us to meet you up above.
~Kristin Binder

Grief. Hope. Thanks. - One Year Without Peyton

At this time last year... this is it. This is the last time I can say this when referring to Peyton's life. Tomorrow marks one year since this beautiful little girl, wrapped in the arms of her mother, stroked on the forehead by her father, and held in the gaze of her loving grandparents, took her final breath and left this world. Tomorrow night I will think about how at this time last year, at around 5:00 pm, Peyton Elizabeth left her body, the body that had brought her so much pain and suffering, and took flight. I like to think of it that way, that Peyton fluttered out of that room, leaving the heaviness of the air in it, the sobbing cries of her parents and grandparents, the averted eyes of the caregivers, all behind. I like to think that Peyton went somewhere beautiful and free and began her new journey.

In this past year I have felt Peyton's presence so many places. The flashing of our flashlight. In the shapes of clouds above her grave or the skies outside a plane window. In a "p" that seemed to appear in soap on the shower wall. In the fluttering of butterflies and the breaking of sun through a gray cloudy day. For the last year I have felt her with me at my lowest times, her soul just barely out of reach, and in feeling her there, felt hope. Hope that life would once again hold joy and peace for me. Hope that maybe this wasn't it for my child. Hope that she made it to a better place, and is at peace with what happened to her, and knows how very, very  much her Mommy and Daddy miss her. Hope that the final breath, the one she struggled to draw to stay with us, did not mark the end of my child. Hope that somewhere, somehow, in a way that I am too insignificant to understand, Peyton goes on.

When I think of this past year, I can't help but be reminded of the famous poem Footprints. We all have our own Gods, our own beliefs, our own ideologies, but in looking back on this past year, on the very darkest of hours and those that felt too crushing to overcome, it was in those moments that I felt Peyton's presence come through for me the strongest, reaching out her little hand to say, "Mommy, I'm here with you. It's going to be okay. I'm okay." I could focus today on the hurt, the injustice, the anger at a life cut cruelly short, but instead today I choose to honor this, her last day of life, by remembering and feeling grateful for the many acts of love that Peyton has bestowed upon me as her mother.

I miss you baby girl. There will never be a moment in my life when your absence is not felt. There will never be a memory made, that would not have been better with you in it. Thank you for staying with me those forty two weeks, for working so hard to thrive inside of me and never letting on how sick you were. I was blessed to have that time with you, that blissfully hopeful and naive time. Regardless of the outcome, I am so grateful for it. It was the happiest of my life.

Thank you for never letting on to the pain you were in. You were so strong and brave, letting Mommy and Daddy hug and cuddle and snuggle with you through your chemo and transfusions and operations. In my life, I have never received such unguarded and selfless love, as I did from you, my child. I needed to mother you. I needed to have time with you. I am so very grateful for each second of strength that you mustered to stay with me. I will never understand the how's and why's of this, but will forever be grateful that while you were here you allowed me to love you, to nurse you, to hold you skin to skin, and to bond with you. Thank you for leaving such an incredibly deep imprint in my soul. You changed me Peyton. You changed how I view everything. To be your mother, to watch you and learn from you and your strength leaves me grateful beyond words. You, my sweet child, you were the strongest person I have ever known. Thank you for sacrificing through pain to grace me with your presence for twenty eight days.  Thank you for your big personality. For your many, many expressions for me to draw upon when I want to see you in my mind. Thank you for the ways you looked at me, and for the incredible amounts of comfort you brought Daddy and me, when your appearance reassured us after receiving bad news from the doctors. Thank you for the hours on end, especially that last night of your life, when you gazed directly into my eyes. This, my child, was such a gift.

Thank you for not leaving me that day. For staying in my heart, on my mind, in my memories. Thank you for the comfort I feel in my visits to your grave, and the little special ways you show me you have never left me. Thank you for showing me what it means to truly, deeply, love. For watching over your Daddy and me and keeping us together when so many couples pull apart in grief. I am trying to push aside my anger, the trauma, my sadness and simply focus on the lessons your life has taught me - to show people how much we love them, to not take things for granted. Thank you for your patience with me, especially during the moments when I have not exhibited the same selfless grace that you did.

Most especially, my sweet child, thank you for helping me survive losing you. It has been a year without you, and I am still here. Thank you for surrounding me with the love and support of an amazing family. Thank you for affecting them in such a way that they understand my grief, my need to remember, and all that has been lost with you. Thank you for bringing such amazing friends to my side. Your short little life has meant so much to so many and rekindled lost relationships and brought great friends even closer. Thank you for giving me a voice to write as an outlet, for showing me a way to the blogs and helping me find people to connect with who truly understand. Thank you for reminding me that as isolating as child loss feels, I have never been left alone.

Thank you my Peyton, my daughter, my sweet child. You've helped me survive. You've gotten me through. I love you always.

Thank you.

A Birthday Passes, A Life Remembered

Today for Mel's Show & Tell I am sharing images from Peyton's Birthday memorial celebration.
As difficult as last week was, and in particular facing her birthday without her, there was beauty in the celebration of her life. Our family and a few friends met at Peyton's grave in the early evening hours. My husband and I said some words before handing out the balloons. We decided to release 28 balloons, one for each day that Peyton was here with us, and had everyone write notes to tie to them. We also handed out markers to personalize each balloon with messages of love for our little girl.
When the balloons had disappeared into the heavens, we lit sparklers in celebration of Peyton's birthday.
The song playing first on this blog "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" is the song we played as the balloons were released (thank you Lost--for--words for inspiring the decision to use this song.)

To see what others are showing and telling please visit this link.

****Please disregard the date on these pics. I dont know how to reset the date so every day is 2/12/05 in my pics.

Thank You

I would like to send out a huge and heartfelt thank you to all who visited this blog and offered words of comfort and encouragement over the past few days. It has meant the world to us to know that we were not alone in missing Peyton.

This milestone of Peyton's birthday proved to be a truly bittersweet one, bringing anger and streams of tears at the injustice of not having her here one moment, and smiles as we remembered the quirks that made Peyton so uniquely Peyton the next. My husband and I have split the weekend between being in the company of friends and family, and spending time by ourselves to reflect and grieve for all that this date symbolizes.

We had a little ceremony for Peyton on Friday night, a balloon release and gathering to mark her too short life. When I have more energy, I will post the pictures to share with you all. It was a truly beautiful moment of celebration, if I dare use that word, and one which will stay with my hubby and I all our lives. As a grieving mother there is no greater comfort than knowing that we are not the only ones who remember and miss our little girl. We were blessed this weekend to have so many great friends and family members reach out to let us know that they have not forgotten Peyton, and that her life, though it was short, had a lasting impact on them. Knowing that she lives on in their memories too is the greatest gift we could ever receive.

Unfortunately, the weight of this past week has, in the end, proved to be a bit too much for us. Both hubby and I are sick as dogs, run down with terrible coughs and body aches - as much due to the stress and grief of facing Peyton's birthday as whatever germs we picked up I am sure, so I am going to bring this entry to an end here.

Please, please know how very fortunate we felt to have received your beautiful messages marking Peyton's birthday and how much it meant that you remembered us in your prayers. This has been the most difficult hurdle since Peyton's death; there were points this past week where I wondered how we would get through, and your thoughts and comforting words have made more of a difference than you will ever know. The support of this community continues to leave me humbled and amazed.

Happy 1st Birthday Peyton

For the last eleven months I have wondered how it would feel to wake up today, on your birthday, without you here. There are so many bittersweet emotions on this day, and I am at a loss for words or poetry to do them justice, so I will share some photos instead, snapshots of your birth and the moments after. I love you baby girl and miss you immensely.

Happy Birthday!

Daddy and I were so excited to meet our little one.

After your birth, they brought you in to say hello before transferring you. We didn't know you were sick so this was really hard. We wanted to hold you so badly.

Daddy held your little hand first.


And then I got my turn.

You looked around for a while, grabbed your pacifier and then fell back asleep. I was amazed at how you didn't even seem to notice all the commotion around you. You were just beautiful.

It was so hard to say goodbye, but they needed to get you to a bigger hospital.

Daddy followed you to the NICU and held your hand for me. It broke my heart to not be able to go, but the C-section made leaving impossible. Grandma stayed by Mommy's side, helping me make sense of what was happening while Pop Pop and Daddy went to see you. They brought pictures and video of you back to me that night, and told me about the Leukemia diagnosis, the odds, and the treatment plan. I was devastated and in total shock. Your Daddy was so strong those first days, traveling between the two hospitals to be by both of our sides. I missed you so much and wanted to be with you, but it would be thirty more hours before the hospital gave me the green light to check out early.

Happy Birthday My Sweet Baby Girl. I Miss You.

One Year Ago...

One year ago...

I was checked into the hospital.

Happy.

Hopeful.

Naive.

One year ago...

They induced me a second time,

and told me the contractions would start in the morning.

One year ago...

We debated names with the nurses.

I stayed up all night excited,

Daddy fell asleep on the cot beside me.

One year ago...

We anxiously awaited your arrival.

I was sure you were a boy,

and we finally settled on the name Finn.

One year ago...

We still had our innocence.

We were so young then,

so very, very young.

One year ago...

We knew everything was about to change,

and imagined the wonderful ways

that you would impact our lives.

One year ago...

Was the last day our life was normal.

We lay in wait unknowing,

of the storm up ahead.

One year ago...

I was your mother.

Why didn't I sense what was happening?

How could I not know?

One year ago...

~Kristin Binder

Still so lost.

My shoulders slump.
My body hurts.
My eyes blur.
My heart quivers.
My arms ache.
My soul is depleted.
My child is dead.
Where is the hope?

It's been nearly a year since Peyton was born. I am trying so hard to focus on celebrating her this week rather than mourning her (her first birthday should have been this Friday) but it is so hard. So very, very hard. My emotions tax me of my energy and will; my feelings and thoughts take me back to last September. I am nearing this year mark of my child's birth, and all I can do is cry. How do I do this? How do I get through this? None of this is as it should be.

I should be celebrating first steps, finger foods, cut teeth; at least I think that is what she would be doing but having never mothered a living one year old I don't really know. I should be able to see advertisements and shows with families in them and think about how cute my Peyton would look with that toy; in those clothes; instead of being brought to tears. I am realizing, especially now, how isolated this world of baby loss is. I am surrounded by people who love me, who reach out to me, and yet I feel so incredibly alone in this new world. What is wrong with me?

I should be feeling so many things with the approach of Peyton's first birthday, none of which are supposed to revolve around grief...loss...death. How did we end up here? How did this happen to our life?

It has been nearly a year since they told me I had a "beautiful, perfect little girl," only to take it back moments later. Nearly a year since they allowed me to see her for mere moments before whisking her away to another hospital. Nearly a year since we learned of her Leukemia and started treatment. Nearly a year since I checked myself out of the hospital early to be by her side. Nearly a year since I first got to hold her, three days after her birth. Nearly a year since we gained false hope. Nearly a year since I fell so totally in love with her.

It has been nearly a year... and I am still so lost.

I visited Peyton's grave today, and somewhere between fits of tears and anger at myself, and God, and this situation, I wrote this.

Leave me,
oh, bitter wave of sadness.
Leave me.
Go!
Let me be!
My eyes need reprieve
from your cruel salty flow.
I am begging you,
please set me free.
Can't you see what you've done,
you greedy emotion?
I'm too young to always feel this old.
You've taken my child,
I have nothing left for you,
do you find joy watching me unfold?
Please leave me,
oh, crushing weight,
I beg you.
Don't you see how you've caused me to break?
My dreams have been splintered,
my joy has been lost,
I don't know how much more I can take.
Please leave me,
oh, angry bitter questioning,
take mercy on me, allow me release
from the grip that you've asserted over my life,
from my inability to find a sense of peace.

~Kristin Binder

Yes, it's been nearly a year, and I am learning that no amount of time negates the pain of loss.

****Please send prayers of love and support to Mirne and Craig who have today announced the heartbreaking loss of their third child Jet. My heart goes out to this couple who have already experienced so much pain in the loss of their first two children. Please visit them and let them know that we all grieve with them for this beautiful boy, gone from this world after only three days of life.

August 23rd

Peyton,

Today was your due date, a date that, while it did not mark your birth, is one that I will always associate with you. I repeated this date over and over during the months that I carried you, to friends, family and strangers alike. They would ask, "when are you due?" and I would smile and tell them this date and inevitably there was always some small talk about timing and the fact that I was having you at the very end of the summer.

A year ago, life was still "normal". We waited in hopeful anticipation of your arrival, and looked forward to counting your fingers and toes. We sat up at night debating your sex, what names to choose (you were nearly a Finnian or Scarlet), and it was this week last year that we finally set up your nursery. We never could have imagined, a year later, that this house would still only be home to the two of us, or that the room that signified so much hope and happiness, would become a neglected reminder of all that we have lost with you. It is so hard baby girl, knowing what never can be with you. We had hoped for so much for you, you deserved so much more than this world and life offered. None of this will ever make sense to me.

Today Daddy and I spent the day with you on our minds. We went to church, and I tried my best to think of your life and doing something to honor it, rather than flashing back to images of your funeral in that very place. After church Daddy and I came home for a bit, then went to get our hair cut. Our friend was doing a cut-a-thon for charity, and I took this as the boost I needed to take care of my neglected appearance. This was my first hair cut since a few weeks prior to your birth. I think of that, and realize just how backwards my priorities were then. I went to the salon to get my hair cut so that I would look nice in the pictures of us together. The idea of that happy moment not arriving never even crossed my mind. I took for granted that you would be born healthy, that I would have you in my arms in those pictures, and the moment would be a beautiful one full of smiles. I feel so foolish when I think of that now, of how I could have wasted any energy at all on my appearance, when I should have been focusing on every second you were with me. Forgive me baby girl, I had no idea how little time we would have together.

After our haircut we went to visit you at the cemetery. Could you feel us there? There are some days that I swear, I feel so connected to you. Today I hoped for that feeling on our visit, but it didn't come. I miss you so very much, and losing that feeling of connection hurts more than I can write here.

So much has changed since we expected your arrival, so many of the people we love most are welcoming more children into their lives, and we sit still. It is in realizing the changes in the lives of others that the reality of this last year hits, of the way the world still turns even when it feels like it stopped when you left.

These next two weeks leading up to your birthday are the last two weeks where I can say "at this time last year, life was normal." I don't know what these upcoming dates are going to bring for us emotionally, just that it's time for me to realize that there is no more "normal." That life. That innocense. They're never coming back. There is no more "normal" to return to, only life after losing you. Please baby girl, help us to find peace with the loss of what once was, and to find hope in what still may be.

Missing you today and always,

Mommy

Messages & Signs Mel's 66th Show & Tell

Since Peyton's passing there have been a few little, we will call them "incidents", where I thought that she was sending me some sort of a sign; a gust of wind during a visit to her grave after posing a very important question; walking into my bedroom to find a flashlight flashing across her picture; a light in our dining room hutch (an area of the house that has been ignored) being switched on and illuminating her box of things from the hospital - her handprints, a lock of her hair, etc. I have never really believed in 'ghost stories' per say, but you pepper in a few of these incidences after losing someone so close, and you begin to wonder. I imagine that by the end of this post you might wonder too.

This past week has been hard for me (and, yes, I do know how much of a broken record that makes me sound like) but it has. I have felt panicked and anxious about all of the dates of importance that seem to be running together. This Sunday was the date that she was originally due to arrive, so it is a date that I will always associate with her. September 4th is her birthday (I went two weeks overdue in the end of the summer. This was a fact that I had planned on reminding her of many many times during her life.) And then, of course, there is October 2nd, the day that we conceded to the Cancer and said our goodbyes. I'm very bitter towards Cancer now, and especially the way that when you lose your child to it, every conceivable Cancer organization bombards your mailbox with solicitations. Don't get me wrong, of course I want there to be a cure for Peyton's Cancer, and I give to just about everyone that asks, but it's still hard to have it in your face when you are grieving. I can only liken it to having someone mail you the mug shot of your child's killer. So like I said, I am bitter towards Cancer, but in an effort to avoid going completely off topic, as I do from time to time, I will save my feelings on that for another post.

Now, back to my showing and telling. When I am really low, really really low, my friend Chrissi is the one that usually gets the call. I tend to isolate myself alot these days, not wanting to burden anyone with my grief, so to be pushed to the point of dialing means its a really shitty day. I couldn't call Chrissi last week, she was on vacation in Rhode Island, and I missed her. As soon as she returned, she called me to see how my week had gone, and to tell me that she "had to tell me the cutest story ever!"

What follows here is the story she shared with me, the arc to this post, and I promise, the area where I will do the actual showing.

Chrissi said that she had gone to the beach every day, always hanging out in the same area. She told me that they had chosen that particular area of the beach because there was never anyone walking through and disturbing them, and they were left pretty much to enjoy the beach on their own. On one of the last days of her vacation, they set up in their usual spot, and started to enjoy their day by the ocean. Laying on her back, looking up at the sky, she heard her friend Megan saying "Oh my God Chrissi look!" "What?" Chrissi asked, tilting her head back. She saw a little leather bracelet sitting perched atop the sand and sort of brushed it off with a "yeah, it's a bracelet, so what?" "Look at what it says Chrissi," Megan said pointing, and in realizing what the bracelet said, Chrissi burst into tears. This photo below is of the bracelet that Chrissi found perched right behind her.

And here is where Chrissi tried to recreate the photo that we took here.

So this brings me back to my belief that sometimes Peyton sends funny little signs and messages when she feels they are really needed. This one has me even more convinced (as crazy as that makes me sound) because I can honestly say that I have never in my life randomly come across anything that said Peyton on it. If her name was more common, maybe I would chock it up to coincidence, but it's not, so I will just go on believing that this was Peyton sending a message that she knew her Mommy & Daddy needed to get through the hurt that these dates of her birthday and angelversary bring... a message of peace.

To see what others are sharing today go here.

I have fallen out of love with Fall

Fall has always been my favorite season. In the past, any hints at Autumn's approach: talk of pre-season football, the return of school buses, a few red leaves on the trees, would each bring a smile to my face and a flurry of excitement to my heart with the promise of visits to pumpkin patches, apple picking, and refreshingly cool days.

I had so many plans for us baby girl. I created so many images in my mind during the pregnancy of what last year, our first Fall as a family, was going to be like. I imagined us walking the paths along the river beneath arbors of changing leaves, and dressing you in the pumpkin costume that still hangs in your closet for your first Halloween. I imagined how wonderfully thankful Daddy and I would feel at Thanksgiving, to be home with our child, starting our new family life together.

You were due August 23rd.
You were born September 4th.
You died October 2nd.

Fall is fast approaching, and instead of flurried excitement, I am feeling so incredibly overwhelmed by these looming dates. At night I wake to panic about how quickly the time since we last held you is passing, and the fact that your gravestone hasn't yet been finished. I hate the fact that three seasons have passed without you, and I still feel unable to get over how surreal it can all feel. I feel trapped on pause, like groundhog's day, playing out the same day over and over.

I miss the simplicity of life before losing you. I miss the excitement that Fall used to bring. I miss all of the dreams that I had for you, and what it was like to expect you would be here. I miss you Peyton.

Fall will never be the same.