Not much has changed.

Today I was looking through some things and came across this bit of writing that I did last December. What struck me in reading it, is how little has changed in terms of my healing from this grief since writing it. Nearly ten months have passed since I put these words on paper, and yet it is as if I had written them this morning. When Peyton was born we were told that there was some chance that she would make it, and I believed the doctors and pictured what life would be like once we had put Cancer behind us. After her passing, the same doctors told us that there had never really been any chance of her becoming well. Sometimes I think of grief much in the same way, and wonder if, even after time and talking and writing; if even despite my best efforts to put this pain behind me, I will realize that healing from the pain of losing my baby girl has never really been a possibility.

When I Look At Her Pictures - Written 12/5/08

When I look at her pictures, my heart leaps and then sinks. I miss her immensely, and remember each moment. I stare and I cry and I question whether there is any justice in a world that allows a baby to suffer so and be taken from her mother and father. I wonder how it will be possible to move on from the loss of this little girl when she is such a huge part of me, when I am always missing her, when I am so in love with her.

When I look at her pictures, they hit me with a flash. Each a memory, an image, a moment in time that I didn’t hold onto nearly long enough. Snapshots of a life too brief devastate me and the tears come quickly, the sadness lingers on my heavy mind. This is my child, who for nine and half months I carried, who was conceived out of love and hope and joy. This is my child who I planned an entire future around.

When I look at her pictures I have never before felt so much pride. This perfect beautiful baby girl, she is my daughter, my little baby. I am proud of her strength, of her will, of her unguarded love. I am proud of the way she looks back at me with eyes sparkling, a knowing smile, her stare entering directly into my soul. I am overwhelmed by the bittersweet reality that she was here, was mine, this beautiful little angel was mine, and now she is gone.

When I look at her pictures, I think of all that could have been, that should have been, that would have defined her. I think of the love who will go unknowingly a whole life without the fullness of having Peyton in his heart, the friends who will never benefit from her love and comfort the way her daddy and I did, the children that are never to be born of her. I think of all the generations that are lost in her death. Her children, and children’s children, and children’s children’s children. I think of so many lives that will now go unlived, because she was the key, their existence impossible now that she is gone.

When I look at her pictures I think of all of my foolish assumptions, how I took her being born healthy for granted, how I believed that it was ok to make plans. I think of all the times people would ask whether I wanted a boy or girl, how I would repeat back the same rehearsed answer I myself had heard a million times, that I didn’t care as long as the baby was healthy, and I didn’t. I run through each moment wondering what I missed, searching my memory for an answer, a sign, a symptom, anything to indicate that things were going so terribly wrong; could this have been prevented?

When I look at her pictures I miss her. I sit with empty arms, not holding her, not rocking her, not breathing her in. I sit here so lonely, staring endlessly at a monitor that beams her image back at me wondering if I ever fully appreciated what I had with her when she was here. I hate myself for all of the many moments of her short life wasted with grief and worry, and loathe others for the many more moments robbed by interruptions and illness and procedures. Oh my little Peyton, what I wouldn’t give to go back, to enjoy you more, to surround you with joy.

When I look at her pictures the reality hits me. I wait and I watch and I wonder knowing we will never again be together in this life; that these things have happened, that they can’t be taken back or done over. When I look at her pictures I let the dark clouds of grief break for a moment because I know the time will come, not in this life but in the next, when I will once again experience the fullness of mothering her, when I will once again hold her in my arms.

Stranger

What was it like to feel like that;

to smile like that;

in a way that was not forced

or masking a great pain?

My eyes scan the glossy photos,

desperately searching for something familiar.

Who was this girl with the content expression,

did she sense nothing of the road ahead?

Something in me wants to scream at her

for being so gullible,

for expecting so much,

for not knowing this could happen.

I can hardly look at her,

feeling disgusted,

or envious,

or both.

Something in me wants to shake her,

to warn her,

to help her prepare.

I wish I could save her

from the grief that will gray her blue eyes,

and the worry and pain

that will bring wrinkles in her twenties,

and a dullness to her face.

It was only ten months ago,

how could she look so young,

so happy,

so carefree?

I wonder what it would take,

for that expression to return,

but know that the pain of this loss has made that impossible.

That expression,

that feeling,

is reserved for the innocent.

This girl who looks back at me from the photo,

this former me,

this wellspring of naive anticipation,

is now a stranger.

~Kristin Binder

Mel's Show and Tell #64 Kindness

This week, for show and tell, I am focusing on kindness.

Losing Peyton has been the most painful and difficult experience of my life. There are days that are searing and unrelenting in their hurt, and this week proved to be an exceptionally difficult one for me. I don't know why this week was so tough, but then again I have found that there is little rhyme or reason behind most of my bad days. That said, in the darkness that was this terrible week, I found sunshine in three beautiful acts of kindness; acts that touched my heart in their utter selflessness. This post, I am going to focus on the beauty of those acts, rather than the pain of this week.

The first was the act of having Peyton's name memorialized by To Write Their Names In The Sand, with this beautiful photo taken by Carly. Though it is rare for me to be at a loss for words, it seems impossible to sum up the feeling that entered my heart at the sight of this photo, and the knowledge that a stranger honored my child's life in such a beautiful way. Below is the photo of Peyton's name inscribed in the Australian sand, as well as the message that we left for her there. Carly, you are truly an angel on earth. Your ministry serves so many and your selflessness humbles me.

To our sweet little Peyton Elizabeth.

At less than six pounds, you fought with the heart and determination of a prize fighter. Do you know how very proud of you we are? We miss you all the time but know it is your embrace that we feel in the warmth of the sun, your voice that we hear whispering in the breeze, and your spirit floating by in the butterflies that cross our path. Not a day goes by that we aren't missing you Peyton.

We love you so much baby girl and know we will hold you again someday. Love, Mommy and Daddy

The second act that moved me this week, was that of a fellow babylost momma, Dina, who lost her beautiful daughter Dylan Rose to SIDS . Dina, who honors sweet Dylan, and raises SIDS awareness here, remembered my Peyton, by having her name registered for this year's Compassionate Friends Walk to Remember memorial. Dina's sweet baby was taken only a few months ago. I remember what those first months were like, how hard it was to think of anything or anyone else but the pain that I was in. I am amazed at Dina's heart, and thoughtfullness in remembering my child, when the loss of her own is so incredibly raw.

The third act was actually from my Dad, a hidden treasure of love and understanding left for me to find when I needed it most. As I said earlier, this week has been a hard one for me, and just when I felt at my lowest and alone, I stumbled upon this note from my father, a note that reminded me that even in the darkest depths of this grief, the hand of my family has always been within close reach. I am blessed by their love and support.

Dear Krissy,

It's 3:30 in the morning and like you dear daughter the night is not always a friend....cluttered with restless thoughts that don't pass. Tonight I dwell of our visit to Peyton's grave yesterday and what might have been. I've this image of looking down on you as your lovingly plant a new bed of flowers for Peyton careful to arrange it perfectly wanting only the best for her. You and Dru are in my thoughts always and now I will go back to bed and pray for the happier days I know will come. You have no idea how much I love you and how proud and blessed I feel to be your father.

Love with three hand squeezes

Dad

Lastly, I need to mention you, the readers of this blog, and what you have meant to me. I know that most of you are on your own journey through loss, and your ability to help a stranger when you have so much of your own pain is unbelievable. Your messages have meant more than you know. Grieving a child is a long and dark road, one which can feel incredibly isolating. There is no greater comfort than knowing that while this is not the path that I would have chosen, you have not left me to walk it alone.

A Piano, A Pew, Me and You

The Secret Garden Meeting-July

How do I see or imagine my baby now that I do not have her with me?

With her help.

How fitting that this question should come up after having just written this letter.

My Sweet Little Peyton,

Today in church, after receiving the Eucharist, I felt your presence with me so strongly when the other parishioners went up for Communion. The church was filled with the sounds of piano music drifting down from the choir loft. The melody was so dramatic. So moving. Could you hear it too? Were you there? I could see things so clearly, my imagination was so crisp. I felt myself drift off into my thoughts of you, and this "dream" that I was experiencing.

At first I saw you, at maybe five years old. You had on a white dress and your hair was long and brown and clipped up at the sides. There were no tubes. There was no Leukemia. Just a mother and her daughter and their love. You ran with me and we played and laughed and smiled, and though I have never been able to imagine what you would have looked like, today I could see your every feature perfectly. You were just beautiful. I lifted you up in the air and listened as you giggled and called my name. My heart was bursting.

I watched you grow and live and thrive. I saw it all Peyton, your life with me and Daddy. You brought us such happiness. I helped you prepare to be a bride; you beamed with the most beautiful smile across your face. You married a man that made you feel the way Daddy makes me feel, and everything felt at peace and right.

My mind followed our family through the years. I saw myself as a Grandmother. Oh Baby Girl, you were amazing. You had children of your own and you showed them such love and care. You brought so much joy into life for your Daddy and me.

Peyton, it was such a beautiful dream, even if that's all it was. I could see you, feel you, smell you. I saw it all, your life as it should have been; no Cancer, no loss; just your beautiful spirit giving and receiving love, and living out a full life. I felt your presence so close to me in that church pew today, felt such joy in my heart at the thought of you. I know that this experience today was your gift to me; a reprieve. I know you were there with me lifting my soul out of the darkness, even if just for a short while; relieving me of this heavy weight of grief. I know this was you showing me your love. I love you too Baby Girl, more than words can say.

Always,

Mommy

A Question, No Answer

"Do you have any children?"

I hate this question and even more so, my inablility to answer it.

Maybe I had been naive to it, or just hadn't noticed the weight that these words could hold. Maybe they had elicited different feelings in the past, bringing images of the happy future that I assumed would be. Maybe it is simply because I could never have imagined a situation where in trying to say the right thing, everything would feel so wrong. Whatever the reason, this question, in all of its cruel irony, seems to surround me now.

I know that my reaction is unnatural, that those who ask me expect smiles, maybe some light bragging, or the passing of a few pictures. I know that when I go to answer, their faces change, and they look around awkwardly for something appropriate to say, or an escape from the conversation. How did I end up here, unable to answer this simple question? This was never supposed to happen.

I hate this unforgiving limbo of having carried a child, birthed a child, loved a child, nursed a child, held a child, and yet, having to feel like an outsider in the realm of motherhood. Is it okay to say that I have a child, if my only child is no longer alive?

I wish there was an easier way to talk about Peyton, to talk about my daughter, to talk about the child that so few actually met and no one else will ever meet. Why don't people ask if I have had any children, that would be easier to explain. "Yes I have had one. No she is not here anymore."

Why can't I answer without stuttering? Why can't I answer without wondering if I am doing Peyton justice, or honoring her appropriately? Why can't I answer in a way that feels right?

Do I have any children? If only it were that cut and dry. If only life had been that easy.