If joy is the sun

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In her introduction to her guest post, Janet writes: In 2012, we received a fatal diagnosis for our baby girl, Clementine. To stop her suffering, we opted to terminate our pregnancy. 

This week has been emotionally charged. Loaded with anniversaries of bad news and doctor appointments leading up to the anniversary of Clementine's death. I've been staring this day down for months.

Summer is here and has brought a heat wave.
I ran through the sprinklers with my older two children, belly laughing as the ice water sprayed and cooled us. We camped out in a tent in the backyard with popcorn and bedtime stories and wiggly cuddles. We saw my brother and sister and their beautiful families -- dearest cousins and aunts and uncles from the east coast. There was a hometown 4th of July parade followed by hotdogs and fireworks and sunburns.

And there are the sweet coos and greedy grunts of a newborn rainbow at my breast. His downy hair and addictive baby scent and the perpetual diaper changes. And late night/early morning feedings where it feels like we are the only living creatures - secreted away in tenderness.

I am happy and I am reminded that I have much to be happy for. I know how fragile life is (as do you). My happiness is marked with deep sadness at all that Clementine is missing. And just how much I am missing her. But the missing her feels less like pain and more like breathing.

I think about the moments that unite us; the moment when the joy of being pregnant morphed to shock and worry at the potential of having a very sick baby; the awful time between the suspicion of something being wrong and the confirmation that our beloved child was ill; the discussions with our spouses or significant otherss regarding termination; the discussions with doctors, parents, priests, co-workers and friends; the hopeful stories of miracle babies or highly functional children that have punched us in the gut; the termination process; the thousands of tears we have all shed; and mostly, perhaps most tragically, the loss of hope for our children, because they really are and were the embodiment of our hopes.

My heart breaks for each new member to this group. For each baby gone much, much too soon. My heart is broken over losing my baby girl. I abide and understand.

And I search for something profound to say I have learned. To make my daughter's existence meaningful. To have her short life be a source of something more than deep pain and sorrow… And sometimes, in my saddest moments, the only things I see are my sad, empty hands.

Then I think of this community. Where somehow we exist and support and cheer and cry, beyond the boundaries of right or wrong. While parenting is typically a competitive sport, we have somehow collectively built a safe and loving place despite religious, socioeconomic, racial, political and great geographical differences. In fact these differences are wonderfully meaningless here. And that is perhaps the most beautiful testament to our children. That this place exists because of them. I'm so sad it exists (I wish and wish and wish it didn't) and I don't know what I would have done without it. Without all of you.

Am I healed? No. I don't want to be. I proudly wear a Clementine shaped scar. She is forever missing from my life and that will never be okay. But on my path to healing, I am finding ways to integrate my daughter and my grief over her death into my life: it has become a facet of who I am. Sometimes I am more sad, sometimes more compassionate – less tolerant of bullshit for sure — and mostly my baby girl's mommy, though you can't see her and I never got to meet her.

Sometimes I still lose my breath wondering who will kiss your head and tuck you in and keep you warm.
And if joy is the sun, grief is the moon, reflecting joy's light back with silent grace.

Sweet Clementine, I miss you so.