Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Creeping horrors

Sometimes.

Sometimes I get really scared. Terrified. Panicky even. Worried that something terrible will happen to Shea or Soren.

That I won't be able to protect them.

I think about SIDS. About dropping Soren. Accidentally leaving him in the car. Shea burning himself on the stove. Or falling out a window. Or wandering off, getting lost, unable to find us.

Or any one of a million stupid things that could threaten the little ones I love most in the world.

("It isn't stupid,  mommy," I can almost hear Shea saying. They taught him that was a bad word in preschool,  and he's taken his role as the anti-stupid police very seriously. )

I think probably all parents have these thoughts. It's the parental equivalent of the "What Ifs" poem by Shel Silverstein. I had them with Shea, long before Harper entered my lexicon of feelings.

But, here's the thing...

I used to take comfort in statistics. The scientist in me, I suppose. When the What Ifs called, I knew what to answer back. Those are rare events. They happen to other people. They're distant. The odds of anything like that happening to my family are minute, and we'll drive ourselves crazy worrying about it.

Until the rare event happened to us, to me. To my daughter. The incredibly rare disease. The horrific headline of a baby dying. Until our experience introduced us to others, who's suffered similar losses.

The odds were not on our side. It wasn't happening to other people, distant strangers. It was us. It was people we know. 

Cliche it may be, but bad things do happen to good people. For no reason.

So, now, when I sit in the dark, listening to my beautiful boys breathing, when I look up from a distraction to realize that I don't exactly know where Shea is, when I leave Soren in the arms of someone who is not me...

Well, it's not so easy to take comfort in statistics anymore.

I had a terrible nightmare last night - I walked into their bedroom and they were gone. Shea and Soren. I ran everywhere trying to find him. Lou said I was crying and calling out their names in my sleep. 

When I woke up, I went to listen to them breathe, reassure myself all was well, but couldn't fall back asleep. 

I can still shove the creeping horrors away. But it's not like wiping a cobweb off a lampshade anymore. Now it's more like shoveling snow. No longer effortless, it takes conscious dismissal. 

Fortunately, the effort is helped by Soren's gummy smile. By Shea's exuberant hugs. By the smell of honeysuckle and the sounds of cicadas buzzing and the taste of rich chocolate and smooth wine and the wisp of a soft blanket and a loving touch and all the millions of little things that remind me that we're all alive and doing just fine, if not downright wonderful.

Today is my birthday. And I'm finding myself feeling - again - a strong need to celebrate. Every occasion last year was awash in pain, every holiday, every party, every celebratory moment. Too many reminders of what we had lost. I want to make up for that. Not to forget, but because as strong as my need was last year to mourn Harper and the sorrow I never wanted, this year the need is as strong to celebrate the advent of Soren and the joy and hope he represents. 

It is time to acknowledge that we survived. And the triumph over the creeping horrors continues with every milestone met, every family adventure, every comfortably happy day. 

If that's not a reason to celebrate, I don't know what it. 




Saturday, July 5, 2014

Hello, little girl

Dear Harper,

Fourteen months ago today we said goodbye forever, and I just wanted to let you know you've not been forgotten,  little bean. 

On a recent family walk, Shea was making up a long complicated game. It was called Rock, Talk, Walk, and I couldn't begin to tell you what the rules were or what play entailed.

But when he was dividing the family into teams, Shea made sure to include you and London.

"Even though they died, they still might want to play with their family," he explained.

Shea will always know you're a member of our family. So will Soren.

I still stumble over the question a little when people ask me if Soren is my first child,  a common enough question when out and about with an infant.

He's my second son, I try to say. Or, this is boy number two.

I never forget my body made you, too.

Soren has been the most healing balm imaginable. That baby's smile has the power to make everything right in the universe.

I wish I could see the two of you meet.

I have hung baby pictures of the three of you,  side by side. My three little ones.

Shea is an extraordinarily good big brother. I get glimpses of what life would have been like had we brought you home. How he undoubtedly would have brought me to tears with his kindness (and sometimes his jealousy).

I miss you still, bean, and I find myself wondering what life would be like if I could have had it all: my amazing Shea, my Harper bean born healthy and whole, and my chortling little froggy, Soren.

A pure fantasy. But a happy one.

Sweet dreams, baby girl.