Hard conversations. And elephants.

"I want to 'nuggle," Shea tells me, creeping out of bed to curl up in my lap in the glider rocker.

This is a delaying tactic,  designed to create a few minutes reprieve from bedtime. But it is something I enjoy, so I let it slide.

"Why did you paint elephants on the walls?" he asks as we rock.

He has lived in this room his entire life, walls unchanged,  but has only recently noticed the decor.

"I wanted to make the room beautiful for you,  for my baby, " I explained.  "I did that when you were a baby in my belly,  because I thought you might like it."

"Oh," he responds. And we rock silently,  cuddling, for a few minutes more.

His eyes study the room.

"Why didn't baby Harper use her crib?" he asks. The crib sits in the corner,  still made up with brand new sheets,  cheerful blue and green elephants. Filled with gifts, the high tech baby monitor recommended by the heart baby boards,  the unfulfilled quilts.

"Baby Harper never came home to use her crib, " I reminded him gently.  "She died at the hospital before we could bring her home. She was very sick."

"I wish baby Harper had come home, " he said, sounding wistful,  and I have to fight the urge to ask leading questions in order to hear answers I need to hear more than he needs to say. Do you miss Harper?  Do you miss your sister?  Are you sad that she's gone?

Then he caught me by surprise, "Why do people die? What is dying?"

Not why did Harper die. Why do other people die. These were bigger questions, and for the first time myself wondering what was going on in that curly head.

"Well," I began,  "people die when their bodies stop working."

"Why do they stop working?"

"Usually it's because people have lived a very long time and they're very old, " I told him. "But in Harper's case it was because she was very sick."

Shea thought about this.  "Baby Harper was very old?"

"No," I told him.  "She was very sick. She was born that way, and she couldn't get better. Her body didn't work the right way."

"Yeah," he says. "The hospital couldn't make her better."

Shea was silent for another moment. Then,  "How did you get all the way up there to paint those elephants?"

These are hard conversations to have with a three year old. Not hard for him. Hard for me. They are impossible to get used to. I don't feel unprepared, and I can handle the questions calmly,  matter of factly. But it makes me sad that I have to have these conversations at all.

Sad is still present in the day to day.  Social media reminders of what I don't have and others do. Reminders of Harper's name in unexpected places. Although it also comforting to be reminded of her.

Her spirit is with us - camping in WV, near Seneca Rocks

Yesterday, we began to plan a vacation to Australia. For the first time since Harper was born, I felt pure, unadulterated joy and excitement. Distraction from the sad, something to dream about besides rainbows. It was a Big Thing, in true Aussie spirit. A place I've wanted to visit for many years. An adventure with my family, something to plan and look forward to. Even with the niggling guilt of knowing this trip would not be happening had Harper lived. That this excitement comes at the expense of my daughter's death. Kangaroos with  a healthy side of regret. 

Then there's the well meaning congratulations and inquiries about the baby.

These don't get easier. Running into colleagues and acquaintances. Casual exclamations of "Congratulations! I haven't seen you, how are you? How's the baby? Boy or girl? Are you getting any sleep?" Etc. Etc. Etc.

Inevitably followed by the supremely awkward moment of explaining I had a baby girl, but she passed away in May. The explanation part has gotten better. I'm a long way from tears when I do that, and I've perfected the gentle, regretful smile. 

But always it's the same. The crushed expression, the shock, the hasty apologies and hugs. The wave of guilt for having made someone else feel bad about making me feel bad. The reassurances ("It's OK, you couldn't have known.") And the rocky transition to neutral subjects.

But it changes everything. Because I know there are unanswered questions. I would certainly have them, were the positions reversed. What happened? How did she die? When did this happen? Maybe assumptions being made. Stillbirth. SIDS. A terrible accident. Not wanting to ask for fear of stepping on social or professional conventions.

The thing is, I'd rather the questions were asked. Because once the jarring reminder occurs, I'd rather talk about it. I'd rather share Harper's story, have an opportunity to say her name, instead of leaving her hovering there, unspoken, unacknowledged, as if neither her life nor the awkward moment had happened. The unanswered questions fester, like an open wound, and I begin to feel restless and sad. The moment is not so bad; the aftermath is devastating. 

I need the release of talking about her and hate that the awkwardness barricades that from happening.

I had a baby girl. Her name was Harper. She was born with Smith-Lemli-Opitz syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that prevents the production of cholesterol. She died at 17 days old. We're doing OK. 

There. Was that so hard?