Musings on the Mouse

So, it may have been a little naive to think our visit to the House the Mouse Built would be entirely untouched by our loss.

"So we have Lou, Carrie, Shea, and Baby W. staying with us?," the cheerful Disney employee chirped to us as we checked in.

"Um, no, there's no baby," Lou had to reply awkwardly.

Ooof. Like a punch to the stomach.

He'd made the reservation months ago, and optimistically added all of us in hopes we would be able to bring our little heart baby down to Disney. Not surprisingly, with all that has gone on, it hadn't occurred to him to cancel it.

I had actually noticed it earlier, online, when making dining reservations, but in what was probably a state of denial, I somehow thought Shea had gotten added twice, as Lou and I fumbled in connecting our Disney accounts and ended up with redundancies that we needed to straighten out.

It wasn't until that painful welcome at the hotel that it occurred to me that Baby W. was Harper. And that realization came as a flash of inexorable and unexpected hurt.

There's no baby with us.

Nearly everyone at Disney World is sporting some sort of button. "First Time Visitor," they read. Or "Celebrating!" a birthday, anniversary, event. "Happily Ever After!" proclaims the buttons on the newlyweds and honeymooners. The buttons prompt Disney employees to note your occasion, to wish you well, to burst into song.

There are no buttons for mourning. No way to acknowledge the First Family Vacation Since Losing a Child. No way to plead, please, make sure this trip is happy, because we've had our fill of sad. 

Reminders appeared and disappeared throughout the trip, like will o'wisps caught from the corner of an eye. Reminders that were sometimes hurtful, but also beautiful.

Like discovering there was a place called Harper's Mill in the middle of the Magic Kingdom. I loved that.

With us in spirit...

Lou carelessly commenting, upon seeing one of many tiny girls dolled up like a Disney princess, "We don't have a little princess..." Ouch. Another tear inducing gut blow.

The gorgeous double rainbow that appeared outside our window, a symbol of hope for the future.

Some of the most poignant reminders came, oddly enough, during a long wait for a water park ride, a family white water raft slide. The water park was packed that day, the lines long and hot. This particular slide was one that was handicapped accessible and a few folks in front of us was a gentleman in a wheel chair.

The wheelchair had to be strapped on to its own raft, send down the slide, and received on the bottom before its user could splash down the slope. It seemed to take forever, transforming a scorching 30 minute wait to closer to an hour. It was annoying. It was frustrating.

"But," I noted to Lou, "if things had gone differently with Harper, that could have been us someday." He agreed, and our little bean taught us another lesson in patience.

Eventually our turn came. As a family of three, we were made to wait to one side; it required a minimum of four riders, so we needed to join another group.

We stood and watched as family after family of four went ahead and boarded.

We were a family of four, I found myself thinking. It felt like such a scathing condemnation that we no longer were. Silly, really, since it's not like an infant could have joined us. But I had already been thinking about Harper, and this was the dark place my thoughts went.

Something must have shown on my face, because the attendant chided me, in a most un-Disney fashion, "You need to learn to be more patient."

I bit my tongue.

But the most beautiful reminder was this one:

My boy. Loving every minute of his trip. Squealing in delight down that rafting ride. Pointing out every single doll in It's a Small World ("Mommy, look, look!") Seeing Peter Pan for the first time and yelling "Crocodile!" every time it appeared. Hugging Mickey with every ounce of exuberance in his little body.

At Harper's memorial service we said that her loss has made us appreciate how lucky we are to have Shea. That is still a gift she gives to us every day.

On the way home, browsing through Skymall, a bracelet caught my eye. "It is What it Is" it said. I thought about how many times I've found myself using that phrase in the past three months. (Has it really only been three months?!?)

Part of me longs to buy it. Because that phrase helps get me through some days. Some moments. But my wrist is getting crowded. And all the jewelry in the world doesn't provide enough armor to deflect those sharp barbs that come out of nowhere. It is what it is.