As 2016 comes to a close, I am already beginning to refer to it as “The Year of Lucy”. Even though Lucy was conceived in November of 2015, 2016 was her year. It was our year, together. On this last day of Lucy’s year, I sit here stunned that the wheel of time continues to turn as it does, onward to another year. Many people will look back upon this year as the one in which stole away many celebrities, the crazy election year, maybe the year the world lost its mind with violence, and so on. So many of those things threaten to make my grief seem insignificant. For me, it will always be the year that our perfect baby was snatched away from us, the year that began so beautifully yet brought to us the greatest tragedy Chris and I will likely ever face.

I have been irrevocably changed. I began the year with a lifetime of amazing possibility before me, with our beautiful child on the way. My love grew for her each day as she grew within me, and I began to feel a sense of pride I’d never experienced before. I was in love with life. I was going to be a mother and Chris was going to be a father. When our world crashed down around us, and Lucy, the daughter we’d longed for and couldn’t wait to meet, departed from our lives in the blink of an eye, it suddenly seemed as if I were merely a helpless observer of my own life. As our tragedy unfolded before us, I realized quickly that some things are worse than death; living the life of a bereaved parent is one of them. Hell is indeed real, because it’s where we now reside. In the early days of our loss, I felt as though I were merely a shell of the person I once was. Really, I still am. I look back on these past several months, and I don’t know how I have survived the intense, soul-shaking pain of it all. I oftentimes doubt my own strength, but looking outside of myself, I do see the strength within me. It must be there, because otherwise, how would I have survived each day? When my inner strength fails me, I have learned to draw energy from the love that surrounds me. The love I have for Lucy, the love I feel coming from others, the light it brings with it… that is where I gain the rest of the strength that gets me through. In the midst of some of the largest waves of grief, I have wanted to just lay down and quit. I have fervently wished that I could have traded places with Lucy, or that I could join her in death… the darkness that comes along with grief is truly terrifying at times. It is during those raw moments that I have learned to remind myself that though the pain is great, the love is greater. I have to keep going because of my love for Lucy, for Chris, for everyone in my life who loves me. I know I will be swimming in this ocean of grief for the rest of my days, no matter the size of the waves. Several months down, a lifetime to go… It is love that will keep me afloat. I have learned through this journey of grief that love is the most powerful force on the planet. It transcends time and space, it knows no boundaries. The love I feel for Lucy as her mother is pure, endless, and fierce. It is tangible, and it’s what sustains me and keeps my heart beating. There is nothing stronger than this.

The Year of Lucy has also taught me so much about people. I have been let down or wounded by a few who’ve been afraid of the messy uncomfortableness that deep grief brings with it. They’ve hid away or dropped from my world completely because maybe this kind of loss is just too much to face. Some of these came as a surprise (and some did not), but I understand. I have quickly learned to forgive and let go of them, and there is peace in that. They do not understand, and my sincerest hope is that they will never have to understand it. There have been many more people that have come through for me. They’ve been unafraid to sit with me in grief, to imagine what this journey is like. They’ve reached out and given me words of encouragement, hope, and love. They’ve let me know that Lucy is alive in their hearts or that the loss of her has truly taught them something. Through these individuals, I have learned that people are truly amazing and that in spite of all of the pain and sadness in the world, there is still so much good. This journey would be impossible without them. I’ve also come to realize that as far as people go, there isn’t anyone better than my husband. I know without a doubt that I’ve married the right person. He is my rock and companion on this grief journey; without him, I’d be absolutely lost. Without him, my existence wouldn’t make sense.

When I look in the mirror now I see an entirely different woman in the reflection. I don’t always recognize her. How could I? The woman I see before me is no longer the innocent, unjaded optimist that she used to be. She’s been tossed along by the tempest of grief, battered and bruised by life. She is a mother with no child to hold. Her eyes tell the story of unspeakable pain and her soul has aged hundreds of years in just a few short months. Sometimes through the shadows in her eyes, I catch glimpses of the person she used to be. The old her does surface from time to time through laughter or singing, but she is always guarded and cautious. I began the year an entirely different person than I am now. Missing my daughter is a full-time job, and there are no breaks. It has taken its toll on me, but I have gained strength and wisdom. I am now a grief warrior, and I am still trudging through the hell of loss. I have survived the worst, and I will keep journeying on, even as the waves still crash against me. 2016 has been the year in which the ‘before’ me and the ‘after’ me collided. It’s the year that housed the greatest joy and the greatest pain I’ll ever experience. In this year, I have learned that love and hope are the only things that can pull one through the worst nightmares of life. Without love, I’d have perished. Without hope, I’d have no reason to continue. I cling to the hope that joy will find a place in our lives again, that it can coexist with the lifelong grief we’ll always feel as a result of losing Lucy.

The Year of Lucy, while painful and filled with anguish, was also full of the beauty of Lucy’s light. Though her life was brief, it was beautiful and meaningful. She knew only love, and that is what our lives continue to be filled with. Love. I vow to fill 2017 with more of her love and light, to share her precious memory, and to honor her life by striving to live my own life well. It won’t always be easy, but for my precious child, I’d do anything. Leaving 2016 behind is hard because it pushes us farther from the moments we spent with our Lucy… the passage of time is a harsh reminder that sometimes our memories are all we get to take with us. I will keep hope and light in my heart, and most of all, I will keep loving Lucy with everything I am.

A reminder of our beautiful girl, and a continuing symbol of hope.

Today Lucy would have been twenty weeks old. That is half the amount of time that she existed here with us. It’s hard to believe. August seems like it was just yesterday, yet here we are, seemingly miles away from it. How time passes in the blink of an eye. Thinking back on our time with her at twenty weeks, the world was full of possibility… we were days away from finding out if we were having a boy or girl, though I had every sneaking suspicion that she was indeed a little girl. We were so elated to learn more about the little person she was going to be someday. It was a lovely time… so promising, so beautiful. I will always cherish our moments together, always. Our memories with her are all so happy, so precious.

Christmas was a dark day for Chris and me… I think that’s all I can really say about it. I woke up feeling absolutely crushed and heartbroken, and went to bed in the same frame of mind. It hurt to breathe all day. To sum it up simply, it really sucked.

Lucy is always on my mind. I was at the store yesterday and saw some clearance items on an endcap and sitting there was a stack of blocks painted with the phrase, “Love You to the Moon and Back”. It was shouting at me to pick it up, to buy it for Lucy, so I did. I put it next to her little urn, along with a heart stone when I got home. It just seemed right. A little twenty week present, I guess. When we take her tree down, I plan to put a couple of her butterflies along with those things, just because. I wish with all of my heart that I could do more, that instead of buying things to honor her memory, I could be just be getting things for her to use, wear, or play with. In my parallel universe, I suppose I am. It is a comfort to me at least to pick up things for her here and there, though nothing will ever truly be enough. I miss her SO much. I wish my Lucy were HERE. In many ways, I know she is, but once again, the feeling of knowing that she will be in my heart and memories only (well, and of course in the hearts and memories of others too) instead of physically here to live a happy life, well, it kills me. It’s so unfair. The passage of time has made me able to function and live in a somewhat normal way (the ‘new normal’, which truly isn’t normal at all…), and even feel moments of happiness, but it will never change the fierce love I have for her. It will never tarnish that.

This week I have been particularly thankful for Chris and Waggs. Without the two of them, my life would be so bleak. I can’t say enough how much love and admiration I have for Chris, and Waggs has been our constant sunshine. She is definitely my therapy dog, and very good at her job. She has been my furry little savior, and I know Lucy would have just loved her pup. Waggs has certainly helped me through this journey, and I can’t imagine how our home would have been without her here through this grief. Our animals know our hearts better than we do, I think.

Happy Twenty Weeks, beautiful Lucy. I love you so much, baby girl.

A happy me at Lucy’s twentieth week milestone… it was all so wonderful, and we were so happy and full of hope…

On Sunday, Chris and I decided to go get a very small Christmas tree for Lucy. Earlier this month, I was convinced that I didn’t want to do anything to recognize the holidays in our home, that it would just be too difficult. It’d be another reminder of what we are missing… and don’t we have enough reminders already? I finally decided that I needed to do something for Lucy, even if that something were small. I am so glad that we did. Yesterday, I went on a scavenger hunt through Hobby Lobby to see if I could find some suitable decorations, and came out with a few perfect items that were meant just for her tree. A gorgeous butterfly topper. A couple of little dragonfly pendants that I turned into ornaments. Beautiful, delicate glass bulbs that reflect the light just so. More dainty, sparkling butterflies… a lovely ‘L’ ornament (the LAST one there!)… even a 2016 Baby’s First Christmas ornament. I will admit that I choked up much more than once while on my quest, especially with the 1st Christmas ornament, but it was somehow healing to do this for our baby girl. I couldn’t wait to get home and put everything on her tree. I can’t seem to look at it enough; it brings me serenity and a sense of peace to sit in the glow of the tree lights, knowing that it is all for Lucy. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching all at once.

At times lately I feel more emotionally sound than I have in a very long while, yet more fragile than ever at the same time. Like at any moment, I could shatter into hundreds of tiny glass shards. So much within me has been broken, mended, and broken again. There’s a line from Pearl Jam’s song ‘Black’ that reminds me of this for some reason (I know, weird, but I always pay attention to song lyrics), and it goes, “…And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything”. Once there was a beautiful, glittering, fragile glass bulb of a dream carefully placed into my willing, grateful hands… I nurtured it and carefully ensured its safety and poured all of my love and joy into it. Then, for no reason at all, just as the dream was about to reach fruition, it was violently smashed and shattered, ‘and now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything’. All I am left with is a handful of broken glass. One cannot just pick up all of the shards and pieces of such a combustion and put them all back into place again… It’s never going to be exactly as it once was. And anyone who thinks it can has never walked in the shoes of a loss parent. I know without a doubt that my grief will last for the rest of my life, in some way or another. I have accepted this part of my ‘fate’. I also accept that while my heart will never be fully mended, it will continue beating… I know this because it has made it this far in the ‘after’ of losing my precious baby. I know that as much as I may try to fight or deny it, the truth is that sometimes bitterness rears its ugly head and I feel envy toward those who have the privilege of parenting in ways that Chris and I never can. I have been changed in ways that even now I cannot fathom. However, I find comfort in reminiscing on the joy and love that my daughter has brought to my life since the moment of her existence. As impossible as it seems some days, I know that I will make it if I cling to the shards of the dream that is my Lucy that are not so fragile, I will make it. I will always fiercely love my baby, and because of that, I will always have comfort and light in my life.

I made an ornament for our sweet girl and hung it on her tree.

Lucy’s Christmas tree… a photo simply doesn’t do it justice.

Another snow day for us here in our little corner of Michigan… the third one in the past week! As a teacher, these are some of the perks of the profession, sprinkled throughout the darkest time of the year, bringing a little joy to our tired selves. As a grieving momma, these are also much-appreciated delights, because they are days in which I don’t have to perform on stage in the classroom and can just ‘be’ in the comfort of my own home. I’ll take it. I even got a pile of grading done, read some of my novel, and got to have a little bonus time with Chris.

It’s been an okay week, but I’ve noticed that pregnancy announcements seem to be taking the world by storm on social media these days. I swear there’s been a daily reminder from a new pregnancy or birth, reminding me of what I do not have, reminding me of all that we’ve lost. It’s hard. I am happy for these women, but I am also envious. It really does feel like everyone else in the world gets to keep their babies… except for us. I feel like I’m simply existing on the shadowy fringes of a happy world, longingly looking in. Perhaps that won’t always be so, but it’s difficult right now. I sure miss you, Lucy.

I took a big step today, at least in terms of my heart. I opened the door to Lucy’s nursery and left it open. We’ve had the heat ducts shut in the room because we’re not using it (except for when I go in there to sit), and it has been so frigid in there. The windows keep gathering condensation, and I keep wiping them down. I mentioned it to Chris and he thought letting some heat in and leaving the door open would fix that. My first response was, “That damn cat will be right in there, all over everything!” I don’t know what the hang-up has been for me with the cat in the nursery, but I decided that maybe leaving the door open is okay. I went in and took the changing pad off the dresser so Darwin can’t lay on it, made sure the glider was covered, and left the door open. Somehow, looking at the open door down the hallway feels like a symbol of hope suddenly. That maybe by opening the door now, the nursery once again becomes part of the house instead of remaining a sealed vault. It becomes symbolic of opening the door to new possibilities, new life. This doesn’t mean that I am ‘letting go’ of our Lucy, or moving on from the loss of her, it just means that perhaps there’s more to come, more possibility of joy that someday will coexist with the missing of her. And if the cat wanders in from time to time, well, then I guess I can deal.

Our little girl has been gone for 18 weeks now, and for 18 weeks, I’ve been living someone else’s life, as someone else entirely. Every day, I wake up full of longing for Lucy and the life we almost had. It doesn’t seem like it could be real. Sometimes I worry that I am not doing enough to honor her precious life, but then it dawns on me that she is a part of my every waking moment, in my every conscious thought. I will never be without her in my heart. There is some mild comfort in that, but again, it’ll never be quite good enough, because she should be here. With us. In our arms, not just our hearts. In the meantime, I will continue to love her more with each day that passes, and honor her by doing my best at life. And I’ll keep my heart open, letting hope in, just like the open nursery door.

The open door, letting hope in…

Today, our Lucy girl would have been four months old. I am sure I’d have already propped her up sweetly in our cushy arm chair and have taken her four month old photo, with a cute ‘4 Months’ sticker on a cuddly onesie, her bright eyes shining and maybe a toothless grin on her round little face. I’d ooh and ahh at her and marvel at how much she’d be growing and what new things she’d be able to do. I’m sure part of the day would consist of me or her Daddy bouncing her in our arms near the window, letting her lovely blue eyes (the nurses said they were blue, which we had guessed already due to her Mommy and Daddy’s baby blues) gaze upon the winter wonderland that is now our yard. I know we’d giggle with glee as we’d keep doing all sorts of silly things to produce a baby laugh, and we’d bask in the sweet silliness of it all, loving each moment of being parents to such a precious baby girl.

That is what is occurring today in the parallel universe that exists in my heart and mind.

Back to Reality: I am pining away with a tortured heart, trying to imagine a life of joy with our deceased baby girl with a lump in my throat, tears brimming, a hollowness in my chest… all the while knowing that no matter how much I dream it or wish it, it will never be. It happened, and no matter what we do, it cannot be undone. I ask myself often, how is my heart still beating? How am I still breathing? My baby is gone, and with her, all of the beautiful hopes and dreams I had for her, for us. We are missing everything.

Last night, Chris and I were at a gathering of friends. We chatted, laughed, ate, drank, and visited. It was almost, almost as if things were as they’d always been. Except that it wasn’t. My new normal in those situations is that I try to push the thoughts and feelings of grieving for Lucy to the side, just to avoid them bubbling to the surface, to avoid adding discomfort for others in whatever scenario I’m in. But, the thoughts continue to grow louder and louder, clamoring around in my head, increasing in volume and intensity, demanding to be heard, to be tended to. There was Christmas music on the radio in the background, and as much as I tried to ignore it, pretend I didn’t hear it, I simply couldn’t. My ear kept tuning into certain songs, making my heart beat faster and hot tears try to work their way out of my eyes. All I could think about was that we don’t have our Lucy. I couldn’t help but feel a stinging jealousy deep down as I sat among our friends with their beautiful families, gearing up for another loving, joy-filled holiday… knowing all the while that as Christmas creeps closer, I will continue to withdraw further into myself and wish the harshness of it all away. If I am completely honest, part of me is jealous of their joy, their innocence. I hate these feelings and thoughts, but as much as I try to eliminate them, they remain in the back of my brain. I want to opt out of the horror that is Christmas altogether. Well, I guess if I’m wanting things, I just want my baby daughter back. I want our happy life back.

I imagine that some day, Chris and I will have consistent happiness back in our lives. The pangs of missing Lucy will also continue to be a consistent piece of our lives. I am trying as hard as I can to be gentle with myself, to remember that Lucy’s brief life was a beautiful piece of my own life and that I’m lucky to have been chosen as her mother. I am letting her light guide me daily, and I will keep doing the best I can to share that light with the world around me. I will keep doing all of that, but deep in my heart, I will always just wish that we’d gotten to keep our sweet Lucy Rose.

Happy four months, my precious girl. You remain always in my heart, and you are still the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. Mommy loves you so, so much…..

Winter can no longer be denied… I wish Lucy were here to see the beauty with me.