Farewell 2012

Dear 2012,

I find it very difficult to accept we're leaving you behind.  Once again, I find myself clutching fast to the moments I cherish, realizing the rest of the world must march on.  But you--you were far too important a year, and while I cannot freeze time, I refuse to forget.

In February 2012, I welcomed my sweet Carpenter into this world.  It was tragically bittersweet, but that day will always rank in my top ten.  I will never forget the day I held his little body, dressed him in white, and let my tears fall on his face.

In March 2012, we welcomed my niece.  She scared the hell out of us (which showed us she'd take after her father) by coming eleven weeks early.  We desperately needed to hear the cry of a living child.  I will never forget the look on my sister-in-law's face when she saw the first picture of herself with her tiny baby. 

In April 2012, a dear friend brought her sleeping daughter into the world.  I did not know them at the time.  I was not there to cry with her.  But I will never forget her short life, her mother's pain, or her birthday. 

In May 2012, I joined Lil Angels Hankies.  Tricia's team has meant the world to me, giving me support, and better--the chance to support others.  There are still days I can't get by without my fellow staff.  I will never forget the day I told Tricia I was all-in.

In July 2012, Mike and I celebrated our two-year anniversary.  We had been rocked to the core, experienced the worst pain a couple can bear, and we had come out of it fighting FOR each other rather than against.  I will never forget the day it really hit us that we could and would survive anything together.

In August 2012, I decided to open up my heart and soul to the possibility of more love, and still more pain.  We decided we were ready to try again to expand our family.  I was scared to death, but I'll never forget the day I finally said "it's time."

In September 2012, we found out we were expecting our third child.  In a sea of emotions, I came up numb, but underneath swelled excitement and pride.  I will never forget the day I told Mike the test was positive.

In October 2012, I joined in the excitement as a dear friend brought her rainbow into the world.  She had shared her joys and fears with me to prepare me for my months ahead.  Seeing the healthy birth of her son has buoyed me in a way I can never explain.  It is because of her strength I know I can keep going.  I will never forget the day her sweet son arrived.

And finally, this month, I found out we're having another son.  During the ultrasound, I was the first to spot the gender, and immediately wished I were wrong.  I was scared of so many things, not wanting a replacement baby for my Carpenter.  But I realized that Carpenter sent his brother to me.  I will never forget the day I found out our chosen name, Matthew, means "Gift of God."  

2012, it has been a roller coaster.  You have given me destruction and growth, terror and joy, fear and hope.  With the good and the bad, I still cling tightly to the memories of what has so far been the most important year of my life.  I will never, ever forget.  Thank you for all you have given me, and for all that was taken away.  Because in the end, it was mine, even if just for 2012.

Here's to 2013.  May it be just as memorable.

Replacements

Tomorrow will be 10 months since my son was born.  And tomorrow, I will find out what his little sibling will be named.  Yes, it's been ten months without our Carpenter, and our little M is now 18 weeks old.  It feels like some official passing of the torch.  Carpenter celebrates a milestone in Heaven, and M becomes somehow more substantial.  For a mom who has been hiding from a post-loss pregnancy, giving M a name will be a huge moment for me.

I was thinking about those "Little Brother" or "Little Sister" onesies they make for newborns.  I bought one for Liv after Carpenter was born, and she wore it with pride.  (Well, I was proud.)  But today it occurred to me that if I buy big- and little-sibling shirts for our living children, no one will know that Carpenter is our middle child.  Everyone will just think that M is the little sibling, Liv is the big sibling, and there's no one in between.  
 
As if M has replaced Carpenter.

And that is what has troubled me all day.  

I have heard many people suggest to babyloss moms that once their rainbow arrives, then they'll be happy again.  You know the line.  "At least you can have other children!"  (Yeah.  At least I can punch you.)  And this thought-process bugs the crap out of me.  You see, when we have our rainbow pregnancy, it's not a filler child to replace the hole left behind by our loss.  If that were the case, there would be no reason to have more than one child ever, and they'd be as interchangeable as Legos.  

But they're not.  Our rainbows are special parts of our family that we chose, we prayed for, we WANT.  Just as much as any other child we might have. I may be scared to death during this pregnancy, but M is a necessity to our family.  M was chosen, prayed for and wanted.

Tomorrow, no torch will be passed.  No attention will be diverted.  No love will shift attention.  As with each of our children, our love and attention will grow in order to make room for our sweet little M.

...right beside Carpenter.

In It Together

Yesterday, as I was playing around on Facebook, avoiding the necessary shower, I started to notice the world went quiet.  We don't have TV.  If the world blows up, I anticipate my husband will give me a call from work--if he has heard.  So, eventually I started to recognize that something was going on, and went to a news site.  I, like everyone else, was shoved deep into the tragedy in Connecticut. 

Unlike everyone else, apparently, I read through the story one time, on one website, and I walked away. 

I do not want anyone to think I'm not deeply moved by this senseless massacre.  I know the grief of these parents who will, alongside myself and countless others, have a tearful Christmas this year.  I know they are destroyed.  I know this is the worst thing that can happen to a family. 

My issue, with which I've been grappling for 24 hours, is the way we are so often sucked into these stories.  Why?  Why do we sit, glued to the television, staring at the tragedy of others?

Some would say that it's because our country is falling apart.  That year after year, massacres such as this are multiplying.  It all started with Columbine. 

Not so.  Every year for decades--DECADES--there have been approximately 20 massacres of similar magnitude inside the United States.  20.  No, that's not a good number.  Yes, it's disgusting.  But it's not happening every day at every school in America. 

Some would say that the death toll is overwhelming. 

Not really, all things considered.  Approximately 150 people die of massacres every year.  That's a very small number in comparison to the 17,000 who die from homicides of any type every year.  Both these numbers are down from previous years. 

So what is different?  The media attention.

When a crazed man walks into a school and takes 28 lives, the newspapers and television stations show up like locusts to a plague.  For months we will watch as experts dissect the events of yesterday, pondering exactly what could have been done to stop this senselessness.   But nothing can be done.  If it could, we'd have done it. 

When 28 people die in a schoolhouse, we are made to feel like we can do something. 

But when 26,000 children are stillborn each year, when one in four women cry for the children they lost...no one talks about it.  When it's happening to everyone, it's not news.  When it happens every single day, no one can profit from the story.  When it affects millions, not dozens, suddenly nothing can be done.

No one was glued to the screen when my son died. 

So what is the point to my story here?  Obviously the loss these families suffered was an impossible one from which they will never recover.  I will not deny them that.  But I will not drown in their story.  I will not stare at the screen, lapping up every detail.  Because I know that every day, many unknown, unspoken families grieve for the same thing--the loss of their sweet children.  And as members of this tragic club, we are charged with one thing:  to stick together.  Let the media and politicians debate over what could be done.  We know that only one thing is to be done.  We must help each other remember our babies, and love each other as brothers and sisters in loss.  The notoriety will fail, the support will falter, but we must not.  Let none of those among us ever forget that we are all in this together.