Face jealousy and ashes

My darling Bookish Girl had her baby, a boy. We are specially attached to this one. We were there a few days before he arrived in this crazy world. We felt him kick before he came out. (I was terrified with every kick. Is he being careful of his cord? Is he all tangled in there? Calm down, baby boy, I thought to myself. Then I thought, I must be INSANE. )

No surprise. Losing a child makes you a little insane.

I mean, I was terrified to even visit. What if we brought the curse with us? Please, please let this pregnancy be OK, I willed silently.

Again, insane.

So we're joyous, and yet I have a strange detachment. And it comes down to this, and Bookish Girl is such a fearless pragmatist that she probably knows this already: I am in love with this new baby boy and yet embarrassingly, awkwardly jealous at the same time.

I've been attending church lately. It's Lent. (I'm one of those progressive Catholic, or at least would like to be. So I have a skeptical eye toward the whole endeavor and yet love it dearly. There's a special beauty in Lent, time to give something up or do something good for others.)

Last year, at Ash Wednesday, Lent's big kickoff, I was doubled over when the priest traced ash on my forehead, and mumbled the words about our return to dust in death. This was 5 months after losing Grace. It was the physical force of a blow - Grace is dust. That's all I'm left with when it comes to this baby. It was too, too much.

This year, Ash Wednesday's punch was less forceful. But last Sunday's reading about the 10 commandments - coveting your neighbor's stuff - hit me with a similar force. THAT IS ME. I want what someone else has - just not the thing people usually think of.

Frustratingly, the Bible just tells us to stop. Cold turkey. No more coveting. That's it. No gentle guidance. No instruction manual.

So here I am, buying baby clothes for this boy. I love boy baby clothes - I like to dress them up as if they were in hunting jackets at the manor, sweaters, corderoys, elbow patches. They are practically smoking pipes after I've had my way dressing them up. So I'm thrilled about that.

But this is a new me, who will never get Grace back. So now what? How do you stop -- not just wanting what you DON'T have, but wanting what other people DO have? And will I uncover that purely joyful part ever again? Or has that ship sailed?

Release balloons

I saw this idea on the SHARE site as I was frantically trying to figure out what a service for a baby might possibly look like. I had no clue...


But this, I knew we needed to do - release balloons in memory of Grace.

So we've released balloons for Grace 3 times so far:
at her burial,
at 6 months,
... and at the year mark, this past November 2008.

It's one of those concrete things that we can see, touch, feel.

And we probably wouldn't have done it if we didn't have a 3 year old to placate.

Originally it was a way to make her feel a part of the experience. But, on the day of the funeral itself, it was a joyous moment for us in an otherwise devestating day.

For the funeral, we brought many balloons, and the children there (and there were a few) released balloons.

My friend N, who had lost her son to a cord accident 8 years earlier and was a huge support to us in the aftermath, also released a balloon for her son E.

We hugged and cried and let our balloons float off into the sky together.

This experience means that our daughter, N, thinks that cemeteries are beautiful, wonderous, celebratory places where people remember loved ones with trinkets, flowers, and treasures.

Write a love letter or eulogy

All the books say it. Write a letter to the baby, whether it's a private letter or one you read openly.

We composed this as a eulogy for Grace, to be read at our memorial service for her.

It was read by another couple, dear friends who do not yet have kids. We were not prepared to be the ones to read this out loud. And we couldn't imagine that any of our friends with kids could get through it yet.

Sometimes now it seems too optimistic, too sweet, too empowered. But at the time, it seemed just right. It speaks to a hope that wanes more often now, but that was very strong right then. And it reminds us that there were some truly joyous moments in meeting her - before we had a chance to miss her so constantly.


An open letter to our friends and family, and to Baby Grace
From K & A

While this is a sad time for us, it is great comfort that you, our friends and family, are sharing this loss so profoundly with us.

But this Mass is also a celebration. And today, we want to share with you the wonder that was Grace.

Because from the first moment of sheer surprise and delight at discovering that we were pregnant, you, Grace, were exactly that -- a wonder!

We expected our second pregnancy to be so much like the first; but you managed to surprise us at every turn: the drama of morning sickness in the first three months; the baby’s high-energy activity -- somersaults, kicks and jabs; your clear love of sweets (which your mother indulged quite happily!) And of course, Grace, you joined all of us to root for the Red Sox together, even if we couldn’t quite stay up all night for the games.

And when, Grace, you arrived early Sunday morning, even in our grief, you managed to delight and surprise. You were a girl when we were sure we were having a boy. You were 6 pounds 2 ounces; we – and the doctors -- thought you would be so much larger. You had a shock of dark hair, while we were both expecting the blond curls we had as babies.

We can only imagine how this delight and surprise would have marked the rest of your life with us and your big sister N. But Baby Grace, you could not come home with us.

We are sad, Grace; already we miss the life that will not be. We miss your cries and already miss your first smile; your first laugh and your first crawl.

We miss you being N’s “baby”. She talked so much about how she would change your diapers, feed you, wash your face, and hug and kiss you. (And of course, Grace, we would have shielded you from an eager two-year-old’s over-attention!) We will miss reading stories to you and your sister, and most of all, watching you both grow up together.

Grace, we trust that we will someday learn something from this experience, and for that we are grateful for your brief life. We hope to find the moments where your delight and surprise carries on.

It has already started with so many little kindnesses – gestures from friends, our families, priests and chaplains, nurses and midwives, even from people we’ve never met.

Grace could not come home with us last Sunday. But we are reassured that she is in a special place, among the spirits of family and friends who have gone before her: namesakes Grace B, Grace S, Catherine M. Her Grandpa D, her Aunt Janine. Her great-grandpa M, her great-grandparents Rose and William, Una J -- and many others.

Baby Grace is with us in Spirit, in the angels of babies and in the saints, in prayers, anytime any of us remember her -- and wherever we stumble upon a little surprise and delight.

So to our friends and family, we invite you to look for signs of Grace all around you as well.

And Grace Catherine, we will always remember you.

- K and A