A Poem for My Rainbow, Adelaide

A Different Child

By: Pandora MacMillian

People notice there's a special glow around you.

As you grow, surrounded by love,

Never doubting you are wanted;

Only look at the pride and joy

In your mother and father's eyes.

And if sometimes between the smiles,

There's a trace of tears,

One day you'll understand.

You'll understand there was once another child.

A different child who was in their hopes and dreams.

That child will never outgrow the baby clothes.

That child will never keep them up at night.

In fact, that child will never be any trouble at all.

Except sometimes, in a silent moment,

When mother and father miss so much that different child.

May hope and love wrap you warmly

And may you learn the lesson forever...

How infinitely precious.

How infinitely fragile.

Is this life on earth.

One day, as a young man or woman,

You may see another mother's tears,

another father's silent grief.

Then you, and you alone,

will understand and offer the greatest comfort.

When all hope seems lost,

you will tell them with great compassion,

“I know how you feel. I'm only here because my [parents] tried again.”

20 Months Without Her.

Today marks the 20th month since Eleanor died. I have cried twenty times on the 14th.

I still vividly remember that day. We were so hopeful. The doctors said she was stable enough to fly to Washington D.C. for heart surgery and after being delayed one day already (so the flight team could assist with Haiti earthquake disaster relief), we were very eager to get going. Chris and I sat by her that morning and allowed ourselves to fantasize about bringing her home. We talked about how protective we would be of our sweet heart baby, but how important it was to let her be a normal kid. Oh, how we wanted to hold her! We made plans for me to fly with her that evening and for Chris to fly commercial the next morning. The Ronald McDonald House at Children's National had a room ready for us, although we knew we would be staying with Ellie as much as possible in the PICU. We busily cleaned our room at the local Ronald McDonald House in preparation for checkout and made final arrangements with family for the care of our then 19 month old son while we were away. At 2pm that day, we received a call that Ellie wasn't doing well and rushed back (we had only been gone an hour or two in order to pack up and clean). We only had six more hours with her and then she was gone.

I am starting to get anxious as we get closer to the 24 month mark. Two years since my baby left. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet it is all still so fresh. I feel like a different person and don't think I will ever be who I was January 3rd of last year when we were still so blissfully ignorant. Ellie was perfect as far as we knew. But she was already fighting for her life.

Will I ever be 'normal' again? Will this ever make sense? Will this hole in my heart ever heal enough to where I can say her name without fighting tears or feeling that lump in my throat?

As I am typing this, her baby sister is wiggling and kicking inside at 34 weeks. What a bittersweet time.

Hoping for Hope

Today is the International Day of Hope. If you have lost a baby and are part of any online communities, especially Facebook, you may have noticed people changing their profile pictures for today. We do this in memory of our lost babies and to show solidarity to the other families who had suffered.

The Day of Hope is a great project. As "Babylost Mommas" we try to cope with our grief daily. It is always there. So it is nice to step back from that intense emotion and think about hope, as hard as that may seem sometimes.

Today I am basking in the memory of my sweet Ellie and hoping that others will too. Today I am smiling and hoping that I can bring my rainbow baby home, healthy in October. Today I feel love from my husband as we hope for strength and the ability to heal. And today I hope that the those in different phases of their baby loss journey feel the warmth and support of those that understand. Today I hope.

Shhh...Don't Poke the Bereaved Mother!

"If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died--you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift......." ~Elizabeth Edwards~

So very true. I need to talk about Eleanor, not all the time, but often. Sometimes I feel like this is all some horrible nightmare; that it is surreal. Talking about her and what has happened, and even my fears with my current pregnancy, help ground me. And they certainly help get out some of the tension and pain that builds up. You won’t break me if you mention her name. Instead you will lift me up. Even though it has been 19 months, her death is still so fresh to me and I suspect it always will be. I think I will always need to talk about her and hope there is always someone there to listen. (Please don't get me wrong. There are many very sweet people who always let me talk about Ellie, especially my best friend and husband.)

I belong to such a beautiful, yet shattered community. We grieve. We remember. We support. We love. We are mothers no matter what the circumstances were surrounding the death of our child(ren) or how old they were when they left. Several members have had horrible conversations with family and friends and been treated so unfairly (me included). But what has really struck a nerve with me lately is Facebook.

Ok, we all know one shouldn’t judge their self worth by Facebook. Not all of those 200 people are truly your friends and that is ok! But when a bereaved mother posts about their child and is attacked for: not “moving on”; talking about something that should be private; trying to be the center of attention; even being inappropriate and macabre; or sometimes even worse, when they are ignored, I become enraged. There are already people out there that get annoyed with pictures and stories and updates about a Facebook friend’s child. I say unfriend/delete/block them! It’s your page, do what you like. Children are part of what defines those that have them (and it is okay if you don’t). But for the people that do not get annoyed at posts about living children, why is it any different when a post is about a child no longer here? The child was. They existed. They were loved and wanted. Why can’t the mother talk about that? What is the commentor afraid of? Why does a picture of my living son get 33 comments and likes while one honoring my daughter gets 9 or less or sometimes none at all? I’m not trying to “rub” my tragedy in anyone’s face. I am not hysterical in any way. I don’t need you to comment in order to know she was/is loved. But I do need her to be acknowledged. All I have left of my six day old daughter is her legacy. The pictures of her while here are personal and I couldn’t stand it if someone negatively commented on her appearance, so I choose nott o post them. But I also can’t post a picture of her first birthday or first day of school. There will be no pictures of her first sporting event or play or formal dance. IF Facebook survives the fickle social media world, I won’t even be able to post pictures of my grandchildren. So all I have, and all the members of my community have, are pictures of things that remind us of our child or events in where we are honoring our child. How hard is it to take a few seconds out of your day to lift me up while honoring my daughter? You won't awaken some sleeping bear or anything! I am a mother. A proud one at that!

Can you give me that gift Ms. Edwards is referencing in the above quote?