Our memorial mass

     Once again, we are surrounded by love and support from all sides. We know how blessed we are to have these people in our lives. We arrived at the church yesterday to see that there were already many people there, aside from my dad, aunt and uncle who were practicing the songs, many people from Patrick's church in the West Island had come all that way to help us celebrate Evangeline's short life and to mourn with us. My family was there, and so many friends. For such a tiny little baby, there were so many people who loved her already.
    The priest we had asked to lead the service, was the same priest who married us. I found so much of what he had to say, so very insightful. He said that Evangeline came to prepare the way. He also talked about how her name means "a little good news", and she was. In the short time we had her with us, she was the best news for us. Even on a bad day, all I had to do was think of her, and know she was coming, for everything to suddenly be okay. And now she's come and gone, and here I am, changed. I am a mother. My daughter is an angel. I had a baby. I have a baby. We are orphaned parents for now, but parents still. Yesterday was a difficult day, but I know the worst is behind me. I know that the future isn't what it used to be. But we still have a future. And hope.
     I guess I'm sad today. I didn't expect that. I thought I would feel more closure, but I feel like I've put her in the past, and she doesn't belong there. She belongs in the present and in our future. I need to find a way to keep her there. I miss her terribly....with every ounce of my being.

Last night

...at Fabricville, I met another woman in my family tree of grief. (I stole that term from Elizabeth McCracken, an author who writes about her experience in her book An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination)

I was buying light pink ribbon, meters and meters of it (50, to be exact) to wrap around little votive candles with Eva's picture and birth/death date, to be given out at her memorial mass. I figured I'd buy extra (I needed about 42 meters, by our calculations), and Natalie (my sister in law) said I could keep the rest if I have another daughter. So I smiled a funny smile and said "Yeah...." The saleswoman who had been helping us look and measure and choose said "Oh, how old is the baby?" So, I stopped, turned around and said, "Actually, I was pregnant, and we lost her at 23 weeks" and she said the best thing she could say in that moment. "Oh, honey, I lost a baby at 7 1/2 months, I understand. There's nothing anyone can say and most people say the wrong thing but this is all you can do." She opened her arms to me and I leaned forward and hugged her back. She went from a stranger, to someone who knows me better than many people. She said when it happened to her, people would say things like "At least you didn't get to know him", and I said "People like to tell me at least I'm young and I can have more", so she replied, paralleling what my heart says each time I hear that phrase "But you won't have her..."
So, after that I left that area to pay and turned back to her and said "I'll be thinking of you," to which she replied "I'll be thinking of you." Strange how not alone I am, that even in the fabric store, I find someone who understands and also wants to share.

Over supper with my in-laws last night, my mother in law (love her!) also asked Patrick what he would have wanted his brother to be named. Louise is another mother who understands. She lost a baby too. Patrick's twin brother. The boys were born at 30 weeks, and his brother lived only a few hours, a result of anencephaly. He's always been known as Pat's brother, or more officially Baby B or Bébé Deux. And so last night they named him. Benjamin Joseph Denis Cormier. Patrick's brother finally has a name. Louise said last night that she had always wanted to name him, but wanted Patrick to help. She wanted him to like the name. Now that he understands the loss too, it was the right time. We really like the name Ben, and will keep it on our list if we ever have a boy.

Then I spent hours trying little pink bows on candles, attaching my babygirl's picture. Louise and Natalie helped too, but had to leave to drive back home and sleep. It was a labour of love. Pat eventually went to bed and I stayed up and finished. They're really pretty, and I think I have enough to give them to some people I know would appreciate them. It was a good night. Still, I'm looking forward to tomorrow afternoon, when the mass will be over, and we can look to the future.

"One day this will be a grace in your lives."

Today, Patrick and I met with the priest who will be presiding over the memorial mass we're having this weekend. He started by saying that there were many people praying for us and named some in particular. At this point, he went to the door, because there was someone outside. It was one of the women he had just referred to, Anna. She wanted to offer her condolences. Then she shared that she and her husband had also lost their first baby, a boy. She said that it had taken her close to 9 years and three more children, to get to a place where she felt resolved and at peace with losing Arthur. She spoke lovingly of her children and the special relationship they have with the older brother they've never met. She also mentioned that she considers herself to have four children, not just the three surviving ones. In her, I felt hope. I have said over the past month, that I know there is hope, that women have shared stories with me that inspire hope in me, but this was concrete. She said that her second baby, a girl, was turning 24 today. And then she said something that I have heard in different forms in the last little while, but have not believed until the words came from her mouth. "One day, this will be a grace in your lives." She said that she still loves and misses her first born, but that she loves him as she loves his siblings, and each magnifies the love for the other. I so look forward to being there, where she is now, 25 years later. She spoke of the joy she and her husband felt when the doctor placed her second baby on her, healthy and pink and real. And that she would love to meet our second baby. I felt such love coming from her, and for her, and don't think she could ever realize how much. I hope to one day, be that love and hope for someone else. That would be a grace.

I miss you my sweet babygirl....

The gift of music ♪

     The other day, I was in my neighbour's car on our way out for supper and we were talking about how certain things can stir up memories all of a sudden. Things like a smell, or a taste of something, or a song. It led me to think about music in general. There are songs, that when I hear them now, I can remember being in an entirely different place and still feel those same feelings. For example, when I hear "Please don't go Girl" by the New Kids on the Block, I'm back in my old bedroom, on the top bunk, with a friend from school on the bottom, and we're making long loopy chains of coloured jelly bracelets. Wow, right?
     This led me to think that it goes further than that. Sometimes, there's a song I've heard a bunch of times, and don't really have any feelings associated with it. Until something happens. The other day, I decided to bring my iPod with me on the treadmill instead of reading a magazine like I often do. I started playing songs on YouTube, looking up songs that I've heard and like, that might bring me comfort (I was feeling sad, and thinking about BabyGirl). So, I went to a song called Bring on the Rain by Jo Dee Messina. Nice song, kinda fit my down mood, but I knew I needed something more inspirational. So, in scrolling down the side I found a song I had heard before, called Bring the Rain by MercyMe. Yowza. I was inspired to type up the lyrics and post them on my FB page, just to have them there, and perhaps inspire others going through difficult times. The song is about accepting to have the bad times, with the good times, if it's all for God's greater glory. I needed to hear it just then. So I was on the treadmill, running, and listening to the music, and crying, and praying and running, and crying... And then I remembered another song that my aunt had shown me a few weeks ago, that I had forgotten about from years back. This was "The Anchor Holds" by Ray Roltz. Now, this song hit me even harder. The only reason I didn't post this song on FB was because it hit me too hard, perhaps. It was too personal. I felt, in that moment, as the crying had turned to heavy sobs (try running and sobbing one day...it's an experience) that the song was written for me. While day to day, I'm getting by, and even feeling happen, or at least myself about half the time, this is still the most unimaginable pain, and the biggest void I've ever felt. And yet...the Anchor holds. Here are the lyrics.


I have journeyed
through the long dark night
out on the open sea
by faith alone
sight unknown
and yet His eyes were watching me

CHORUS
The anchor holds
though the ship is battered
the anchor holds
though the sails are torn
I have fallen on my knees
as I faced the raging seas
the anchor holds
in spite of the storm

I've had visions
I've had dreams
I've even held them in my hand
but I never knew
they would slip right through
like they were only grains of sand

CHORUS

I have been young
but I am older now
and there has been beauty these eyes have seen
but it was in the night
through the storms of my life
ohh thats where God proved His love to me

CHORUS

CHORUS 




     The second verse about having dreams that you've held in your hand, only to have them vanish like sand....That's it, right there. I am back in the hospital, holding my sweet little girl in my hands. And then I'm at her burial, holding her tiny little urn, with the grains of sand that were left of her. And yet, the Anchor holds. 
     I have felt Him even in these moments, these days, these weeks. I know it is only because of Him that I am standing, and even smiling. He has put incredible people on this road with us, from our families, our friends, our neighbours, to the incredible women (friends and strangers) who have reached out to me to say that I'm not alone. That is Him, comforting me. Putting the right people in our path. That day, I needed something, and so He sent me these songs, to help me get through the moment and to the next....

Tomorrow...

Good morning! Today is finally Friday, which means we're closer to next week, when my husband once again falls on his week off, after this horribly long week of night shift! We're both looking forward to it. I was dreading this week, as he was doing this very shift when we lost our angel, (lost our baby? gained an angel?) and he hadn't had to do it since. It has gone by faster than I expected, which means 1) that I'm becoming more comfortable in my own company again (yippee!) and 2) that nothing is really as bad as I dread it will be.
Even the pain.
Of course, that first weekend, in the hospital, was worse. Worse than anyone can imagine. As were the first few days. Okay, maybe weeks. And everyday there are moments of profound loss, grief and horribleness. But, as the grief counsellor I talked to suggested, when I allow these feelings to naturally come, they also naturally go...
The hardest part, lately (because it changes often), is dealing with the idea of next year. Dealing with the due date, and all the events we were looking forward to celebrating as a family. I was due sometime between Jan. 31st and Feb 3rd, and they say most first pregnancies go past the due date, but we knew that Evangeline would be here by Valentine's Day, our own little cupid. (Indeed she is!) We looked forward to celebrating Easter as a family, our first mother's/father's day. Patrick's parents had wanted to rent a beach house on the coast of Delaware as his family did when he was younger. I envisioned laying out near the water, with our sweet little dark haired baby on a blanket, sleeping peacefully. And there'd be Thanksgiving, and we'd be thankful for her and all that she'd brought us in those first 9 months, and her first Halloween. She was going to be a ladybug. The costume was waiting for us at Véro's. And finally Christmas, she'd be almost a year old. Next year will be so difficult.
These are the things that hurt the most, not just losing her, but losing this chunk of what would have been, what should have been. Part of our own future is gone, with her. And it's not fair, but that's the way it is.
People like to say "you'll get over it", "you'll move on", "time heals all wounds", but it doesn't. Not this kind of wound. I don't want to move on, I want my baby. I don't want to forget about her, and put her in the past. She belongs in my future, not in the past. Moms like me, I imagine, are constantly struggling to keep their babies alive in their hearts now, not just in the past. One day, God willing, I will have more babies, more healthy, full term babies who will know my voice and call me "mommy". But this first baby, Evangeline, will be just as real to me as she is now, just as loved as the babies I hope to have. That's why it's so important when people tell me they'll remember her. It makes it easier for me, not to have to go around and remind everyone...

Yes, I lost my first baby. Her name was Evangeline. She would be just over a month old today. I love her and miss her everyday.

One month. ❀

This morning I woke up to sunshine. It's not what I expected today. I expected dark cloudy skies, wind and rain and maybe snow, freezing all it touches. But instead, it's warm (for November) and sunny. I guess it parallels this past month in a way. I thought, on Oct. 3rd, that I would never recover from this pain, I thought that on Oct. 9th too, at the burial, and the following week. But then something started happening. I swear it's because I started praying hard than ever, just for God to give me peace, to heal my heart and my spirit. I complained to my dad that He wasn't working fast enough. So, my wise father asked if I had given my pain fully to God. Well, no. Then he reminded me of a little poem magnet we had stuck on the fridge growing up:

Like children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend
I brought my broken dreams to God because he was my friend
And then instead of leaving Him in peace to work alone
I stuck around and tried to help in ways that were my own
At last I snatched them back and said "How could you be so slow?"
"My child," he said, "what could I do? You never did let go."

(Author unknown)

Indeed. It's a lot like that. I think part of my spirit is recovering slowly because I feel like maybe I can make a difference, like I can do something. That will come in pain. That's not to say that I'm feeling no pain and that I'm back to my old self. There is no old self, that's how deep this wound was felt. She is dead. I am in the process of rebuilding this new me. I was talking to a friend the other day and I kept saying, in conversation "Before...you know..." about things I had said and done and felt before we lost Evangeline and realized that I see life as very B.E and A.E. Before we lost Eva and after we lost Eva. I had one such life change when my parents split up, but that was over 10 years ago, and luckily, while that feeling of before/after divorce is still there when I think about those days, it's no longer a reference point in my daily life. It will remain to be seen whether this will be.
I miss her so. I miss everything about her, even the things I had dreamed for the future. Her death took away a chunk of my life, part of "what lies ahead" is gone and can never come back. There will always be scars. Perhaps, like an episiotomy, when the heart rips apart, the scar is stronger, heals better, than with careful little cuts. Maybe I'm just lucky that I know how to grieve.  It was hard to fall asleep, alone, last night (we are back to the night shift for Patrick) as I kept thinking, "one month ago, I was in a hospital bed and the world was crashing down around my heart"...

But today, I see the sun shining and feel like Eva is smiling and playing up there and that while all is not well, maybe all is at it should be.

♥

Not alone...

     Yesterday I heard the news about British pop singer Lily Allen and her boyfriend Sam Cooper. They were 6 months pregnant and lost their baby this past weekend. Just last week I was musing that while every now and then a celebrity will come out and say they've suffered a miscarriage in the past, it is rare (I guess as rare as it is in "normal" pregnancies) that they share stories of later pregnancy losses. Since yesterday, as I've scoured the internet for new about what happened to them, I've found a few others... But there's such a sense of shame around the whole thing.
     It's only now, living through this, that I notice how taboo this topic is. I've known people who've had miscarriages, and unless they've told me about it themselves, I'll avoid the topic. I've felt sympathetic to their pain, but couldn't imagine it. So, I would say nothing. I don't think it dawned on me to offer condolences for their loss. I know better now. I also know that the father needs love and support as well.
     This feels like a scattered, disjointed post, and I'm sorry for that. What I'm trying to say is that pregnancy loss shouldn't be this way! When a couple loses a child, we are allowed and expected to condole and grieve with the parents. This baby that I carried in my womb, the babies of all these women- these are our children. They're not foreign ideas or concept or tissue matter. They are, truly, tiny little perfect babies. Even in their imperfections, should that be the case, they are perfect to us. We should be allowed to share our stories as much as any other mother. It seems our society has a hard time with death in general. We don't know what to say, how to say it, what to do. I can tell you, for myself, even the words "I don't know what to say", bring a sense of comfort. A sense that my loss is larger than words can allow. And it is. A hug. A gentle "how are you holding up?" or "do you need anything?" Those all work very well. Ask me about our daughter! Ask me who she looked like, what her name is....
     I wonder if perhaps, my meaning in all this will be to help others. I feel already like it brings me a sense of comfort and peace to reach out to others who are hurting in this way. I was reading about the celebrations held all across North America on October 15th, to remember our babies. There is nothing in Quebec. Not one. In Ontario, I think I counted about 10 different public candle lightings. Not here. Although I have a few theories as to why this is, I don't fully understand. But, I think if I'm in a place next year where I can make that little difference, I'd like to do that.

*****

I was wondering this morning, as I watched the usual parade of horrible memories in my mind, whether it will ever stop. I know, it's barely been a month (tomorrow in fact...), but will I ever have a quiet peaceful moment, not invaded by the memories of that weekend in the hospital? All the things leading up to our losing our little sweetheart play through my mind. Conversations between us and nurses, things the doctors said, pushing, hoping, the fear, those minutes when they told me and life changed in a instant....

<3

My husband ♥

     I was just thinking back, to all the little babies that have come into our life in the time since Patrick and I have been together. The first was my little brother, Zach. (He turned 5 this summer) I remember the first day that Patrick met him, he was probably 2-3 days old. He flat out refused to hold this little bundle, afraid that he would break him/hurt him/make him cry. But I, being the stubborn girlfriend, like any girl, wanted to see how my new-ish boyfriend looked with a baby in his arms. I got up, put the baby in his arms and backed away. There's a picture somewhere of Patrick looking terrified and mystified at the same time. I think he's still kinda annoyed about that. Since then, he has flat out refused to hold any infant who he considers still breakable. Oh, he's the guy all toddlers love as he blows raspberries on bellies and throws shrieking kids as high as parents allow, but babies scare him.
     When we were in labour, the nurse asked if we would want to see/hold our little angel after it was over and my immediate reaction was, of course! Patrick was much more hesitant. I'm not sure how much of it was his fear of the unknown, (would she even look okay??) and how much was his fear of babies. He agreed immediately, just by hearing my relief at the idea of once, just once, holding our little girl. When the time came to bring her back in after the labour process was finished and the nurses had done whatever needed to be done, our room was cleared as the nurses wheeled her in. One nurse handed her to me, ever so gently and I was stunned by how tiny and light she felt in my hands. Her father and I stared at her through our tears, and the nurse took a few pictures for us. Then they left us alone. I kissed her and told her how I loved her, that I was sorry, and that I would have done anything to keep her. Then I told Patrick he could hold her. I half expected him to say no, but there was no hesitancy. He took her gently from my arms and caressed her. He could have held her on one arm, but he held her with both as he cried and whispered words of love to his first born. He held her, that afternoon, even longer than I did. He told me he couldn't put her down, but I think he meant that he couldn't let her go. After our parents each held her and it was soon time to wheel her away forever, we all said a prayer while I held her one last time. Patrick softly started singing in my ear The Lights of the City, a song my family sings at funerals, and just when we're together and reminiscing. Finally he placed her in her little basket inside the incubator. How I would have loved to put her to sleep every night.... Patrick was able to, just that once. Before he may have wondered whether he could handle parenthood, and now, he can.

The Lights of the City:

John tells us of a city so high up above
Where we'll meet in a spirit of love
We'll meet over yonder in that heavenly place
There, we'll see each other face to face.

Refrain:
I can almost see the lights of the city
Shining down on my
I can almost see the lights of the city
Forevermore I shall be free.

John tells us of the time when time will be no more
In the days when the trumpets shall blow
We'll meet over yonder in that heavenly place
There we'll see each other face to face.

John tells us of the water which brings us to life
When we drink, we will not thirst for more
When we're born in that water, a heavenly place
We'll be brothers and sisters face to face.