4th Birthday Visit

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A Box In The Ground

Four years ago today hubby and I drove to the funeral home to say goodbye to our daughter's perfect little body. We were led down a hall and into a small room with a couch and side table. Across from the couch was a rectangular table against the wall with the tiniest of coffins on it. Our daughter's body was laying inside. She was a little over half way bigger than that tiny coffin. Yet there she was, ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, knees, elbows, Daddy's feet and Momma's legs. Somewhere behind those closed eyelids there was the color blue. My daughter that had grown in my belly for six months or so. My daughter that was so much wanted by her daddy and myself. My daughter that I planned so much for, that had a full nursery waiting for her with pink clothes and towels and sheets and stuffed animals and blankets. There lay my daughter who I wanted to show the world and who I wanted to show the world to. No one would ever see her but us. Not in this life. There lay all my hopes and dreams of becoming a mother to a bouncing baby girl. Dead were the possibilities of potty training, pre-school, first day of kindergarten, Girl Scouts, scraped knees, first love, college graduation, wedding, her children. All gone. And it happened so quickly. Just seven days, one week, earlier we were expecting all these things. Instead we held her, cried over her, sang to her, spent one-on-one time with her, made sure her clothes were perfect, enclosed a tiny teddy bear, and a picture of us with her, wrapped her in one of the blankets from her nursery, kissed her goodbye, and sealed the lid.
Hubby carried her to the funeral home car. I sat beside him with that box in his lap. That box that held all his hopes and dreams. That box that we would have to put in a deep, dark, cold hole in the ground. That tiny box that held so much. He carried her to the grave site. After the grave-side service I couldn't leave. I couldn't leave my baby laying out there in the open unprotected by momma's arms. Doug could not pull me away. The fellow from the funeral home asked the cemetery workers to bypass protocol and bury her with us watching. A man came and lowered my daughter into that hole. Then came a machine with a scoop of dirt. She got covered and I felt she was safe. The man arranged the flowers on top of the tiny mound of dirt and was gone. The fellow from the funeral home waited a ways away in silence. It took a few minutes, many, many tears, and a slight nudge from hubby, but I was finally able to leave. Only to return hundreds of times later.

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Mother's Day

It is upon me. Mother's Day. Mother's Day is a day I'd rather skip and a day that I look forward to all in one. Mother's Day. Just the thought of it makes me cry. Crying is my first reaction to thinking about Mother's Day. I have two beautiful healthy children. I thought somehow that would make Mother's Day a 100% positive day for me. No matter how many living breathing children I have I will always have one in the grave, and that is one too many. Focusing too much on the negative? My child is not a negative thing. My child dying is a negative thing. You have two arms. Lets cut one off and bury it in the ground and see which one you have trouble not focusing on. Thinking about. Yearning for. For me it is unfortunate that Mother's Day always falls on a Sunday. Sunday's mean church. I love church. But Mother's Day at church makes Mother's Day even harder, or at least it always has in the past. Every year the little children go up to the front and sing sweet songs in their precious little voices about mother's. Every year my Olivia is missing. Four. She would be four this year. Maybe when my living children are old enough to sing it will not be so hard. It will be wonderful to look up there and see a child of mine. But Olivia will still be missing. And this is only one reason it's so tough. Think I'm focusing on the negative again? Let's cut off one of your legs. You can go on without it. You can get a new leg. Maybe even one that's better than your old one. It just takes time. You'll get used to it. After a while you won't even remember you ever had it. You can still walk. You should be grateful for just being alive and having such a wonderful life. Right. And a child is so so so much more precious that a limb. A child. My child. My child is not here and knowing where she is does not make me miss her any less. She should be. She should be here with me. My babies should have an older sister. My son should not be the oldest of my children. I should be a mother of three. And I am, but only to myself. I wish she had had the chance to experience this world and be a part of an earthly family. I wish she could have seen a butterfly, a fish, a rainbow, a playground. I wish she could be here to get sunburns and eat ice cream and make snow angels. Mother's Day I am grateful, extremely, emotionally, strongly grateful for my two living children. Mother's Day I am in despair for the loss of my firstborn living here on this earth with her family.



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Writing Challenge

I have accepted Faces of Hope's Monthly Writing Challenge. This month's topic is, of course, Mother's Day. My post is coming soon...

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Gone Too Soon

Like a comet blazing 'cross the evening sky, gone too soon.

Like a rainbow fading in the twinkling of an eye, gone too soon.

Shiny, sparkly and splendidly bright, here one day gone one night.

Like the loss of sunlight on a cloudy afternoon, gone too soon.

Like a castle built upon a sandy beach, gone too soon.

Like a perfect flower that is just beyond your reach, gone too soon.

Born to amuse, to inspire, to delight, here one day gone one night

Like a sunset dying with the rising of the moon, gone too soon.

by Michael Jackson (for babv D.)

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