poetic advice

A stumbled upon this poem by Canon Henry Scott-Holland, and found it very helpful:

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still

Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow

Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it

Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity

What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner

All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before 
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Canon Henry Scott-Holland
1847-1918
Canon of St Paul's Cathedral

my little waterbug

I just accepted a new position recently, and I've been wrapping things up at work.  I feel like this is a good time for a change of scenery, and, unexpectedly, I received the biggest confirmation of that need just two days ago. 

I arrived at my 'old' job around 12pm on Tuesday.  I walked into the back kitchen area for a moment, and as I did, I gazed, as I often do, out the back window.

However, this time I realized something.  I noticed a man cutting the lawn of the park adjacent to my current place of business, and it hit me.  It's definitely spring (though some days really seem like summer).

To better understand this, you'll need a little background.

My daughter would go to that park everyday, in the nice weather, last year.  I got to watch as she went from an observer of to a participator in play.  I would look everyday for her little hat to be wandering around in the park, and my heart would swell when I'd locate her.  Sometimes she'd be on the massive jungle gym, sometimes she'd be along the length of the fence watch the 'big' kids having swimming lessons, sometimes she'd be running around in the giant yard of the park, sometimes she would swing, etc...

Now, within the parameters of the park is the community pool, and Catelyn loved the pool so much!  In some ways, I actually think she loved it more than she loved my husband or myself.  I only say that because whenever either of us would go to pick her up, she'd start to run towards us in excitement, but would quickly realize that we were there to take her home, and she'd try to run away.

There were even days when the weather wasn't nice out, and we'd go to her daycare to find her wandering around with her beach towel in her hand, trying to remind her daycare mom that it was, in fact, time to go swimming.

She was definitely a water bug.  :)

So, as I stared out the back window of the kitchen, I realized how my heart would not only ache, but also break, each time I walked to the back of the office and caught a glimpse of children running, jumping, sliding, swinging, and swimming this summer.

I'm certainly not trying to run away from the pain, but it was very relieving to know that I wouldn't have to endure that same view this year.

It's certainly hard missing Catelyn.

Media...

I get tired.

I get tired of the media.

I get tired of hearing about the e. coli 'outbreak' that occurred in our area in 2011.

I get tired of hearing about the number of cases that broke out and the one life taken.


I don't like listening to, watching, or reading current news because it occasionally will reference that dreadful time.  

If you were to do a google search of the county and state that I live in with the word 'e coli', you would find over 53,000 articles related to my daughter's death.  No, the articles don't usually state her name, but that doesn't make it any easier, either.

When Catelyn died, it was very upsetting to discover that the media tried calling everyone we know:  caretakers, co-workers, friends, family, and even the funeral home.  They tried calling us personally, and they even tried camping out on the lawn of our church on the day of Catelyn's funeral because they wanted to get 'the story'

Yes, the public certainly has a right to know what is going on for the safety of their families, but grieving people should not have to go through this.  It's very hard to live those moments in general, but to live them publicly is horrifying.

What is bringing this up, you may be wondering?

There was an article written in a local paper on the exact 8 month 'anniversary' of Catelyn's death.

Now, please understand that the article was written to inform people about the attempt to try to discover e. coli in foods sooner, but once again it couldn't help but mention last year's events.

The article even noted that no source of the illness was ever discovered.  Aside from the fact that several households in the same county were affected, no link could be found.

Yes, I think it's great that there is work being done to try to solve this issue because I wish this type of scenario on no other person.

But, at the same time, I'm not over the anger that this all produced 8 months ago, and I can't help but feel it come flooding back - even from a positive writing that may offer hope for other families.

I can see that these writings and publications about e. coli are all for good, but all I feel is pain.

Mother's Day 2012

Today is mother's day....I didn't know what today would be like for me, but I have a better idea now. 

Today is....

empty...
painful...
crushing...
difficult...

I went out of town over the weekend, and I saw my parents, who are celebrating 40 years of marriage today.  It was good to see them.  As I left, I wished my mom a happy mother's day.  She thoughtfully wished me the same and kissed me on the cheek.  A few of my friends and family members sent me cards, gifts, flowers, messages (voice and electronic).... 

I am appreciative of all of the love and support, but today it almost makes my heart ache more, and not less.

You see, everyone is trying so hard to remind me that I'm still a mom - even if Catelyn is an angel baby, but I'm having trouble with that.

I don't have a child here to wish me happy mother's day - not that she'd know what that means yet, anyway, at 2 years and 4.5 months old.  She can't smile for me, sing me a song, hug me, blow kisses, get a little feisty, laugh, etc. 

Sure, I believe that there are ways for her to let me know that she is here, but it's just not the same.  It hurts.  I cringe every time someone wishes me a happy mother's day.  I don't feel like a mother.  I feel like a failure.....a miserable failure.


Instead of having a wonderful toddler here to be herself (joyful, silly, sweet, kind, etc) and try to understand the point of 'mother's day', I only have my memories. 

Honestly, I don't even remember what we did last year for Mother's day....or even the year before that.

Some mother I've turned out to be....

Anyway, this isn't really meant to be a post that brings you down, it's purpose is to give understanding of where I find myself on this day when we are meant to honor the women that have raised us.

For those of you mother's out there, happy mother's day. 

For those of you who find yourself in a similar place to myself on this Mother's Day, please know that you don't have to be completely miserable today...  It's certainly okay to feel what you feel, but please don't feel like you have to stay hidden away from other people.  Don't be ashamed of who you are and how your life feels like it's turning out.  Tell the people closest to you how you are feeling.  Mostly, try to find even the smallest joy today and keep it close. 

Even the smallest joy counts for something.

Mother's day, or something like it.

In three days, a good chunk of  the population will celebrate 'Mother's day'.  I haven't decided what this means for me yet.....

Last year, I worked on chalk art with Catelyn....basically, she scribbled with chalk on a piece of dark colored paper (pictured), and I then cut up that piece of paper into 4 smaller rectangles, did some basic paper crafting, and then sent cards out to both of Catelyn's grandma's and a couple of other women. I did something similar for Father's Day, too, except  my husband was also a recipient of that card.  Actually, my husband provided me with one of Catelyn's drawings last year for mother's day.

A couple of days ago, my husband and I stopped by a local florist/garden center in the town we live in.  As we parked our car he said, 'Part of the reason we are here is so that you can pick out your mother's day gift.'  I didn't even know what to say.  I felt this huge wave of sadness, and so much love.  We walked all around the garden center looking at the many potted plants waiting for new homes.  Finally I picked out an orange-ish/pink coneflower.  It walked away and back and away and back, and finally just had to have it.  As I think about it now, it actually reminds me of an outfit I liked to dress Catelyn in.... 

My husband asked if that was the only thing I wanted and I shrugged and mentioned that I didn't know.   He said I could get more plants if I wanted, and right then, I noticed a plant I hadn't seen before.  It was labeled 'Fragrant Angel Coneflower'.  It had the most darling looking white flowers and apparently it smells sweet too.  It was perfect; I had to have it for the garden.  We picked up a couple of various items for our hanging baskets, and then we paid and headed out.

We haven't placed the plants in the garden just yet, but we will soon.


I still don't know how I feel about Mother's Day yet.  I'm not excited about it, but I'm not fully dreading it either.  I guess I won't know how I really feel until after it comes and goes....

All because of snow globes

Yesterday was a pretty good day.  I was actually behind, on what felt like millions of things, so I was running errands in the morning, trying to catch back up.  I was in a store, close to completing my shopping for the day.  As a matter of fact, I had nothing left on my list, and I was heading for the checkout lines.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an end cap filled with snow globes, which I LOVE, and so I decided to make a quick detour. 

Suddenly, I realized someone was talking to me.  When I looked up, it was one of my cousins (okay, so she's actually my husband's cousin....okay, 2nd cousin....).

I was so pleased to see her.  We had ran into each other a few times before that, but we never really had a chance to talk, and while I was busy (and so was she), we ended up engaged in a conversation that was close to an hour long.  It was wonderful.  We had an open dialogue about how things were/are going for me, and, though people were wandering around the aisles surrounding us, it was such a comfortable time.

She mentioned that she wasn't sure what to say to me, and I told her that most of the time I don't even know.  I don't know what to say to others who have lost children or go through any kind of tragedy.  I wish I had something profound to tell them....some morsel of hope to give them....but, at the end of the day, I'm just like everyone else and I don't know what to say....

So I told her that the most important thing for me is to be able to talk about Catelyn.  I want to remember her.  I want to share the stories that I have, and I want to hear the stories and perspectives of others.  I want to see her pictures and hear her voice (though that's usually just reserved for videos).  I will never forget that she died, but I definitely want to remember that she lived.

We both mentioned that we were glad to have run into each other, and that we both felt it was meant to be....then we parted ways.  Well, we must've been through the checkout lines at about the same time, because the next thing I knew, we were both heading to our cars....which were parked just one spot away from each other. 

It wasn't until later that I remembered that I really hadn't even intended to go down that aisle in the first place, but I was distracted by my love of snow globes.

Yes, I do believe that our brief reunion was meant to be.

Thoughts on God...

I'm a spiritual person....I'm not overly religious.  I don't attend church every Sunday......I've maybe attended 5 services in the 8 months that have passed since Catelyn died.  I do believe in God.  I do believe that God is good. 

For most of my life, I was a firm believer that "God only gives you what you can handle".  It wasn't until recently that I saw the flaw in my reasoning. 

Can you imagine how miserable it would be if God 'gave' us pain, heartbreak, upset and more?  No wonder people might turn their back on God.  Why would you want to believe in something or someone who caused you tremendous pain because 'you can handle it'? 

I read a book called 'The Shack: Where Tragedy Confronts Eternity' by William P. Young, recently, and I really found it inspiring and touching.  It was such an interesting read.  It truly gave me a new perspective about things that I already believed, and things I never imagined.

Well meaning friends and family have offered me the book 'Heaven is For Real', and while it's a good book, I could never bring myself past the fact that the little boy lived and my Catelyn died. 

In 'The Shack', though, the main character processes the, likely, brutal murder of his youngest child.  Along the way, he ends up meeting God in person....

I'll let you read the book for yourself, but it helped me realize something so important.  God doesn't give us what we can handle....God helps us handle what we're given.

Think about that for a second.

If God were to give us what we can handle, then we might feel either like God really trusts us to handle a lot (which can be very overwhelming), or we might even feel like God is vindictive and gives us obstacles because we deserve them for all of the wrongs we've done in our lives.  I've felt both ways....too many times to count.

Now, think about the other half....if God helps us handle what we're given, then it isn't that God is punishing us for our wrongs, and it isn't that God thinks that we are these ultra strong beings that can withstand the highest thresholds of pain possible.  Instead, God knows that we are going to be dealt crummy hands of cards in life, and instead of saying 'oh well, you can handle it, you can get through it, deal with it yourself', God says: 'I'm here.  Let me help you.  Turn to me.  Trust me.  Love me.  Believe in me.  Put your faith in me, and I will ease your pain, your burden, your problems.'

Spiritual or not, how freaking cool is that?

What a HUGE difference that change in perspective makes.  It makes dealing with Catelyn's death so much more bearable. 

The trick, of course, is learning to rely on God.  It's certainly not easy.  It's hard to believe in something you can't see directly.  It's hard to give up control over your own life (and I'm a huge control freak, so I think I know that pretty well).  It's hard to say 'I trust you'.  It's hard.

But, on the flip side, it is easier knowing that this wasn't something that was predetermined to happen in my life....that it wasn't some evil master plan to make me suffer, and that it didn't happen because I deserved it.  Yes, it happened.  Yes, it sucks.  Yes, it's hard to move on.  No, I'll never forget.

At the end of every day, I have continued support.  Sometimes it comes in the form of the people around me.  Sometimes it comes from songs, memories or books.  No matter where it comes from, I believe that it's God reminding me that I'm not alone....that my pain isn't my own to handle....that God won't leave my side.

Take from this message what you wish.  Disagree....  Agree.... It's up to you.    But at least you know how I feel.

Headstone

I promised my dad that I would go to Catelyn's burial site and take pictures of her new headstone.  It went up last week, but I finally got around to it today.  Previously she had a different one, but it was not what we had ordered, so it's fixed now. 

There is just a heart above her name, and blank spaces to the left and right where her dad's name and mine will be someday.

Our cat

When Catelyn was born, our cat, Uri (ur-ee), wasn't sure that we made a good choice.  As a matter of fact, he would lower his ears and try to cover his head when she cried.  Or, he would just run off.

As she grew, he became more and more interested in her....until she began crawling.  Then he felt it was his objective to get away - and FAST!  By the time she could walk, he still tried to get away from her by any means possible....

But then, one day, he began greeting her the second we'd get in the house.

We'd walk in the door, and he'd come running up and rub up against her, and she'd lay a hard pat into his back (at which point I'd remind her to be gentle or nice), and then she'd do it again, this time saying 'Niiiiice' as she pushed her hand down the length of his back. 

He didn't even care.  He loved her.

During our hospital stay with Catelyn, we asked my husband's parents to pick up the cat and take him to their home so that he wouldn't feel too lonely.

To protect Catelyn, we had baby gates up at the top and bottom of our stairwell.  The cat could maneuver around them pretty easily, but he was certainly aware of their presence. 

When he was brought back to our home, following Catelyn's death, we had already taken down the gates.  You could clearly see him trying to figure things out when he started to run up the stairs and realized that there was nothing blocking his way.  He ran up and down a couple of times.  We figured he was trying to find his sweet friend.

The final time, he ran up a couple of steps, turned and looked at us, and then slowly came back down.  It was heart-wrenching.

I know he still misses her.

Today, I went into Catelyn's room for a brief moment as I looked for something I had misplaced months ago.  Uri came in right behind me.  When I left the room, he wouldn't leave.  He sat by her crib side, looking around.

He stayed in there for about 20 minutes.  When he finally left her room, he came and laid on me. 

His poor little kitty heart is still broken, too.

I remember.

This one might be harder for people to read.  It's what I remember from Catelyn’s hospital stay:

• I remember the diarrhea with blood in it.
• I remember the lack of urination, eating and drinking.
• I remember the doctor 'huddles' every day in the room, when her case was discussed.
• I remember being so scared for the first dialysis treatment and that I didn’t want to be in the room.  I had misunderstood that they were going to just be putting lines into her veins in her groin area, so I asked if we could leave for that part and was told yes.  
• I remember coming back to the room, thinking it was all done, and finding out that they still needed to do the dialysis.  Overall, I held up well for the dialysis, but I really relied heavily on my husband to stay by Catelyn’s side during the procedure.
• I remember discovering that the anal fissure was too much to take when trying to change her diaper, and feeling like such a failure because I couldn’t even stomach the sight of the ooze seeping from her bottom.   
• I remember being so grateful for the nursing staff who was willing to change her diapers to spare us from the pain of seeing the anal fissure leakage.
• I remember that on the day of Catelyn’s 2nd dialysis treatment, I was less worried about the procedure, but more so worried that Catelyn was going to be awake and not wanting to lie in bed for the duration of the procedure.
• I recall one of the technicians singing to Catelyn through most of the procedure, and that she tried offering ‘Backyardigans’ on her iPhone and saying that one of her children had a procedure once and she laid on the bed with her child every day
•  I remember contemplating lying on the bed with Catelyn for the duration of her stay, but not wanting to get caught up in her lines.
• I remember getting ready to make a quick run home on Saturday night, and seeing Catelyn look so bright eyed, and then hearing her exclaim ‘mama’, for what would be her last time, as I walked out of the restroom and she sat on my husband's lap coloring in my crossword puzzle book.
• I remember thinking we were on the upswing.....for a moment.
• I remember driving home on Saturday, and having this odd feeling that she was in trouble and my husband was going to call the house and say we lost her while I wasn’t there.
• I remember thinking that Sunday would be a day of ‘rest’, and that we would have a nice low-key day as she recovered from her 2nd dialysis treatment.
• I remember picking up a few things from Target mid-Sunday morning (including socks to fit her better), and looking forward to watching veggie tales movies and doing other little things with Catelyn, while my husband was at work that next week.
• I remember giving Catelyn a sponge bath – with the help of a nursing assistant, and putting her own clothes, a dress, to try to help her feel a little better.
• I remember holding Catelyn and trying to give her comfort, though it really seemed like she was in pain.
• I remember telling the nursing assistant about Catelyn’s behavior and reactions, and realizing that she was no longer cognizant of her surroundings.
• I remember snapping my fingers in front of Catelyn’s face, hoping she would come to, and when she didn’t, knowing that there was a real problem.
• I remember running down the hallway with the doctors and nurses trying to get her to the CT-scan. 
• I remember not being able to stay in the room for the scan because it was too scary.
• I remember sitting down in the hallway texting my dear friend because I was so afraid and things didn’t seem to be going well.
• I remember being in the P-ICU and one of the dr’s telling us that they needed to take action or she would be dead (though I can’t remember anything else he said at that moment except ‘sorry for being blunt’).
• I remember going into the room next door to call my folks and yelling at my mom because I needed her to understand that "Catelyn [was] in trouble"….which was all I could bring myself to say. 
• I remember our nurse, at that moment, politely taking the phone from my hand to talk to my mom and explain the situation.
• I remember calling my sister and telling her to come.
• I remember calling others to come.
• I remember waiting.
• I remember panicking.
• I remember talking to another dear friend, while pacing in another room.
• I remember going in to see Catelyn before her surgery, and singing ‘You are my sunshine’ to her and holding her hand. 
• I remember the horrible squeaking sound of the air pump they used to give her oxygen.
• I remember hearing the oxygen pump sound in the hallway outside the room we were waiting in
• I remember being informed that her blood pressure had been very low for too long, so if she started to crash during the surgery, they would not be able to resuscitate her.
• I remember feeling very anxious.
• I remember wanting to be away from everyone.
• I remember feeling like I needed to get some rest.
• I remember deciding to rest next to my husband.
• I remember knowing exactly what it meant when the three doctors/surgeons entered the waiting room, though they didn't say a word.
• I remember the staff sitting across from us.
• I remember staring at the surgeon's shoes.
• I remember them telling us she was gone, and they couldn't say why for sure.
• I remember them telling us that they tried for an hour to resuscitate her.
• I remember saying 'thank you for trying', as I looked all three of them in the eyes.
• I remember the surgeon giving me a look that almost said 'how dare you'
• I remember calling my parents, and my sister.
• I remember calling my aunt.
• I remember that Catelyn's daycare mom called me because she had arrived at the hospital to, so thoughtfully, surprise us.  
• I remember the feel of her body collapsing in my arms when I told her Catelyn didn't make it.
• I remember going in to see my baby and not recognizing her.
• I remember thinking this couldn’t be real.
• I remember her hair looking so blonde next to her grayish-purple face.
• I remember the blanket she was swaddled in.
• I remember being almost afraid to touch her.
• I remember her rigid little hands.
• I remember how soft her hair was.
• I remember that I wanted to cut a lock from her hair, but was overwhelmed at the thought of it being her first haircut, so my sister-in-law did instead.
• I remember my sister and sister-in-law doing a lot of the work that no one should ever have to do to preserve memories.
• I remember feeling broken.
• I remember feeling empty.
• I remember feeling this could not be real.
• I remember....

a day of trials

Today has been a moderately hard day.

I went to work this morning, expecting things would be 'normal' in terms of my job duties.  I had a crew of volunteers (who are amazing, by the way), coming in to assemble a mailing, and for the first time, in about two months, I didn't feel completely behind.

The second woman to arrive brought her granddaughter along.  She is nearing 13 months old.  Oh my was she ever sweet.  She had light brown hair and bright blue eyes.  She was so similar to my Catelyn, in the tiniest ways....she even made the same pacifier vocalization with sucking sound that Catelyn did when she would get tired.

Wow, was that ever a connection.

It was so hard for me to leave her alone when all I could find myself wanting to do was pick her up, snuggle her, and sing and cry.  Yep....it still hurts.

When they went to leave, that little doll blew kisses to me....they weren't the same as my Catelyn's, but they were a wonderful treat.

My heart was so full, so warm, and so sad.  It was certainly a bittersweet moment....

After I got home, I got on Facebook to find that a friend of mine, with three boys, had to take her youngest (around 18 months old, I think) to the ER.  He was having trouble breathing due to pneumonia, and was admitted.  My friend posted a couple of pictures of him at the hospital.

It was so hard to see those pictures.  They immediately took me back to Catelyn's time in the hospital.

I know that my friend's son will be well again soon enough, but I couldn't help but write her to tell her that she's in my thoughts and prayers.

In my opinion, there aren't many things harder than watching your child enduring needle pokes, and trailing a string of tubes around (making it hard to pick them up and hold them for fear of moving something the wrong way - though you still hold them because it's your baby and you want to comfort them somehow), and laying them down to rest in a crib that looks like it's a jail cell for babies, because it's fully enclosed by bars.

My heart aches for her to have to see her son that way, but I'm glad it's just a short term stay, and soon he will be back home again, in his own bed, with his brothers and parents close by.

Today, like many days, was certainly a day of trials for me, but I made it through, and that counts for something.

I'm Broken

Today I cried.......no......I wailed. 

This has only happened to me three other times.  Usually I have been in a seated or laying position, but today I was walking through my house reading my email, via cell phone, when this spell came on.  I haven't had a crying spell like this in a few months, but they are pretty horrifying when they come on (and this is coming from the person who is experiencing it, so I can only imagine what it looks/feels like to others).

Here's the best glimpse I can offer of how it went today:

Heavy sorrow swoops over me, and all of the sudden, all I can do is cry.
I sob and sob.  Uncontrollably.
Tears, warm like a heating pad and as large as quarters, stream down my cheeks and neck.  Into my mouth.  Onto my shirt.
My mouth gapes (and let me put it this way, if I were a fish, I'd probably be a large-mouth bass).  
Somehow I go from standing to kneeling, and frightful moans begin to come out of me.
My cat comes to my side to comfort me.  This makes me cry more because he was my baby's friend.
I begin to say (through my sobs) "I'm broken.  I'm broken.  I'm broken.  I'm broken.  I'm...."  Finally I run out of strength to say anything.
Slowly, I begin to re-collect myself.
I look up at the clock.
Ten minutes have passed (this is five minutes less than the other three times for sure).
I try to wipe some of the heavy, wet tears away.
I hear my husband come through the door.

I hadn't even been home two minutes, when all of this came on.  The back door to our house was open because I knew my husband was close to coming home....fortunately he didn't walk in to find me in this state, and neither did my neighbors, though I thought for sure they would.

This may sound odd, but I actually fully appreciate these scary moments when I'm caught up in my emotion.  I appreciate them because I know that I'm fully feeling in those moments, and at other times, I'm not always sure I am.

People don't usually get to experience this side of me.  The only one "lucky" enough to have seen me in this moment has been my husband.  He was amazing.  I thought I was going to hyperventilate that time, but he just held me and reminded me to breathe.  I couldn't ask for anything more.

So, if you're wondering if I'm 'okay', or you've been admiring my 'strength', please understand that I'm not 'okay' or 'strong'.  I still feel and mourn the loss of my daughter every day, and I always will. 

I just try to do the best that I can, and that is all I can expect of myself.

Hope

One of my friends, a very sweet woman who lives in my town, has been helping me process my pain.  She is simply wonderful.  She has three daughters.  Her middle daughter was 24 when she died of leukemia.  Though her daughter died several years ago, my friend has met with me on several occasions where we talk about our deceased daughters.  I very much cherish those moments.  I am learning a lot from my friend.

The other day I received an email from my friend saying, 'losing my daughter at 24 was hard enough, I can't imagine what you and your husband are going through.'  How very kind of her to say.

Here's something I have learned about losing a child.  It doesn't matter if your child was anywhere from gestation to 499 years old in age.  When you lose a child, your heart is broken, period, and I don't believe that it matters what age that child was.  No one is prepared for their child to die....even when you can see that they are very ill.

So why is it that we aren't prepared?  A small part of me thinks we are ignorant or naive, but a larger part of me thinks that it's about faith....love....hope...

You see, without really thinking about it, from the second you learn you are going to be a parent, forward, you immediately begin to plan ahead.

You begin to think about where the child will sleep, what kinds of things you will need for them, where they will receive their care (if you work outside of home) and of course, what their name will be. You wonder will you have a son or a daughter.  After they are born, you begin to think about people to see, places to go, things to do, all of the new things you didn't know you'd need.

And, as they age, you start to plan more and more....sports, cars, college, etc...  

I was the kind of parent who liked to try to be prepared for anything....

The day before Catelyn died, we had been told another round of dialysis would be needed for sure, so I took a quick trip to a store where I picked up things I thought we'd need in our hospital suite:  snacks for me, things to do, a couple of videos for her to watch while we snuggled, etc.  I picked up new socks because I felt that her socks were getting too tight, and as I walked past the clothing section, I noticed a really cute little pair of shorts in the next size bigger on clearance for $3 dollars, so I grabbed them too.

Catelyn ready to swing!

Please understand that part of me had been worried as to whether Catelyn would be okay.

There was that teeny-tiny (5%) chance things would not go well....there was a chance that she would have to have kidney treatments (dialysis) for life.  There was a chance...

...so why did I buy those things - especially that little pair of shorts (which I never did return)?

Because parents never stop planning ahead.  Even when our children are sick we keep the hope that things will go well.  Our children will get better.  We love them so much we refuse to give up hope.

Yay for hope!  What a wonderful thing.  Without it our lives wouldn't be nearly as joyful, and our pain could not be felt so deeply.

In other words, we would not really live.

Quick memory

My dad's birthday was yesterday.  Last year for his birthday, my sister, my husband, Catelyn and I all drove out to surprise him, and have family pictures taken.  It's so interesting how the little things end up becoming big things.  When we did our family session, we had no idea that it would be the only photo of all 6 of us together.  I guess it's a good reminder to seize every chance you can at any given moment.

This particular picture of Catelyn was taken at my parents house last April.  We had also traveled out to my parents for Thanksgiving of 2010, and she did the exact same thing with the black friday ads!

Either this little girl was easily entertained (just like her mama).... or she already loved to shop.  :-)

Say my child's name

If you mention my child's name, I may cry. But if you don't mention it, you will break my heart. 

- Unknown

For me, that quote says it all.  

I attend a monthly grief support meeting, and I cannot tell you how astonishing it is to me when people whose children died later in life - even when the child was in their 30's, 40's, etc - will tell stories about going to family gatherings, and other places, and their child's name is NEVER mentioned.

Here's the one of the main points that I think people need to know.  

Parents, siblings, and grandparents (not to mention aunts, uncles, etc) NEVER forget their child/grandchild, etc, and when you don't mention their name, it feels like that child never existed.  

Can you imagine how painful it is to feel like your child never existed?

I realize that there aren't classes on how to help people who are grieving, but maybe their should be....

Don't be afraid to say, "I remember one time when (insert child's name)....." to the survivors.  Yes, they are very likely to cry, but part of the tears are filled with the JOY that their child lived and YOU remember it.  

I simply cannot stress how important this is.

Yesterday my husband saw a family from the daycare that Catelyn went to.  The older child, a girl, said, "Are you Catelyn's dad?"  My husband said yes, and then they shared memories, and he showed a few pictures that he had handy.  It was the best moment - emotional, of course, but good.

We love hearing stories about Catelyn.  It reminds us that she lived....

....and that is the coolest gift ever.