The End of "Capturing Your Grief" (my catch-up attempt)

I stopped doing this project for awhile.  I have enough trouble sleeping as it is, generally blogging at night. I often spend my day exhausted, arriving at a second wind just when the house is so temptingly quiet and the computer is waiting for me, with no distractions, finally.  This happens, oh, around 10 PM or so.  This ain't good.

Also, it wasn't always helping blogging about grief topics right before bed.  So I stopped for  a bit.

But meanwhile, Facebook closed down the event due to a complaint that some people were posting pictures of dead babies.  Uh guys, that's kind of the point of the project: it's where people grieve about dead babies, in a specific place where bereaved parents didn't have to feel like freaks for having inadvertently experienced a loss.  Well, I'm going to finish anyway.  Here's a picture of my baby, hand by her face.  Man, I wish it was 3D.  Man, I wish I could hold her now:

And here are the topics:

18. Release: What do you want to let go of on this journey of grief? Is it fear? Guilt? Worry? Deep sadness? Regrets?

Fear.  I don't want to be afraid of this happening again.  I'd like to release that, most of all.

19. Support: Share about what has been the best support for you since the loss of your baby. Maybe it is a special friend or family member? A pet? An organization? What have they done for you? Where would you be without them?

You guys.  :)  Having this blog, and people who read it, has been a huge help in my grieving process.   People who have the courage to mention Pepper, or simply ask how I'm doing with the sadness of the event.  Oh, and grief counseling helps a lot too; gotta love sound psychology in a world full of "Don't think about it, don't talk about it, just get over it, right now." :) Without such things, this process would take a lot longer, and be more painful.

20. Hope: Do you have hope for the future? What do you hope for those who will join this club in the future.

Remember that strange story about how Solomon demonstrated his wisdom?  How two women each had a baby, one baby died, and the bereaved mom claimed the live baby as her own... Solomon sussed out the true mom by suggesting that the baby be literally divided between the two, causing the real mom to insist the baby live apart from her, as long as he could live.

I used to think, "What a bizarrely wicked lady this character was."  But today I think, "Poor, crazed, bereaved mom.  Unable to cope with the reminder of what she had lost."

I talked about a "cocoon" awhile back: that once out of the pre-loss cocoon, you can't get back in.  If we live long enough ourselves, all of us will experience some kind of loss.  That's just the reality of being mortal.

So to those who are still happily able to stay cocooned: I hope that your hatching happens gradually and in the fullness of time, like a beloved grandparent passing on at the end of a long life, peacefully surrendering her soul while surrounded by family.  That's how I'd wish for you to become acquainted with grief.

But if you ever happen to see a colorful creature with torn wings who did not have a peaceful hatching: Don't turn away.  Don't change the topic to the weather.  Don't urge them to focus on the positive.  Know their condition will improve, but the grief never goes away.  That they may weep at the mention of what was lost, but still deeply appreciate your acknowledgment of a life so loved.

(And this is what happens when you blog late at night: you compare yourself to a wounded insect.  Moving boldly along...:)

21. Honour: Is there anything that you have done to honour your baby since they died?

I once heard a woman who'd miscarried three times say that the loss of a child is like a flood, which changes the landscape of your life forever.  At the time, I simply felt awful for her and thought that was a rather dark perspective.  But now, I just see it's true.  Baby loss changes who you are on a fundamental level.  And odd as it sounds, though it feels catastrophic, I'm finding that the change isn't a bad one.

The main thing I've done so far in honor of Pepper is to join the OB Council at the hospital, working towards changes that will ensure other mothers who have losses will have a more caring experience.  I'm also getting trained as a grief counselor starting in January, and am working towards getting a better camera with the aim of becoming a photographer for "Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep."  Unlike what I went through at the hospital, I would love to give others more beautiful memories, honoring the lives of these little ones that are so precious.  Plus, I live right down the street, and there are very few of such photographers.  Praying about it...

22. Words: Share your favourite quote, poem, song lyrics, scripture that you have found.

Jeremiah 29:11

23. Tattoos/Jewellery: Do you have a piece of jewellery in memory of your baby?

I've shown this one before.  Made in honor of Gabriel and Pepper, from a very dear fellow loss mom friend of mine:

24. Artwork: Have you created a piece of artwork in the wake of your baby’s death? Or maybe someone has given you some artwork to honour your baby? Please feel welcome to share links to your own website or to other artists.

Also as mentioned before, I was honored to be selected to have a calendar page designed by Franchesca Cox for my quote.

I've also ordered some of the fantastic prints by Carly Marie, such as:

25. #SayItOutLoud: Say It Out Loud is The STILL Project’s famous hashtag. STILL is a feature-length documentary film project aimed at breaking the cycle of silence surrounding pregnancy and infant loss. If you could say anything out loud about your journey with grief with the death or your baby, what would it be? What do you want the world to know? Is there a cause that touches your heart that you want to raise awareness for?

I was completely pro-life before all this; I think my loss experience just really highlighted this for me, again.  I feel that society's stoic ignorance of the frequency of stillbirth and miscarriage is coupled with a general disrespect for the lives of these little ones.  Any work I do to help moms who have or will have losses I feel is truly "pro-life" work, and I'm honored to be a part of it.  

26. Community: What does this community mean to you?

The people who surround you wherever you are.  In my case, the people who've had the courage to surround me with love and support during something as supremely uncomfortable as the loss of a baby. And this does take courage, because for most of us, acknowledging such things can happen is to face one's own greatest fear.  

27. Signs: If you believe in life after death do you believe your child has ways of contacting you? Have you had any signs?

Yes to the millionth power!  :) I've shared some of this before with you, from avoiding close calls in car accidents right after her loss, to finding my necklace reappear, even the fact that suddenly I keep winning raffles and contests now, seeming to indicate that I'm getting extra behind the scenes assistance.  :)

Mostly, and strangely: the more I miss her, the more I'm convinced that she's right there, with me, trying to comfort me.  Not like a baby, but like a 16 year old version of herself: capable, smart, sensitive, and completely loving.  

28. Special Place: This could be your baby’s place of rest.

And it is.  Still have to get a headstone though.  I also find the upstairs of my house is special, because we renovated it for her.  My older girls use it as their bedroom, and in the straightforward sensibility of children, have used some memorial cards of Pepper's for decor in spots.  They also sleep near a large picture of a sunset that they drew for her, and missing the right word ("dedicated") by a wee bit, it reads, "Donated to Perpetua Dancause."  Makes me smile.

My four year old knows we go to visit a garden-like place once a month, and we talk about a girl named "Pepper" when we do.  Last time we had guests over, Cecilia asked, "Mom, can't Pepper come over to play too?  Please?"  Made me cry.  Which confused my earnest preschooler.

Oh, if only, babe.  If only.

I have trouble with what would have been.

I'm so lucky to already have beautiful kids.  I'm so sad that these beautiful kids are missing an important playmate now.

29. Healing: What has had the most healing impact on your life through this journey of grief?

Seeing how much people care.  Overall, it's called out the best in everyone around me, which has been humbling and wonderful to witness.

30. Growth: Do you believe you have grown or are growing as a person since the loss of your precious baby? How? How do you see other people now? How do you see the world? Do you believe you have a higher purpose? Do you believe your baby had a higher purpose?

Yes to all.  Having had a taste of this kind of suffering, I just appreciate all the good so much more, and want to make things better for those around me.  And Pepper and Gabriel help me, I swear they do.  It's cool having my own personal saints up their, who are the patron saint of, well, me.  

31. Sunset: "To close this project and this month of Baby Loss Awareness I thought that we could all photograph the sunset from wherever we are in the world. If there is no sunset where you are, you can still take a photo of the early evening sky. You just need to be able to get to a window. Remember to caption what State/Country you are from and the time."

Tomorrow is Halloween.  At sunset, I will likely be sitting at my grandfather's, very much inside, with my costumed doctor, Native American, panda, and Cleopatra.  (No, we don't--apparently--do "themes.")  So I'll post my favorite sunset picture of the month here--featuring my oldest daughter--to end this grieving exercise.  Thanks for your patience with my process.  I don't expect to do anything formal on the blog regarding my loss anytime soon, but I'm sure the issue will pop up now and again on my blog as it comes to my mind.  And given this is a mom blog, and I'm the mom of two angels too, that's all kinds of a good thing.  Love to you all, thanks for sticking around, and have lots and lots of fun with kids tomorrow.  I know I thoroughly intend to. :)

Seven quick takes on Good Reads and Heavenly Kids

1.  For me, the biggest obstacle to blogging is having a computer that isn't working.  For real.  And few things are more frustrating than knowing what to write, having nine minutes to write it in, and a laptop that does not desire to load, connect, behave, whathaveyou.  But since technology is being favorable to me at the moment, I'm gonna ketchup...

2.  I want to get caught up on my October photography project: Capture Your Grief, hosted by Carly Marie in commemoration of Baby Loss and Remembrance month. Yes, I know: this does not sound particularly uplifting. And prior to my loss in March, I would have questioned both the necessity and the sanity of such a project.

But now... I get it.  Greater awareness leads to greater compassion, more acknowledgement of the grieving hearts of so many moms around us, and hopefully further research to help make stillbirths and miscarriages less painfully frequent.  Pretending that these tragedies don't happen does no one any favors in the end.

3.  One of the first articles which opened my eyes to the prevalence of stillbirth was from the Motherlode. Besides demonstrating to me that stillbirth was not nearly as rare as we all would hope it to be, it addressed how to answer the question, "How many children do I have?"

And my answer to that is, "I have six children, four living."  Here's one of my favorite pictures of that idea: four kids, two spots of light.

As the article relates, this sort of answer used to be a common one, as child mortality was quite high before today's vaccines and penicillin; (whatever your current opinion of these are, they have in fact saved countless lives.  Walking around a cemetery, you can find a decreasing number of children's graves starting around the 1950's for this very reason.  Personally, I vaccinate with caution, spacing them out, skipping some in favor of others, and I'm mighty grateful I live in a time and place to have such options.)  But I digress...

4. My main point is that it used to be easier to talk about death.  Villages would celebrate births and deaths with song.  When a child died on the prairie, the women would gather to quilt the final blanket.  It was never easy I'm sure, but it used to be more widely acknowledged that we are mortal, and that sad things can happen to otherwise happy people.

But somewhere along the line, it became "inappropriate" to talk about, say, miscarriage. Part of it might be due to the American dislike of discomfort, or a lowered respect for the value of human life, or simply WWII coping mechanisms being passed down for generations.  That somehow, if you don't say anything, if you force yourself not to think about what you lost, you get better, faster.

My grandfather spent years fighting in a tin can submerged in the ocean: a submarine.  Few jobs at sea were more risky or more unpleasant; he deliberately chose this position for the high risk pay to support his widowed mom and orphaned sister.

I'm told the military's advice at the time was to block out unpleasantness, to try to forget tragedies.  And never talk about them again.

5.  When it comes to my daughter Perpetua, I don't find this tactic desirable or even possible.  Isaiah 49:15 comes to mind: "Can a woman forget her infant, or have no compassion on the child of her womb?"  And, what do you know, I can't forget her.  Furthermore, however painful it sometimes is to acknowledge what happened, I don't want to ignore it.  I will talk about her when it seems appropriate to do so, and be proud of my little one in heaven.  I am hopeful that those who listen can try to understand why pretending she never existed will not change her existence for me, with all the sadness and stunning graces left behind.

I've so appreciated the support of being able to grieve along with "the loss community."  It's been so helpful for me to read books like "Still" by Stephanie Paige Cole (who graciously sent me a copy of her book when I shared my loss with her), and the blog of people like Lori Dente, whose book "With Just One Push" will be coming out soon.  I read her blog before I knew I'd become a "loss mom" myself.  The strength of other women in these circumstances continues to inspire me.

It's odd but necessary to have a mommy group for those with children in heaven.  Such children still make us parents.  If we believe life begins at conception, and believe life continues eternally after death... why on earth shouldn't these little ones be a part of who we are, affect how we live our lives, and at times come up in conversation?  It just makes sense.

6.  As I've mentioned previously, I've had a hard time facing the oncoming cold and darkness.

Yes, I have a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder... but it's much more than that this year.  I'm re-entering the season I held "Pepper" here on earth for the first time since her loss in March.  And while fall is usually my favorite season, I'm dragging my heels like never before.

I feel like begging the leaves not to die, not to fall, for everything to stay warm and sunny, alive and full of light. Please. Please.  I don't want to relive this fall and winter season without her.

I think she knows that.

How do I know that?  Well... I can't prove the connection, but I've had an interesting few months of certain things just "working out."  And I don't just mean the Cajun spice set and Kindle childproof cover (never mind, I'll get the actual Kindle sometime I'm sure) I won from the last blogathon contest, or the fact that my blog crush Simcha Fisher (gee thanks, blush) shared my last post...

You see, as I've mourned the loss of summer and dreaded the coming of winter, I've also gotten nervous about the holidays.  I like the emotional recovery I've achieved, and don't want to go back "there"; and holidays are rather infamous for providing an emotional dip for those experiencing a loss.

I'd been hemming and hawing over how to make this Christmas somehow different, a bit more distracting perhaps.  So after going back and forth as to whether to try it or not, completely on a whim, I decided to have my kids audition for the Christmas Carol this year.

Now... I do this every year.  And every year, we aren't cast.  We kinda do it for the fun and experience of it all.

My kids were fantastic, if I do say so myself.  They sang very well.  Their lines were down pat.  Annemarie did a mystical impression of the Ghost of Christmas Past, and Claire did an absolutely hilarious monologue from Scrooge himself (her choice.)  Picture in your mind's eye a young girl of nine, earnestly telling the audience that her "life before her is her own to make amends in," wildly praising "heaven and the Christmas time" while shouting promises of conversion to Jacob Marley, and then dancing about with heel clicks declaring, "I'm as happy as an angel!  I'm as giddy as a drunken man!"

Silently, I had snuck into the last few minutes of her audition, and then collected her to go.

"We're still doing adult auditions, by the way.  We love your girls, and they said you can sing?"

I hadn't prepared one thing, my friends.  Not one.  I was chewing gum.  My makeup had worn off.  I had a sweatshirt on, which on close inspection appeared to be garnished with what looked like... chocolate.

I'd never been less prepared for the stage. I grinned. "Sure!  What do I read?" I got to act out a cockney version of Mrs. Cratchit.  I sang.  I went home dizzy and giggling, saying, "What did I just do?" to the kids, who were squealing with glee.

A week later, I got the email.  All of us were cast.  And for no less than ten performances at Park Theatre, I am Mrs. Crachit.  After years of on and off drama attempts, it's the biggest role I've landed since college, and at the least likely time.

It feels very weird.  It feels very perfect.  It feels very like someone is looking out for her family, and knows they need something a little different to get them through this Christmas.

I've gotta say it: it's so cool having your own personal little saint.

7.  I celebrated her, and my earlier miscarried little one, on the 15th, which is the official Baby Loss Remembrance Day.  I remembered my only niece or nephew too, who was also miscarried that same day a couple years back.  I thought of all the babies gone before us as I gave my presentation to the hospital council; it was strange to be dry-eyed in my focus while watching doctors and nurses reaching for tissues.

I came home just before 8, when the hour of candle lighting for my time zone would end.  Taking the candle my kids had recently made at a Yankee Candle Factory trip, of which I have some evidence:

I lit it, leaving it in the kitchen to fill the room with the scent of "True Blue."

Just before I put it out, I took my candle out the back porch into the night, silent except for the sounds of crickets.  (Click here for the real sound of crickets... woah!!:)  The almost full moon was extremely bright, but currently under a slow moving cloud cover.  Right above me, in an almost bird-shaped pocket hole in the clouds, shone one bright star, set in a perfect piece of deep blue sky.

I looked at the single star, peeking through the immense cloud bank.  I looked at the single flame in my hands.

Light to light.  Love from love.  Earth and heaven.

"Where is my camera???" was my first thought.  It was really too cool a moment to adequately describe with mere English.  But rather than risk losing the moment to search for my most inadequate photography equipment--and risk more kids finding me--I just looked into the perfect night.

Alone.  And not alone.

"I mean... this candle is pretty and all, but yeah.  I know, baby girl.  You win.  You've got a star."

"The world is more than we know."  --Ben Hur

Linked to The Conversion Diary

Day Eleven: Emotional Triggers

Thankfully, I'm better at this than I once was.  When I first lost my baby, anywhere I had been before--when she was still alive--was hard to go back to.  Anywhere or anything that connected the happy before with the much sadder "now."  Now that I pretty much have been everywhere and seen everyone that I had while I carried her, the constant before/after triggers seem thankfully behind me. 

I'm nervous about going through my first round of holidays without her.  And I'm dreading the cold weather for the first time.  I carried her from the fall through the long winter last year; she left me when the first whispers of spring were rustling the buds, just before it got warm.  I'm so sorry she never got to feel the sun.  I find myself disliking what was once my favorite season, the fall that leads to my first winter since she went away.  Here's big sis loving the leaves; I thank God every day for their contagious joy. :)

Days Nine and Ten: Music and Beliefs

Well... music isn't the happiest topic for me regarding my recent loss.  The song that most reminds me of Pepper was the song that was stuck in my head the night I found out she was gone, and had the D&E scheduled in the morning.  It was such an awful and strange night, finding out at 5 PM that she was dead, and knowing I would be "unpregnant" by 11 AM the next day, with no symptoms of miscarriage and yet no hope of a live baby.

Feeling like a tomb, the only thing I could think to do was to take some pictures of my belly while we were still physically together.  Such a sad and surreal night.  I didn't sleep much; I couldn't stop crying and holding my tummy where she was at rest.  

And this is the song that kept replaying in my head.

For your comic relief: there is somehow a Simpsons picture in this clip, and the lyrics are hilariously wrong in places.  Even I stopped getting weepy when I saw this pathetic clip.  Ha!

BUT (Day Ten), happily--and so gratefully--I do have faith in the "afterlife" of heaven.  I don't know how I would have survived without this belief.  I know I will see my lost little ones, get to hold them and get to know them when I die and join them there, as I hope with great confidence to do.

Faith is really a gift.  It's not something anyone could have foisted on me at the time of my loss I don't think. So I have zero judgment for those who don't have this gift... my heart very much goes out to them in the extremity of the loss they must feel.  I would just encourage those who don't have this gift of faith at this time to hope.  To hope for the best possible solution to this earthly sorrow.  To hope beyond your wildest expectations that there is a perfect plan where justice, fairness, and love prevails.  If you can do this, you won't be disappointed.  

We are not living the only life there is.  We have an eternal "second chance" at happiness that is lost here, where every disappointment will be addressed, every hurt will be healed, and regrets can be redeemed. 

That's what I believe.  Thank God.

I know my little ones are alive; I just can't see them.  But I can certainly feel their influence.  I strongly sense my angel babies want me to be happy, that they are here with me even as I mourn them, that they pray to God on my behalf.  I have seen so many blessings happen in my life that I believe had to do with my little ones putting in a good word for me. ;)  Certain things are just working out that weren't before... I don't know.  It's more of a sense then something I can put into words.  I know I am loved beyond words by my children in heaven, and by the God that made us all and holds myself and my children together always in His heart.  

This loss has been the worst thing I ever experienced.  But I know God has great things in store for me and all my children.

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD,

 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, 

to give you hope and a future.'"

Jeremiah 29:11

Day Eight: Colour

Definitely pink comes to mind for Perpetua... it was such a surprise to find out we were having another girl... she would have been our fifth of that gender, if not the sixth... :)  For my earlier loss, usually I think of green, since the gender was unknown.  Green for new life in God.

Also, purple for Perpetua: A dear "loss friend" of mine made me this blanket for "Pepper": it's a lovely soft white and purple.  The colors of royalty for a daughter of the King.  I have it up in a quiet place on my bookshelf, and I like to close my eyes and give it a pat once in a while.  Feels just like I imagine her silky baby hair would have now...

Day Seven: Me, Now

I miss my cocoon. I miss the safer world where babies only rarely died, and if you did all the right things, it (really) wouldn't happen to you.  

That's where I am now.

As I lay in bed after giving birth to each of my four girls here, I remember my extreme impatience with the medical management I was receiving.  Hand me the baby already.  I wanted the most natural possible experience--straight into my arms--and I found nurses and doctors to be mostly in the way. 

With every labor I had, there was always some reason for them to make a fuss.  Particularly with my first two. Never mind that my second child had inhaled too much fluid on the way out....  I was visibly annoyed at the set faces hovering over her as they suctioned her nose and mouth intently, working around the strange croaking noises she made till they succeeded.  Never mind that my first born was 32 weeks.  I was miffed when they whisked her to intensive care so quickly.

I was too naive to be afraid.  I just didn't get it.  I really did think, "Why all the fuss?  She'll be fine." 

I really, truly believed that.  Fortunately, in those instances, I was right.

My latest and most medically-managed birth experience: Felicity, now 2 :)

But since my loss... I will never feel that innocent bravado again.  I've experienced things going all wrong, for no predictable reason.  I've learned too much about why medics "fuss" and tend to manage all things baby with excessive caution.

To grieve is, in part, to fear recurrence.  And oh, I do.  PTSD is a real phenomenon, wouldn't you know?  You can actually wake up from a troubled sleep and feel, see, hear, and relive horrible moments from the past.  As though you were "there," again.  

My cocoon was smashed when an utterly boring, routine doctor's visit became an obituary, during the "safe" second trimester.

I now live in a world where bad things do actually happen, to people as unsuspecting and unqualified as me.  I was not braver, or stronger, or more special, or more into risk-taking than anyone else.  But it happened to me anyway.

Not that I won't be okay.  Not that I won't continue to heal from the pain of this experience.  Not that God doesn't have a greater plan that all of this is part of, and not that He hasn't upheld me through it all.  But right now... I've aged.  For months I took several pictures of myself, convinced that I really must look significantly different than I had before... turns out, the change was mostly interior.  I feel damaged.  And I'm afraid.

A positive side to this is that I now understand more of life after the cocoon.  I'm more aware of and more grateful for my blessings.  I take less for granted.  I treasure my blessings more.

I don't feel as safe as I once did.  But I have survived my greatest fear.

Now I can learn to fly.

"The Lord found him in a desert land, in a barren and howling waste.  

He shielded him and cared for him; He guarded him as the apple of His eye.  

as the eagle entices her young to fly and hovering over them, 

spreads its wings to catch them 

and carries them aloft."  

Deuteronomy 32:11

Day Six: Ritual

I lost "Pepper" in March, so I don't have many rituals yet to honor her... we do go to visit her gravesite at least once a month.  We go on the first Sunday, which reminds me of the resurrection.  I plan on framing the picture I bought from CarlyMarie for her. I love what it says; it's so very true.

Day Five: Memory

One of my favorite memories regarding "Pepper," my most recent, 17 week loss, was telling her sisters she was coming.  I waited to tell them until I was so obviously tired and morning sick that the kids were starting to worry about me.  So I handed them the tiny ultrasound picture.  It had given to me by the hospital in a little folder with a baby's feet on it, with the words "A Promise of Things to Come." That promise wasn't meant for this world, unfortunately... Still, the thought of a baby made my kids very happy.  :)

Day Four: Legacy

A few months ago, I would have been flummoxed to come up with a "legacy" for a child lost through miscarriage.  But now I understand...

This is a picture of my Pepper, jumping in utero.  Up and down like on a trampoline.  Wish I had a video... she was so full of life.  This picture reminds me that her life was happy, and that she wants her mommy to be happy too.  She gave me her

Joy

There's a saying that "you grow a new heart for each child."  And I grew another heart, full of love, for each of my two losses.  Even though they are no longer here, what remains is

Love

Their memory is treasured.  When I see my four girls playing in the park together, I just know my heavenly ones are nearby too.  It doesn't take visibility and tangibility to still exist.  And they are still alive, and with their sisters I see

Unity

Their legacy will live with myself and my children.  My daughters have become acquainted with grief.  They now have softer, more sensitive hearts, more open to the wounded world, because they lost a little sister they so wanted to meet.  We are all sadder, but stronger for it; and show greater

Compassion

Maintaining a legacy for my lost little ones gives me direction and keeps me busy.  I have much writing to still do on the topic.  I am now aware that 1 in 4 women experience a stillbirth, and want to do all I can to raise awareness and promote research to lesson this number.  We hear a lot about SIDS, but that is actually much less common than stillbirth.   I joined the Obstetric Council at the local birthing hospital and will be giving a presentation of my loss story (not a great medical experience) to the doctors and nurses who want to

Make good changes

I now understand how to approach those who grieve.  It's not a scary, uncomfortable, "Oh good gosh what do I SAY?" ordeal anymore.  It's "I'm so very sorry" and a hug, showing a

Fearless kindness

Thanks, sweet little ones--my Gabriel and Perpetua--for all you have taught your mommy.  I'm learning from you more every day.  Most of all, I've learned how to love better: more deeply, and with more

Gratitude

Day Three: Myth

Day Two: Identity

My daughter's name is Perpetua, which means "Eternal."  Since that's a mouthful for a little girl, we nicknamed her "Pepper."  Historically, Perpetua was an early Christian, a noblewoman who converted along with her slave, Felicity, and died for her convictions.   Since Perpetua was a nursing mother and Felicity had given birth just before her death, these saints as a pair are invoked for the following petition (which I find wildly appropriate):

"Saints Perpetua and Felicity, watch over all mothers and children who are separated from each other."

Amen, indeed.

\
Here is big sister Felicity putting a flower on Perpetua's grave.  And in the background, is bigger sister Cecilia rearranging other plot flowers while I wasn't paying attention; only noticed when I looked at this picture later (sigh...:)

My two girls pictured here are bookmarked by angels; I had an earlier miscarriage (Gabriel) before Cecilia, back in 2009.  At the time, it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.  But losing Pepper through placenta dysfunction at 17 weeks (cause unknown) was more difficult still.  Both of their names will be on the stone when we can get one.

Day One: Mo(u)rning

Dear friends, welcome to October!  Welcome to government shutdowns, quibbling on Francis's words, and the month of the rosary.  

Welcome, also, to an "Awareness" month for the little ones gone before us.  I will be participating in #Capture your Grief this month with CarlyMarie Project Heal, posting a daily photograph of my journey of loss.  Some photographs will be more notable, funnier, better, etc than others.  That much I can promise.  :)

All photography/remembrance posts of this type will be flagged "Day Whatever"; if you wish to participate, feel free to view, if not... as you were! :)  

Here is this morning from my bedroom window.  Made me think of Proverbs 3:18 and the "tree of life."