Happy things

We finally got Daniel's marker placed at his grave this weekend. I love it so much.






The prints were engraved from Daniel's actual prints, true to size.





It was a happy day. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and it was a perfect day to spend some time honoring our little guy.

I posted photos on Facebook when we got back from our trip to Idaho. My mom made this comment on the album:

"I love the pictures. And more than that, I love that you can miss your boy so much and still be OK. You and Dave and Charlie have come a long way."

She's right. We are OK. We certainly still have our sad moments, and we miss him literally every day. I don't think I ever go more than a few minutes at a time without thinking of him.

When I was pregnant with him and after his birth and death, I sometimes wondered when I would see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had faith it would come. I knew from others' experiences that while the heartache really never goes away, that I could still be a happy person. Sometimes I felt like I had to give myself permission to be happy. As a grieving parent I felt hesitant to be happy, as if being happy would somehow dishonor Daniel. I know better now, but it was something I had to learn.

But the truth is, I am a naturally happy person. And I know that Daniel wants me to be happy! I know it! I know that his spirit lives and that we will be together as a family again someday. I have had special moments when I know his presence has been close, and I know Dave and Charlie have, too. I hesitate to even share that because I don't want anyone to think I'm crazy or grasping at straws, but at the same time, I want to bear testimony that through this experience I know that Daniel has a living spirit, and that the rest of us always will, too.

My church just had its semi-annual General Conference where church leaders from all over the world choose their own topics and address the entire church to teach the gospel and inspire and uplift us. Those who share my faith won't be surprised to learn that I listened with heightened interest to the talk from Shayne M. Bowen, addressing parents who have lost children.

I loved the whole talk, but especially this part:

Tyson has remained a very integral part of our family. Through the years it has been wonderful to see the mercy and kindness of a loving Father in Heaven, who has allowed our family to feel in very tangible ways the influence of Tyson. I testify that the veil is thin. The same feelings of loyalty, love, and family unity don’t end as our loved ones pass to the other side; instead, those feelings are intensified.

 I loved that part because it validated that when you lose a loved one, you can, at times, still feel their presence close. "Tangible." It's true. We have known it, and we hope for more special experiences as we wait for that wonderful day when we will be together again.

I also have a tiny miracle to report! Daniel is going to be a big brother! We are going to have another baby, due in April. We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet, but we probably will within the next few weeks. All babies are miracles, but I use the word because we usually have to wait for our babies. It took 5 years of trying before we had Charlie, and then 3 years for Daniel. But this little one is much more punctual! In fact, we weren't even trying when this one decided to come along. Imagine our surprise when I took a pregnancy test only because I was one day late and not at all expecting a positive, and it was positive! I always have big ideas for how I will tell Dave I am pregnant, but I was in such shock that I just walked over to him and put the test in front of his face. We were both totally surprised. I am 13 weeks along right now, and as far as we can tell, the baby seems to be growing normally. I don't think I'll really be able to breathe that sigh of relief until our big ultrasound in a few weeks, but we have no reason to expect anything to go wrong. But prayers are always welcome, of course. :)

The Digger Wasp

I am compelled to write right now as I sit in tears after reading a poem I didn't expect to have this effect on me. It's called "The Digger Wasp," from Paul Fleischman's "Joyful Noise, Poems for Two Voices."

The poem is from the point of view of a mother digger wasp who knows that even though her children will never see her, they will know her and know that she loves them. She prepares a nest and food for them, trusting that they will know it was a loving mother who made the preparations.

I just got the book today. I flipped it open to the middle, choosing a random poem to read. I was hit immediately by the first words, "I will never see my children, they will never gaze on me."

I don't think Daniel ever saw me. He did open his eyes while he was being handled by the doctors and nurses, but once he was in my arms, he had closed his eyes and wasn't trying to open them anymore. But I talked to him. I kissed his face and whispered that I loved him. I held him close. I hope that, even though our eyes never met, he could feel his mother's love.

I haven't written much here because I got stuck. I didn't know what to write next. I have decided that an account of the rest of the day he was born would be better kept private. It was a very hard but very important and special day of our lives, and I don't want to share it publicly.

But I do want to keep writing as I feel prompted. When I started this blog, I had big ideas. I wanted it to be a place where I could honor my little boy by telling his story, but also by documenting the ways that I was going to live my life fully and honor his memory. I wanted to tell you all about how I had a new appreciation for a healthy body. Daniel didn't get a chance at life with a healthy body, and I felt like I shouldn't take my healthy body for granted.

And I still feel those things and I want those things, but again, I was stuck. While I do want to maintain a hopeful spirit and share the joys of life and health here, I'm still a grieving mother. Some days I do actually feel really hopeful and happy and like everything is fine and okay and I can do this life and make it a good one, even though it hasn't gone according to my plan. And then there are days when I feel like it's all unfair, but what does "fair" mean anyway? Life isn't fair, right? But doesn't it still seem "unfair" that David and I have to wait so long for our babies and then we lost Daniel? Doesn't it seem "unfair" that we don't know when or if we will have more children?

I have always been able to stay fairly positive when it comes to dealing with friends' and family members' pregnancies. But this week, especially, has been a hard one. It seems like everyone I know is announcing a pregnancy or what gender they are expecting, and everywhere I go it seems like I'm the only one without  a baby in my arms or in my belly. And I always wonder, "What do they think about me?" Do they know that I actually gave birth to a beautiful 10-pound baby boy just months ago? No, they don't. Do they wonder why I only have one (living) child? Do they have theories about my situation? I listen to the other moms at preschool talking about their babies' milestones, wishing I could be part of the conversation but sitting in silence. Daniel would have been about the same age.

Sometimes I wish that I  lived somewhere where it is normal to have one child. It's not normal here, at least in my circles. I shouldn't care that this makes us different, but it's just one more thing that I think about.

I showed this blog to my friend who also lost a baby to TD. I told her I was stuck and that I didn't want to write again until I was in the right frame of mind to make good on the plans I had for it.

She told me to write anyway. That this was real. It takes time to be in that frame of mind, and it's okay that I'm not there yet. I thought that was good advice.