time changes everything

it was four years ago today that we lost maia. the space between then and now seems so vast, it doesn't seem possible that it all fit into four years, and yet it has.

every year at this time i come on here and try to find the right words to express how i feel. every year i feel something different. this year finds me heavy with thoughts of others that are suffering a loss right now, those that are just beginning the journey. four years and two healthy children later i have a different perspective, i wish i could share that with them. i wish i could press a fast forward button and show them that time really does heal, joy really is possible. it probably wouldn't make a difference though, i know back then i wasn't ready to hear that, i wouldn't have believed it. there are no words that someone else can say to make you understand the journey, it is something you simply need to endure so that one day you can come out the other side healed, changed, but better somehow. more aware.

i am also thinking about ada, about how she fills a place in our family that seemed empty. i was always aware that if she turned out to be a boy i would go on feeling as though a part of my life was lost forever when we lost maia. i would have been just as pleased with a boy, but it wouldn't have been the same. i don't know what life will hold for me, mothering a daughter, but i feel so grateful that i get to find out instead of always wondering. ada came into our lives and brought with her the last bit of light that we needed to feel the warmth on our faces again. i am so thankful for all that we have been given so far in this life, it is a good one and i wouldn't change it for the world.

it doesn't always turn out like it should, but i do it anyway

let me start by saying thank you to everyone who commented on my last post. your words meant a lot to me and were nice to come home and find. i appreciate that it isn't always easy to find the words for a thing like that, thank you for them.

our weekend was great. it wasn't perfect camping but it is april, so it comes with the territory. it only rained as we slept and the tent didn't leak, so i think that means it was a success. we sat in front of the fire under a canopy of trees and ate smokies roasted on the flame and two bite brownies (opting for the simple non-gourmet meal to make our last minute prep effortless), cohen safely nestled in our arms fast asleep. as we slept closely together in the tent he would alternate between us, nuzzling into that space between our arm and torso, his head lying heavy for the warmth. in the morning it was wet but the showers had stopped so we packed up as the sun came out from the clouds.

our afternoon was spent at home napping together. when we awoke, sometime after 6, the sun was shining and the sky a brilliant shade of blue, so we decided to take the car out one last time, and off to the beach we went. despite living in vancouver, so close to so many beaches, we don't get to one very often. cohen loved being at the waters edge and standing in the sand, and i loved feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my face.

our day ended with fresh pasta from granville island and some birthday cake, this year we chose a decadent chocolate cake from the granville island bakery, it wasn't a mistake.

i feel a little hazy tonight. i am not sure if it is just post camping fatigue or the start of a cold, but i will hope for the former and crawl into bed now with a book. tomorrow we will talk about parks and baths and other fun things.

here are some of the pictures from the weekend.

and if you look, you look through me

this sunday is maia’s birthday. i say it matter of fact like that because i am not sure how else to say it. i wish i knew the words large enough to convey the breadth of emotion that this time of year brings, but i am not sure they exist.

her first birthday was a tough one, the pain still incredibly real and sadness only a stones throw away. i spent it alone that year, outside in the sun. marko didn’t want to go out, staying in bed was his wish, and so it was. then last year we decided last minute to rent a car and spend the day in steveston with our new camera. cohen was there in my belly kicking at the sun that afternoon and the knowledge of him made the day brighter, easier somehow. this year he is here and he is healthy, and he has brought back a joy into our lives that we had forgotten. the pain isn’t as deep anymore. cohen didn’t replace her, he didn’t make us forget, he just reminded us that it is possible to be happy, that it is possible to have things work out in the end.

i don’t often talk about maia here or my experience with grief, opting instead to keep most of that time locked away in a private place. i sometimes wonder if it is because I am afraid of what others will think, that they might trivialize it or judge me for needing to speak, and sometimes i think it is because i don’t want to make others uncomfortable. truthfully though, i suspect it is just too private a thing to put into words, too close to the heart to make sense to anyone other than me.

i wrote the following journal entry in december of 2004, eight months after maia was born. it was the beginning of what turned out to be the hardest month of my life. i found it while looking through the past tonight and i thought i would share it, i don’t know why, maybe just as a way of saying what i feel without having to find new words.

"i don't know if it is the wet west coast weather we are having, but i am sure singing the blues tonight. i was trying to figure out just what it is, to pinpoint the exact problem so as to work out some sort of solution and i have to tell you it's tough. i have said it before but it's worth repeating, i used to believe that grief was a thing that came to you in a tangible form. like when my grandma died i was sad that she died and it was a very palpable sadness, i was aware of it's origins and most of the time i could continue on, it was only in the moments that i thought of her in which i felt sad. she was old, i knew that she would die one day. but when someone really close to you dies tragically, the grief is nothing like the grandma grief. this other grief becomes you, without you even acknowledging it.

do i think about maia every five minutes? no i guess i don't, or maybe i do and don't realize it, but my life has become this enormous void. this emptiness is all pervasive. i can be sitting reading a funny book and just start crying, and when marko says why? i sputter out; i don't know i am just so sad. i am so sad i don't even remember what it was like to not be sad. i am so sad that even in the happy moments it is lurking behind the smile. i have become one of those people who are constantly asked, are you alright, because this hole inside me is visible to others. it prevents me from moving ahead. some days i think the only thing that will fill the hole is another baby. to have an outcome that contradicts the first. but what if, like so many other things, it turns out i am wrong? don't get me wrong, it has gotten better. i guess the difference is that before, months ago when this was all still new, i thought when people said it gets better, they meant it would go away, well not go away but that somehow i could salvage a piece of my old life out of the rubble. but the truth is it gets better because you grow accustomed to the idea of the loss, you absorb it, digest it and continue. but it sits inside of you and affects everything you do.

i guess tonight i am just feeling particularly affected. i just wish more than anything i could go back to the way things were. as the year comes to a close i find myself asking...can i give it back? i would give just about anything to have you say yes, on nights like tonight i would even give back the memory of her."

i now know that i wouldn’t give back the memory. it is still one of my most prized possessions. a day that came and changed me forever, in a million different ways that could never accurately be named.

she was born on earth day and every year i have managed to celebrate her birth outside. this year, after much fence sitting (and weather forecast watching), we have decided to take cohen camping overnight to a local provincial campground. i know it sounds crazy (and cold), but i couldn’t think of a better way to remember my daughter, the first baby i ever knew, then by sitting under a tree looking up at the sky.