Fifteen years ago, we said hello. . . and goodbye

*note: this post discusses pregnancy/infant loss.



I sat looking at a blank screen for quite some time before I could start typing today. It wasn't because I was afraid or sad. I think it was just so I could feel the weight of it. You know, that feeling you get when you know you're going some place you don't go often. It is a place that I carry with me everyday, but I rarely dive in. I prefer to skim the surface. Today, I'm jumping in with both feet.

Enough riddles. . .on August 26th, it will be fifteen years since I met my third daughter, Madison. It is also fifteen years since she left us. I have to say it like that because to just say that I lost my baby that day would leave out an even more precious moment - the moment of her birth. This is her birthday, too.

I was 27 years old, still a young'un as my Mamaw Holt would say. After an (up to that point) uneventful pregnancy, my husband and I walked into an ultrasound room expecting to find out whether we were going to have a boy or a girl and walked out wondering what the hell just happened. It was surreal. Like stepping into the Land of the Lost and seeing your first dinosaur. With teeth. And hungry. You can't breathe. You can't even think about running. You just freeze.

That moment was monumental. If some corporate guy made a chart of all the events in my life, that moment would look like the plunge in the stock market on Black Monday - or flipped upside down, kinda like Mount Everest. And when you're either facing a precupice or at the base of the mountain, the only thing you can do is to move forward. Falling or climbing. It's all the same.

The time that passed from that visit with the apocalyptic ultrasound (you know, I still hate those things) to the moment when we finally met her was like walking around in a daze. But that time is also a part of her story. We had to do things. . .things you'd never imagine in a million years you'd EVER do. Like buy your child a dress to wear one last time. Sorry. I had to say it.

Even though it sounds horrible and you're probably ready to exit off this page and go back to reading your Facebook status updates, let me share a story. Bill and I were instructed to purchase a very small dress, a doll's dress. Ok. Kinda weird, but ok. (Go ahead, smile. That's ok, too.) So, off we go to the Super-Special-and-Even-More-Expensive-Toy-Store (you know the one) because its special and we're going to go all out and find something that is just right. If you've ever been there, you know they have this incredible doll section with dolls and clothes from France and England and Russia and everywhere else. Apparently, they make dolls better than we Americans do. I don't know.

When we get there, every single employee in the store approached us at least once to ask if they could "help" us. (At one point, we considered telling them how they could help.) We're picking up doll dresses on hangers and looking at each one. Then Bill finds one and shows it to me. It's cute and soft and has a little hat. We liked it. But when I take a closer look, I notice two holes cut into the hat. And we're looking at it and wondering why the heck are there holes in the hat? And then we realize it was made for a bear. A toy bear with ears. Then we notice there are also matching panties and there is a hole there as well - for a tail. I can't fully describe what happened next, maybe it was just the insanity of the moment, but we both looked at each other and burst into hysterical laughter, complete with tears. It was that fall down, pee your pants, totally embarrass yourself kind of laughter. And we couldn't stop. We had to leave the store, empty handed.

That moment was also monumental. It might look like a small blip on the corporate chart of events, but it was just as important. It was in that moment that I saw the first glimmer of hope in a place that was so dark . . .and hopeless. I laughed. I didn't know I was capable of it, but there it was and it was real.

I can't say I laughed alot in that year after we said goodbye, but I know I laughed. And lived. Family and friends came to the rescue and helped us muddle our way through. Every year since, it has been a continuing education course in living-life-without-her. Some years I failed miserably (F---) and others I did better (B+) but I never missed a class.

I discovered a few truths during my education. While I spent most of those early months wailing to God that He should give her back to me or just (mercifully) take away the pain, I learned later that the very same pain that would physically send me to the floor was also a gift to me. Today, I wouldn't trade a second of it. It became a part of her story. A part of how her life changed me. A part of how her life changed the world through me. Changed the world? Is that just some romantic notion? I can tell you that it is true. You're reading this, aren't you?

Ta-da! You are changed.

Now, fifteen years later, I don't cry on August 26th. I am grateful. I feel special. I don't have all the answers, but I do know that I am better for having known my Madison. She is integrated into every single thing I do, every single day of my life. And just so you know how real that is - I never wrote a word that I shared publically before I lost her. The week after I left the hospital is the week I started a journal. 2 months later, I wrote an article on loss for a parent newsletter. Then, it just grew and grew.

So this. . .this thing here. . .she planted it in me before she left.

Not for me. . . for you.