I am strong in his hands.

We have spent six months grieving the death of our daughter.

You could tell me it has been six years. I would believe you. I feel like I have been grieving for so long. I don't really remember what it was like to imagine Lucy alive. And yet most days, I have to remind myself. "I can't believe she is dead," I think. Everyday. So cliche. It is like my lizard brain wakes up ready to care for my egg. Hasn't it been long enough for my neural pathways to reprogram itself into the "she died" part of my brain? I am fighting the reality, mainly because this previous idea of myself--a healthy, strong, connected person, who comes from Catholic working class breeding stock--and the person I have become--the scurvied woman incapable of giving life--seem so fundamentally different, so disparate. At six months, i am starting to see myself as the former again...maybe time has partially taken away that particularly cruel version of myself.

Winter solstice. Summer solstice. The longest night. The longest day. Are these days opposites or conjunctive? One leads to the other. I try hard not to think of the dates, after all there is a 21st and 22nd every month, and everyone has a day...but six months. Half a year. It seems important to honor it, this first half year of the rest of my life. I won't go to the place where I imagine what she would be doing. I don't stand in line and look at babies and imagine my Lucia. I just miss her. I never got to see her open her eyes. I think about that some days. How I never got to see her open her eyes, or her mouth, and do little baby things, but she is always stuck right there in newborn vision.

For Lucy, tomorrow, the only thing we have planned is lighting our firepit at dark and drinking wine. Our Lucia. Our light. I want a ritual for tomorrow, something I can do to stave off the pain...a sort of spiritual busy work.

:::

Tomorrow, though, isn't just this death anniversary; it is also Father's Day. We do have some things planned in conjunction with that. Sam requested I cook sausage. I haven't made meat in my home since I don't know when. I stopped eating meat a while ago. I couldn't bear the death. But Sam wants sausage. It will be harder for him tomorrow. It is his first Father's Day without one of our daughters, and the first Father's Day since his father died. He died three weeks before Lucy. I miss him. Sometimes I am caught in my swirl of Lucia grieving, Sam will cry for Harry, and I forget how much he is dealing with...how this year has been particularly cruel to my beautiful husband.

Can I tell you a bit about my husband? He is working tonight, so he won't peek over my shoulder. He picked up an extra shift because they were short-handed at the hospital. He is a pediatric nurse anesthetist. He cares for babies who are sick, abused, hurt, suffering...he has held babies the same age as Lucia would be, and cared for them. Babies whose parents didn't put them in car seats, whose caregivers shook them when they cried too loudly, babies born sick...and sometimes he just helps kids who get a little under the weather, or fell off the couch. He is true to his feelings. That rare combination of man who builds furniture and hunts and cries, who is stronger because he can be vulnerable. He looks at his list of patients some days, calls me and cries, sometimes in front of his co-workers, and then pulls it together and does his job. Very well. He dedicates himself. He is passionate. He becomes an advocate, a beautiful piece of the puzzle that saves lives. That man, he is my hero. So brave and true and righteous and so damn noble. He is the most noble man I have met. And funny as hell. Sometimes I want to have a blog just dedicated to things he says. Like when we were pouting and pissed at each other, and Pink Floyd's Welcome to the Machine came on the radio, and he said, "That's what they call me, Ang."
"What, husband?"
"La Machina."

:::

I am strong in his hands.

My heart breaks because my husband is grieving our daughter, his father, our future. Every day for the last six months, I have seen him grieve. I have seen him struggle, just like me. I have seen him hold our Beatrice tighter, more passionately, appreciating being a father, waiting patiently as I sob. I have seen him at his most impatient. I have seen him at his most unraveled. I have seen him at his most compassionate, and kind. I have seen him lift me up and hold me and be strong. He is an extraordinary father and husband. From what I write of him, I hope you know that already. And so, on this Father's Day, I can't give him what he wants most, but I give him my love, my beautiful husband. My appreciation and love at his strength. I am thankful everyday for him. "My Sam"

When I hear this song, I think of my husband.