Sunday, December 20, 2009

On the anniversary of her death

I do not know when my daughter died. It was a year ago today, or it may have been tomorrow, or even perhaps yesterday. She was in my belly. I should know when, I suppose, but one of the first things you learn when your child dies--you have no control over anything, especially what you get to know. And despite how much you may want something, it is not up to you.

Things you may never know that you desperately feel like you should know: why she was taken away, why she died, when she died, when you could have saved her, how you will survive.

No matter how many nights you stay up asking these questions, you somehow manage to sleep again, and to forget that these questions mattered so very much in the beginning. I haven't learned much in a year, but realizing that control is an illusion is one. The other thing I do know is that on December 21, 2008, Winter Solstice a year ago, someone told me my daughter's heart had stopped beating. I have not quite yet taken a breath myself since then.

I have been doing well as I approach this anniversary. A year. A day, a week, a month, three months, six months, nine months, a year...I have moved through time. Glided through the days, tripped over the rocks of ordinary moments--some of those anniversaries have been overwhelmingly hard, and others not so much. My angst and desperation came out in the beginning of this month as I stressed about our amniocentesis and all the other things piling on top of itself to show me how sad and unpredictable life is. I have thought about a thousand things to do for her day, but we will probably do nothing at all in particular. It is just another day without her. She is still hopelessly gone. Another day of grief after what feels like an eternity of mourning. Though it feels like a big anniversary, I have not really been focusing on it too much. Christmas has trumped this anniversary in some ways, much like I imagined it would have trumped her birthday. In fact, Lucia was due on my birthday, and so I understand that strange liminal place between holidays and your day. People forget mostly. I also projected this strange quirky personality of mine on hers. I imagined her like me, and when she died I wondered what that meant about who I was. Was it too heavy of a burden for her to carry through birth? Being like me--full of existential angst and questions about why and what and how?

This post, though, is about her death. Her birth is different. I try in my mind to separate the two things. Lucy died. Lucy was born. It isn't the same thing. One was sad. One was the day I met her, which was also sad, but somehow beautiful too. Today, I had the impulse to reflect on this last year without my girl. I have tried to follow the ebb and flows of this time, and today was the first time I felt like reading back, or thinking at all about last Solstice. It was naptime for the girl, the dog and the man. I had an impulse to open a folder of my writing. I found this letter I wrote not long after her death. Somehow, of most I have written, this sort of captures her death at the time. I cannot remember if I sent it or not. I don't even know what to say about it except that there is part of all of this still in me, even though I am also so grossly different. Not better. Not healing. Just different.

:::

Letter to G.
January 2, 2009.
Two days before her due date. Twelve days since her birth. Ten days since her death.

Some days it is like the last nine months have been a strange dream, and I suddenly awoke not pregnant again. Other days, I spend the day pinching myself, sobbing, and repeating the words, "My daughter is dead." One day she was wiggling in my belly, and the next, limp. There are no whys, or hows. It just is. They have said we may never know why, though we are awaiting an autopsy. Lucia came out perfect, G.. I wish you could have seen her. I wish everyone could see her. Black hair, beautiful little face, blue eyes, and a perfect nose. I dreamed her once, and she was just as I imagined in my dream--the girl with purple eyes. The one that looked like me. Everything about her was perfect except she was not breathing, or crying, or going to stay with me ever again. Quite simply, my heart is broken.


I am here on the precipice of never loving another soul again. It just hurts too damn much to lose the love. It was too much to hold my dead child. Something in me died when I couldn't breathe life into her, when I realized my womb was her coffin. What if I disallow myself to feel again? Will that help?Somehow I think my heart will overcome my will, and I will simply love despite myself, but right now, my heart has no room for anyone who isn't already there proving their worth.


I am finally feeling physically whole. I am grateful for this small blessing. The birth itself was surrounded by a dark calm--no tearing, no bleeding, just my girl and me, and my husband whose tears nearly did me in. I grieve for my husband's loss as much as my own. My breasts thought she was alive, and I suffered the torture of making milk for the last week. Even my cancerous disfigured breast, from which Bea could never get milk, wept for her. It hurt, and I cried as my milk ran. How cruel life can be?

There is no measure of grief. We just grieve, eternally, those of us who have lost a child we never slept with, or fed. Those of us who lost a future we fell in love with. I loved Lucy not simply because she was part of our family but because she was part of a future I wanted. We have to reinvent this life now. How the fuck do we do that? How do I ever let this womb hold another child? But still, I am not drawn into the abyss, not yet. I've got a little girl who needs a mother who is whole. So I remain in my most Buddhist moments, wholly present, aware, engaged, and simply in the now. It is all I can do for my soul and my family. Sam is beyond himself too, but brave and beautiful. His father died in the beginning of December. Lucia's birth was supposed to be a sort of zen reminder of the cycle of life and death.  And now, we are left with just the death. And I am finding out who amongst my friends are the true cowards, afraid to talk to us, afraid to enter our world. I guess it wasn't surprising, but I expected more. I always expect more, I suppose, it is my most alienating quality. I surprisingly feel absolutely no guilt about expecting people to step up and be here, but I realize that means I will probably be alone in my grief. And alone long into the future.

Since Lucia died, I have been thinking endlessly about a story I once read called the
Mustard Seed. It softens me, and takes me outside of myself. This grieving is such a narcissistic process. I am always thinking about what Lucia won't experience, what I won't experience. I am always thinking about me. Me. Me. Me. But this story has made me think a great deal about all of us, and helped to get me out of constantly thinking I am the only one in the world suffering. We have all suffered. How I have been so ignorant and shallow and small to not see how everyone aches for their own Lucia?



I am sorry I was selfish in my life. Maybe this is my prayer to the world, or my apology. I am sorry I was selfish. I will be selfish again. I already am selfish again to tell the world to fuck off while I grieve. To be angry that the universe demands my breath when my child is absolutely still. To demand that people say her name: Lucia Paz. Light and Peace. 


Thank you for being my confessor today. I have more sins, but no voice left.

34 comments:

  1. oh angie, the letter is so beautiful and real and raw.

    thinking of you and your perfect beautiful lucia.

    light & peace
    xoxo

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  2. No words do this justice- but i am here with you in the loud, loud silence.

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  3. Thinking of Lucy today! The birth/death was definately the happiest saddest moment of our lives. My husband said today that he can't wait for 2009 to be over. I feel differently. 2009 is the year we met our daughter. I don't want to move away from that.

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  4. 'How I have been so ignorant and shallow and small to not see how everyone aches for their own Lucia?'

    Oh Angie. It took me at least ten months to see that. If not longer. Sometimes I don't think I really see it even now.

    Ten days. You are a wise soul.

    I'm so sorry. Just so terribly, terribly sorry.

    Lucia Paz. Your name is spoken here tonight. xo

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  5. Oh Lucy, how we miss you.
    Oh Angie, how we cry for you today and always.

    An ocean of tears. I'm just a wreck reading that letter. Nodding along and crying all the way.

    I'm so sorry.

    Love and peace to you, my dear friend across the seas.

    xo

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  6. Oh Angie, missing your sweet Lucia with you today and always

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  7. ". . . realizing that control is an illusion is one." Yup, me too. That's the lesson I continue to learn. ((((hugs))))

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  8. That was a beautiful letter you wrote. It is so eloquently describes this hell.

    I wish Lucy were here in your arms. I am so sorry.

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  9. I am thinking of you, Sam, Bea, and Lucy very much today and sending love.

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  10. I can't believe you wrote that 10 days out. I remember Bella and I tried to start a Maddy scrapbook of sorts at some point within the first two months, and it took every scintilla of mental, emotional, and physical energy to simply write the words "I miss you" by her picture. That was all I had. Some days, almost three years out, that's still I have.

    Remembering Lucia, that perfect baby, with you -- today, tomorrow, through the season. Love to you all.

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  11. You have such an incredible way with words. So raw, so poignant, so deep. Your letter is chilling and beautiful all at the same time.

    Remembering your special Lucia with you.

    Much, much love.... and strength.

    xo

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  12. I am here. I am thinking of you on this sad anniversary.
    With love

    xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

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  13. I have you, Sam, Bea and Lucia in my thoughts and prayers- I am sending you all love from my heart.

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  14. My thoughts have been with you and Sam and Beatrice and Lucy all day. Winter Solstice will always be Lucy's day for me. The letter was so raw and beautiful. I love you. And thank you for letting me meet sweet Lucy through your belly cooing at her, in my arms and in our hearts forever.

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  15. Beautiful and raw and moving, Angie. Not knowing exactly when she died, if we could have saved her, what she would be like now (or years from now)... Yes, having all those unanswered questions is so hard. Thinking of you and Lucy, with love.

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  16. Thank you for sharing this letter, Angie. I will forever remember Lucy when I think of Winter Solstice. Sending much love to you as we remember your sweet, beautiful girl. xo

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  17. you've done it again, a beautiful post. and i never realized her full name.. Lucia Paz. stunningly beautiful.

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  18. Thinking of you and your Lucia today.

    Such beautiful words Angie.

    I have no words - just that she is missed and loved.

    xxx

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  19. Angie, thank you for sharing that touching letter with us.

    Lucy, your mommy is a truly awesome lady!

    Will light a candle for you tonight. xoxo

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  20. Thank you Angie.

    Lucia Paz.

    Wishing you so much light and peace.

    xxx

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  21. Thinking of you, Sam, Bea, and beautiful Lucia today.

    Sending much love...

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  22. Thinking of your Lucia Paz tonight Angie. I'm so sorry she isn't here with you.
    xx

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  23. lighting a candle for your lucia today. i'm so sorry she's not here with you. i'm sure she was beautiful, like her mama. xo

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  24. angie-
    lots of love to you on this day and every day. beautiful post to honor your beautiful lucia.
    xo

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  25. We happen to know what day A died because I had a doctor's appointment that morning and heard the heartbeat. But it used to drive me insane that I didn't know what time. And I too feel differently about the day he was born.

    It's a beautiful letter. I am glad you have it still. You know, our friends, nearly all of them, came to stand by us when A died. It's later that too many of them fell down. But being selfish in your grief? That is completely allowed. It was very comforting to me to be reminded that Judaism explicitly teaches that mourning is for the bereaved.

    Remembering your beautiful Lucia Paz with you. And wishing you a day that turns out to be exactly what you need, even if you don't know what that is yet.

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  26. Much love to you, Angie. Thinking of you and your Lucia.

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  27. Your words touched me. Thinking of you today.

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  28. Oh Angie,

    I wish it could be other. Remembering Lucia Paz with you today.

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  29. "Those of us who lost a future we fell in love with. I loved Lucy not simply because she was part of our family but because she was part of a future I wanted."

    This is so true for me...the thoughts of what the future should be constantly fill my mind.

    Beautiful post Angie for a beautiful little girl named Lucia. Thinking of you and her tongiht. xx

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  30. Thinking of you and Lucy today, Angie. Hugs and prayers for strength for you.

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  31. You said it so perfectly, there really is nothing left for me to add.
    Except that today I think of your beautiful Lucia and of you and hopr that however you decide to mark the moment, it brings you close to her.
    xxoo

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  32. so much love coming your way today Angie!

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