Cara's Garden 2009

The week after we lost Cara, my mom approached us about planting a garden for Cara. The idea quickly took root and soon we had plants from family and friends filling our front porch. A family friend who is also a landscaper sent his crew in for a day to help these plants find a permanent home in our backyard. It became our outlet as we grieved and tended the earth last spring and summer.

Cara's Garden once again brought delight to our spring, summer and early fall. As the bloom on one plant closes, another plant starts to show its first buds. This year brought many additions to the garden as we celebrated Cara's first birthday, as well as another Mother's Day and Father's Day. As I look out on the garden, I'm constantly amazed that every plant has been a gift to Cara and us.

Bright pink peonies planted last fall.

My Mother's Day present from last year

Mother's Day present from this year, Purple Verbena, with Cara's memorial stone in the background

Tim's Father Day present. It's still blooming 4 months later.

Magnolia bloom opening in May

Bird bath with butterfly

View of the garden

My aunt gave us this jasmine at Cara's birthday. This is one plant that sadly is not in Cara's garden. We planted it in our front garden because of its need for shade.

Seashore mallow also not in Cara's garden, but simply beautiful. Although it looks like a hibiscus, it started blooming the end of August and is still in full bloom.

Cara would have been a year and a half last Friday. It's still hard to believe we have lived that long without her and still have a lifetime ahead of us. There are lighter days as new life springs up around (and most recently inside) us. As we anticipate the birth of our second little girl in the new two weeks, we continue carry Cara and her memory with us every day.

Crunch time

We're in the middle of that point in Cynthia's pregnancy right now where it feels like any day the baby could come and everything is about to change. We're at this point sooner than normal since the doctors are planning to take the baby early. But we're here nonetheless.

It's hard to be here again when it was not too long ago we were "here" waiting for Cara to be born. Doing the final touches in her nursery, packing our bags for the hospital, trying to get the car seat, strollers, pack n' play all ready.

We were doing this exact thing over the weekend for the baby. We sat up in the nursery folding clothes, setting up furniture, organizing, trying to make new memories for the baby in the midst of finding painful reminders of the preparations we had made for Cara - like dried up baby wipes and some of her things that will always be hers. We remembered the next morning that it would have been Cara's 18 month birthday. A year and a half. She should have been there. But we tried to make new memories for this baby - we felt like she deserved that and it's something Cara would want for her little sister too.

One of the things I'm most afraid is dealing with the misconception (which I think comes from a society that likes us to "move on" from grief in 2 or 3 days instead of walking with it for your life) that with the baby's birth all our pain will be magically washed away. This could be no further from the truth. And I'm scared that people will forget this. That people will forget that we'll always miss Cara when the pain of not having her physically here will never go entirely away. How could it? It will never go away and it shouldn't since she will always be a part of us. A part of her is here in spirit, but a part of her is physically gone which will always hurt.

I think this is where our rituals will help with this. I was imaging today that our Sunday visits to Cara's grave with our family will be a time where we remember, where we don't forget all that Cara has meant to us. And where we also walk with the pain of her physical absence from us. Where we remember how old she would have been. Where we share with our kids how much they're missing from having an incredible older sister like Cara would have been here on earth. And where we tell them she is still there for them...watching over them...walking with them...still there as their older sister in a way we can't totally explain, but one day we'll understand.

Another hard part of not having Cara physically here is that it's easier for her to not enter those regular daily conversations that come up with family and friends in common places like church and work. I really think this is a very hard aspect of losing someone you love. With their physical absence from this world, it just becomes less commonplace for them to enter conversations. It's not that people are trying to be mean, but with that person gone it's harder to talk about common things like whether they are crawling or walking yet, what grade they're in at school this year...things like that.

Because of your loved one's absence from conversations, I think this is one of the reasons babyloss parents and all those who have lost somebody they love, greatly appreciate it when a friend is intentional and talks to them about their child. I like to think of it like you can talk to that parent like their child is still alive, not physically alive of course, but somehow still very much alive, and a part of your life.

But this can be harder with stillborn babies. For some terrible reason, stillborn babies can be more easily forgotten. Based on some comments we've gotten and other stories I've heard from other blogs, it's as if since that baby was sleeping, some people act like that baby never lived and that there were not people who loved that baby, parents with dreams for that child, and a mother who carried the baby tenderly for months. That baby lived. Just tragically the baby was born sleeping and died way too soon.

So I suppose I'm venting a little. But at the core of it all I just don't want people to forget Cara. I know we never will, but it sure seems like an uphill battle sometimes in our microwave society that doesn't seem to get it. But I'm thankful for friends that do get it. I'm thankful for family and friends that allow Cara to be a part of their lives, that live with the presence of her spirit close by and with the hope that one day they'll be reunited with our sweet baby too.

Is this your first?

Over the past 9 months, Cynthia and I have been asked this question too many times than we'd like to remember. At the store, at the pool, at restaurants, during conversations with complete strangers, at the hospital and even at the clinic from a few nurses.

I know that to most people this is just an innocent question used to strike up a conversation. But to those who have lost a baby or miscarried or lost their child later in life, this question is a very difficult one to respond to.

And it also has made me wonder why people ask us this question all the time? Do we look young? Is it because we aren't physically carrying another baby around with us? Do we need to look older? Or more tired from sleepless nights caring for a baby?

We were sitting in the waiting room this past Tuesday and this question was posed to me by a father as they sat down next to us.

"Is this your first?"

"No, this is our second."

He went on to share with me a story about how when his first child was born they sang Happy Birthday to the baby in the hospital. And I just left it at that.

It felt good to tell him matter-of-factly that the baby inside Cynthia's belly is not our first, and in not so many words that our first daughter is still very much a part of us. And frankly, I was a little frustrated at the smug way he purposed this question to me and went on to share his story, so a short reply seemed appropriate.

I know most people mean well. I know they just don't know. Like I said, I know this question just seems innocent.

But either way, we've removed it from our vocabulary. We've found other ways to strike up conversations with pregnant women and fathers. We realize that it's better to avoid this probing question and ask something else.

I've also found that I'm not afraid anymore to tell people about Cara. Earlier in my grief journey, I was often hesitant to share my story, I didn't have as much strength to "go there" with complete strangers. But now, I don't shy way - Cara, even Cara's tragic death, is a part of me that I just have to share. And even though our society isn't comfortable talking about death, I'm trying to change that norm. Death is unavoidable, and for many of us, much more than people think, it's unfortunately a part of our story. And a part of us that needs to be shared and heard.

Absence

I have been fairly absent from this space. These past few weeks have been difficult ones for me physically. I was in triage at the hospital twice and then admitted once for four days for signs of early labor.

There is so much focus on keeping our little girl alive that my thoughts are consumed more by her than by Cara. It's hard. The paradigm shift of needing to care for my daughter almost living in the outside world causes me to think less about the one who has already come and gone, and that is extremely difficult to admit. It's this little baby that I have to constantly monitor. She who has to be my first thought in the morning. She who I need to make sure moves 4 times an hour and 10 times twice a day.

But Cara slips in. She found her way into my thoughts several times in the hospital leaving me in tears. As I sat looking at pictures of her. As I replayed the labor experience I already had. The other night as I sat on the patio watching the sunset, a butterfly danced through the red rays. She was there.

I'm excited to have our new little one, yet somehow it feels foreign this excitement. Loving her will be different from loving Cara. I wish I could be a parent with equal love, whose heart explodes once, twice, three times as their children emerge in the world. However, my two daughters bring with them very different emotions and a different experience of parental love. I try to prepare myself, but I wholly realize it's not possible.

What will the first day with her be like? Happy? Overwhelming with emotion for Cara and our new little one? I hope as I have many times in the past year and a half that the calm in the storm finds me and consumes me.

Will the baby kick when we visit Cara?

We were on our way to deliver flowers to Cara's grave that our friends A, R and their boys J (5) and T (3) who were visiting from out of town.

I was riding next to J in the car when he turned to me from his carseat. "Will the baby kick when we visit Cara?"

"Yes," I said. "She loves when we go to visit Cara."

T asked, "Mommy, how did Cara die?" I heard R from the backseat, "Remember what Mommy told you? Cara was in Aunt Cynthia's belly and she had to go to the hospital so the doctors could help get her out."

J and T were trying to process the situation around Cara's death as best they could. When we got to Cara's grave, we all sat on the ground around her little space. J looked at me and said, "Is the baby kicking?" I said, "Yes, she gets excited when we are here."

His replied, "Well she shouldn't, because Cara is dead."

It was obvious that R and A wanted J to be sensitive to us. His comments didn't bother us at all, because we knew he was just trying to understand the situation. A pulled J into his lap, and J asked why there were two crosses on Cara's grave.

A went on to give a mini-children's sermon to the boys about death. He asked them why it was important that there would be a cross on Cara's grave. They said because Jesus died on the cross. And then he asked what happened. They said that Jesus went to heaven.

A told them that's why it was so special that Tim and I visit Cara on Sundays, because Sunday is the day we celebrate the resurrection. He shared how Jesus said that one day we will all be raised and that our bodies will be healed at which point, J asked, "And we'll get to hold her?"

I kept myself together until then, but the thought of getting to hold Cara again sent me into a downpour of tears. I watched as R responded the same way. Tim came and sat next to me putting a hand on my leg. The three of us sat that way as we watched this lesson unfold for the boys.

The boys asked how old Cara was and we told them she was just a baby. "Not 1?" the boys asked. We explained that she was alive in my belly for 9 months.

It was the first time Tim and I were really confronted with the grief of our daughter through the eyes of a child. We are so thankful that our friends were sensitive and open to discussing it with their children. It helps us to see these tender moments, because we don't know how we are going to answer these questions. The boys had been asking me some questions when R and A weren't around. I struggled to find answers for them and also wanted to be sensitive to the responses their parents would give. R said to me later that she often doesn't have an answer, because frankly we have all have a lot of questions about Cara's death.

We ended our time around Cara's grave with some belly rubs to feel the baby's kicks. J was scared to feel the baby move, but T got a little baby bump. They are sweet, sweet boys and we were thankful for this moment with them around our daughter's grave.

What is it?

Last Sunday our friend A, Tim and I journeyed 15 minutes down the road to visit our dear friend L at her new church. It was a joy to see her in her new home and realize that ultimately she is going to be ok there as much as I would love to have her back at our church! In typical L fashion, she preached a truly inspired message. The woman clearly has a gift!

The sermon was based on Exodus 16, when the Israelites are in the desert hungry. They grumbled and complained. We should have died in Egypt, at least then we had food and weren't hungry. God told them he would provide in the midst their hunger by sending meat at night and bread in the morning. Quail arrived in time for dinner and when the morning dew lifted, it revealed thin flakes of manna. The Israelites looked at each other and said, "What is it?" Even after God told them it was coming, they still could not comprehend. Sure it may not have been "pots of meat" they had feasted on in Egypt, but it was sustenance for that leg of their journey.

L went on to share about some manna moments. One most poignant was after she delivered her son. She was staying on a mixed floor at her hospital where mothers who have just delivered babies are in rooms right next to people who have just had surgery. The last night they were there, baby W screamed through the entire night. L couldn't help but feel concern for the poor person in the room next to her who likely was desperately in need of rest.

In the morning as they were leaving, a woman came out of the room next door. She asked L if she was the one with the baby to which L sheepishly replied yes. The woman said, "My friend is dying of ovarian cancer in this room. She listened to your baby all night and said it was the sound of new life." Manna.

This past week I learned a friend is in the midst of a devastating situation. It's the kind of news that kept me up at night hurting for my friend, trying to make sense of it, unable to to wrap my head around the situation and what the future will look like for him and his family. The one thing that I have sensed through all of this is that his relationship with his son is stronger than it has ever been. In the midst of what would cause some to crumble, he has clung to his child and found hope in the love he has for his little boy. Manna, food to sustain him for the journey.

Tuesday we had the pleasure of seeing our baby girl once again on an ultrasound. It was a brief reprieve as we enter an even more emotional time of the third trimester. We were amazed by her beauty and how we can already see some semblance between her and her sister. Manna, food to sustain us for the journey.

It reminds me of a sermon our pastor, G, preached about this time last year. The text was Genesis 22 when Abraham is sent to the mountain to sacrifice Isaac, the son that he had waited his whole life for. Isaac even asks on the way what they will sacrifice. Abraham responds that God will provide. Just as Abraham raises the knife above his beloved son, God provides a ram for the sacrifice. G went on to say, "the God Abraham knows is not one of plans, but of promise."

I hear so frequently in the midst of horrible situations, "God has a plan." I just want to say, did God plan the death of my child? Did God plan the sickness that has ravaged your body and left you at times virtually lifeless? Did God plan your divorce? God planned that? That is no god that I want part of. God didn't plan the pain, the brokenness, he offered the promise, the dream of life restored.

God did not plan Cara's death so that he might offer us our new child's life. I want to be clear that this little baby kicking fervently inside me is not the answer to losing Cara. She does not absolve that pain for us. There is no way that she could erase the last year and a half of living in a house that is far too quiet, void of our firstborn child. God did not plan our miscarriage in September to pour salt in our open wounds.

However in February, he offered us manna, a promise. For even now, though known only to us in the womb, our wished for child has already been our manna, food to sustain us for the journey. With this new little babe in our lives, perhaps we will be able to survive a life that some days still feels unlivable. She is our promise and our hope of some life restored.

Sunday L concluded her sermon by challenging us not to ask "What is it?" but to look at the manna and say, "There it is."

Coldplay...an incredible night

I got to see Coldplay in concert on their Viva la Vida tour and it was just incredible. It was much more than a set of songs, it was an experience. What it made it all the more special was to be there with an incredible group of friends from church that have graciously stood by Cynthia and me over this past year and a half.

The Viva la Vida album has a special place in my heart. When this album came out last summer, just a few months after Cara's death, I was excited yet hesitant to listen to it. At the time, I was at a point where I wasn't able to "enjoy" music. It was a heavy point in my grief journey where music to me was simply therapeutic - a way to grieve and to connect with Cara. But when Viva la Vida came out last summer the melody and rhythms in that album brought me some healing. As I listened to the album, I felt glimmers of hope, peace and maybe even joy.


The opening track on the album particularly spoke to me...Life in Technicolor...



Several months later, I shared this song with a friend in a "feel-good" mix I made for her to brighten up her days as she was going through a difficult battle with cancer. This dear friend leaned over to me during the concert last night and told me how much this song helped her push through the days when she was really struggling. This song gave her some hope and strength.


Her comment reminded me about how much of a gift music is to our lives. When we grieve, when we fight against sickness, and even in our best of times, music is often there, touching us unlike anything else can. That is the gift of music.


Music also transcends our being. As another friend told me as we walked back to our car after the concert, she felt unbridled joy as the concert went on last night. Somehow, almost magically, when we hear that perfect song, music invades our entire being and we're changed and uplifted.


It was such a gift to stand together with an incredible group of friends on a beautiful summer night under a full moon and simply get lost in the music. To let every beat, every word, every melody take hold of you and stir something up deep inside of you. In a way that only music can.

The night was a memorable, one I'll never forget. During the show, I couldn't help but keep looking up at the full moon and a bright little star just to the right of the moon. I knew that Cara was close...that she was up there somewhere and somehow, looking down with joy on us all.

I love you, Cara. I miss you so much, but I'm thankful that you're always close through the simple gift of music.