Sour Grapes

Dearest Sonne --

I am angry. I am sad. I am tired.

Four years have passed since you died in our arms and it feels like yesterday. Except that four years ago I knew what to do. I had a purpose.

Once we learned that your heart did not recover from your surgery I knew I had things to do. 

With the help of the nurses I printed your hand prints and foot prints so we would always have an image to look at since we would never have a chance to hold them again, to play games about piggies going to the market, to teach you to count with them.

I picked up my phone and began calling family and friends to tell them the awful news. Many came to the hospital while you were still alive and while they were there for us, most, but not all, asked to see you and say goodbye. I led person after person in to see you. I was an ambassador with a terrible job that no one could ever want, but somehow I held my head high and proudly brought friends and family in to meet you and love you and bless you. Somehow I managed to be strong that day for everyone.

After we got home I remember calling my boss to tell him you were gone. He sent an incredibly thoughtful email to my colleagues. For the life of me I cannot figure out what I did with it (did I delete it?). 

Why would I want to save it? Why would I want to read it years later?

Because I feel sorry for myself. Because I want to have my own personal pity party.

I want people to remember you without my having to remind them. 

I want people to remember that you were a twin and not constantly send me links to twins singing songs from "Frozen".

I want people to not tell me the exciting news about a friend expecting twin girls and if they insist on telling me I want them to understand that my happiness for their friend is bittersweet.

I want people to not react to the news of children dying in a mass shooting by saying to me "It's so awful! They were only kids" or for my once thoughtful boss to so thoughtlessly say "I can't even imagine losing one of my kids" while watching coverage of that school shooting instead of focusing on a meeting. And when I leave saying, "I'm sorry. I need to leave" prior to breaking into tears, I don't want to be called "emotional" months later in my performance review.

I want people to remember that, while a celebrity's death might be sad, 86 is not "gone too soon". 109 days is gone too soon. Maybe you didn't change the world, but you changed mine. You changed me.

I want people to understand that all the awful happenings in the world do not mean shit to me right now. I'm sorry that children drowned trying to escape Syria. It is awful. I'm sorry that children die of cancer. It is awful. I'm sorry that all too often children are the victims of crime because they are innocent and trusting. It is awful.There are too many awful things in this world.

Like your death. It is awful. It was shitty four years ago and it remains just as shitty today. 

Maybe the shock is finally wearing off.

Maybe Morgen processing your loss and verbalizing her feelings about it makes your loss more acute. Maybe her asking me nearly daily "Can you imagine if Sonne hadn't died and we were all playing together?" is forcing me to imagine that more.

Maybe the dreams recently where I woke to the sound of your crying and later to you whispering "Mommy" from next to the bed were simply too haunting to shake.

With the exception of two deaths, yours and your Opa Koerper's (who, at 52, was actually also gone too soon), my life is pretty fantastic.

But still, I'm the mother of three beautiful girls, one of whom will forever be a memory. The promise of who you were going to grow to be was stolen from us. It makes no sense and it isn't fair.

Maybe it's just sour grapes. 

Whatever it may be, it will pass. It always does.

I love you, little-little. Always.

xoxo...Mommy.

Forever In Our Hearts Memorial Luncheon Talk, February 8, 2015

“Meine Sonne Scheint” (My Sun Still Shines)

Good afternoon. I’m humbled to be standing before you and sharing our story today. I found myself struggling with what to say and my dear friend Rose reminded me that, while all our stories and experiences are different, we share the common outcome of loss. Whether pregnancy, infant, or child loss, each of us has experienced something incredibly unique and unfathomably painful and here we are today. Still standing. Still living. 

Still grieving.

Rose also reminded me to speak from my heart. The best way I have to do that is through letters. I have written many to Sonne over the years at my blog “Meine Sonne Scheint” which means “My Sun Still Shines” in German. I’ve written to her to recognize moments of difficulty or beauty or to simply wonder aloud what life would be like were she still alive. I believe this is the first where I have chronicled her short life and our longer one without her.

Dearest Sonne –

I fell in love with you long before you and Morgen were born. I remember being overwhelmed by the smell of the carved pumpkin outside the house on Halloween. I knew at that moment that I was pregnant, but I didn’t say anything to your father although I’m pretty sure he was thinking the same thing given my reaction to something he couldn’t smell even when sticking his nose into the jack-o-lantern.

Two days later I got the call from Dr. Ghadir. The blood test came back positive. I started to cry. After a previously failed IVF attempt I was pregnant. We had transferred all four viable embryos and we knew that all were female. Two weeks later we went in for the first ultrasound and there you both were: two little round yolk sacs with the flickering heartbeats on the screen.

Twin girls.

Your daddy looked at the doctor and said, “I’m not one to say this very often but,” and shifting his gaze to me finished triumphantly with “I told you so.” We were both so overwhelmed and overjoyed.

Twin girls. We came to refer to you as Speck und Eire – German for Bacon and Egg. 

In January daddy and I were sitting in the mall. I was eating a Wetzel’s Pretzel and we were talking about names. He always loved the name Morgen spelled with an “e” – German for Morning or tomorrow. We started culling his memory for other German words which sounded nice and also meant something that went along with Morning.  When we found Sonne I knew it was a match. Morgen and Sonne.  Morning Sun.

I remember singing your names to the melody of “Good Day Sunshine” by The Beatles. “Morgen Sonne dun, dun, dun.”

I sang to you and danced with you every day. I spent hours painting the mural in your bedroom. I usually listened to The Beatles while painting so your ocean includes an octopus’s garden and a yellow submarine. And our dogs, Cole and Fraggle, are manning the helm of the boat which has your initials on the sail: M S 2011.

I hugged my ever expanding abdomen and smiled every time I felt one of you move – and you tended to move far more than your sister. Perhaps that was because you were sitting on top of her. Perhaps it was because you wanted to make sure your presence was known.

On April 23rd, 2011, seven years from our first date, we had a baby shower. It was originally set for May 14^th, but daddy’s production schedule required our moving up the date. It was amazing and overwhelming. You would be surrounded by love. 

Shortly thereafter things changed. I remember feeling more tired and the edema was getting so bad that I started working from home in the afternoons. I started getting angry and over reacting a lot too. I tried to relax. I listened to more of The Beatles. I felt you moving around. I breathed.

By early May I just wasn’t feeling well anymore. I assumed the fatigue was just starting to win and was going to ask Tony to write me out of work at my next appointment. It was a little earlier than planned, but so be it. I was carrying twins.

On Monday, May 9^th, I drove from the Valley to my doctor’s office in Beverly Hills. I peed in a cup and knew something wasn’t right. Urine is not supposed to look like tea.

Tony came into the exam room and said there was a little protein in my urine. As he was taking my blood pressure he calmly explained that he was going to have me admitted to Cedars for 48 hours of observation and to give me some meds for the babies. I had preeclampsia. I should go home and pack a bag and then get back to the hospital. I didn’t have to rush, but I also should get there as soon as possible.

I started to cry. I told him, “It’s too early. I’m only 31 weeks and Eric is in Toronto.” He assured me it was just for observation.

Now, honey, I consider myself to be smart and quite self-aware, but I was truly oblivious as to how sick I was at this point and honestly, it was probably a good thing.

I tried calling your father but couldn’t reach him. I called my mom and cried. I tried daddy again, but went straight to voice mail. I left him a teary message along the lines of: Hi babe. It’s me. So, Tony is having me admitted to Cedars. I have preeclampsia. Call my mom for more info because I’m pretty upset right now and need to concentrate on driving. I hope your first day of shooting went well. I love you.

I remember the receptionist at Tony’s office telling me everything would be okay.

Daddy called me back as I crested Coldwater Canyon. He asked if he should come home, but I assured him it was just a temporary hospitalization. As I pulled into the driveway your Aunt Jenna called and assured me everything would be okay. I cried a lot to her. I was really scared. After everything we had gone through to even get pregnant…

I was admitted to the Maternal Fetal Care Unit around 7:30pm, given a gown to change into and shortly thereafter found myself hooked up to various monitors. Dr. Esakoff came in and thoroughly examined you both via ultrasound. I remember her saying “Baby B,” that was you, “is growth restricted.” She also said that you were both moving well. They gave me steroid injections to help protect your lungs and brains, and also started a magnesium sulfate drip along with my IV. It was a terrible medication. It made me hot and a bit disoriented.

Around 2pm the next day daddy called to say he was on the way to the airport. He spoke to Tony. I wasn’t going to be leaving the hospital until I was a mom. I was genuinely surprised and he said plainly, “Babe. You’re really sick. No one is telling you that, but you are and I’m not about to let you sit alone in a hospital room whether it be for two days or two months.” He arrived at the hospital at 11:30pm.

We spent the next few days trying to keep me as calm as possible. My BP continued to rise, but my labs were okay. On the evening of Friday the thirteenth my BP peaked at 190 over 95. I pleaded with the doctors to let me go home. I missed our dogs. I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I was desperate to be out of that hospital. I promised to come back if anything happened. They promised me a visit with a therapy dog on Saturday, offered me Ambien and suggested I rest because if my BP didn’t come down, they would deliver you that night. 

I took the Ambien and fell asleep listening to The Beatles.

The next morning your father went to make some phone calls and get some coffee. He wasn’t gone long before Dr. Lau came in to let me know my labs came back. Tony had been called and you were going to be delivered. My liver was shutting down.

A whirlwind of activity began around me. I was signing consent forms and magnesium sulfate was being pumped into my bloodstream at a ridiculous rate. I was sweating and dizzy from the meds. I didn’t know where my phone was so I couldn’t reach your dad. Thankfully Dr. Kilpatrick saw him in the plaza lobby and let him know what was happening. He actually hung up on his mother after telling her “Get here mom. The girls are coming…now.”

It was pure controlled chaos. The OR was full of people. There was a surgical team for me and a NICU team for each of you. Daddy was by my side. 

It was Saturday, May 14^th. At 9:53am Morgen was delivered weighing in at 3lbs 11 oz. and one minute later, at 9:54am you, my sweet Sonne, were delivered weighing in at only 2lbs 10 oz. You were both so tiny, so beautiful. I was crying as I briefly met each of you before you were whisked away in your isolets to the NICU. Daddy was with you and suddenly it was so quite in the OR.

Daddy came down after you were “settled” in the NICU. He brought more pictures and then Oma came back to be with me while he headed back up to be with you. I still remember my mother-in-law sitting with me and quietly holding my hand while I tried to rest. 

I wasn’t allowed to go to the NICU until the next evening – 35 hours after your birth. They couldn’t get my BP under control and I was desperate to see you. Once again I was bargaining with the doctors and nurses to be let out of the MFCU. I promised I wouldn’t have a stroke. I promised I wouldn’t get out of the wheelchair. I would have promised the moon if I thought it would get me what I wanted most in the world at that moment.

I saw Morgen first. She was so little.

Then I saw you. You were so teeny tiny – you made Morgen look big. I remember sitting in that wheelchair, my fingers touching your little foot through the opening in the isolet and hearing the fellow say, “This one has tetralogy of Fallot and a complete A/V canal defect.” I looked at your dad and it was if he was hit in the gut with a baseball bat. You see, he produced a film about the first open heart surgery to correct tetralogy of Fallot. We met with a cardiologist the next day who talked to us more about your heart defects. I believe he even said something to the effect of “if you had to have a heart defect, these are the ones you would want” insinuating that the repairs were easier, more well known, routine even.

The next few weeks took on a life of their own: the routine hand washing, the smell of the soap, walking down the NICU to Bay 6 where the two of you lay in your isolets, sitting between you while pumping. You were born eight weeks and two days early. And yet, by NICU standards, you were both big.

Morgen was the typical feeder/grower. She came home on June 28^th. 

You my little-little needed more time and more tests. When you were finally discharged on July 15^th, you came equipped with an apnea monitor. Your cardiologist felt confident that you would be home and growing for quite some time before needing corrective surgery sometime around February 2012. He was also confident that when the time came Dr. Starnes at Children’s Hospital LA would easily repair your heart and you would be “a perfectly normal kid just one with a cardiologist.”

Daddy and I talked about how we expected that you would be fearless and how you wouldn’t hesitate to correct people when they called you Sunny instead of Sonne. How you would likely run circles around your sister just to show her that heart surgery wouldn’t slow you down.

And then on August 18^th, while your daddy was in Massachusetts for Dan and Teri’s wedding, you went back into the hospital. We had a rough night and I knew something was wrong so I packed up you and Morgen and we were at your pediatrician’s door when they opened it that morning. They put a pulse-OX monitor on you and moments later were calling an ambulance. They could see the blue tinge to your skin that I missed.

I left the car and Morgen with Dr. Jeremy and climbed into the ambulance with you cradled in the strong arms of the fire-fighter EMT. Daddy arranged to have Morgen picked up by a close friend so I could focus on you. He was ready to miss the wedding if needed, but your cardiologist felt confident that you had a respiratory infection. You were more prone to things like that and your heart condition was exacerbated by such things.

Six hours later I was following another ambulance to Children’s Hospital. They were better equipped to handle your unique needs in their Cardio-Thoracic ICU.

By the time I finally picked up your sister at 9pm that night, I collapsed into Darren’s arms sobbing, “I can’t lose my baby.”

Daddy was back with us by midday on Sunday. He stayed with you every night at the hospital. More tests ruled out infections and reflux issues. We finally met with Dr. Starnes. He explained the procedure thoroughly. Daddy asked if there would be any surprises. He said “No” without hesitation and something like he would make you perfect. I told him you already were and told him how to properly say your name.

God…he was an arrogant prick, but I suppose you have to be to cut open the chests of babies.

Surgery was scheduled for August 29^th. 

On August 28^th, I nursed you for the last time. I was told bottle feeding was easier and they didn’t want you to over exert yourself, but you kept pushing the bottle away and nuzzling my chest. Screw the rules I thought and let you latch. I can still see you looking up at me, blue eyes sparkling in the harsh florescent lights. I can still feel your little hand holding the finger of my right hand as my left caressed the back of your head.

Nana arrived that night and spent time with you in the hospital. That last picture of you two together is one of my favorites. She would stay home with Morgen during your procedure.

Your surgery was supposed to last approximately three hours. Five hours after it began a social worker I had previously met walked into the waiting area with a man I didn’t know. They made their way over to me. I clutched your daddy’s hand. Things were not going as anticipated. Oma burst out into tears. I looked at Opa and said, “Go get my mom and Morgen” and then at Oma and said, “Stop. We are not going to grieve her unless we have to” because, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t let myself cry and needed others to be just as strong.

We were ushered into a small room so we could have some privacy. A member of the surgical team came up and explained what was happening. They were having trouble repairing your mitral valve. Your heart tissue was “primitive” and the sutures weren’t holding. Starnes was attempting to put a mechanical valve in next. The goal now was to get you out of the OR and onto the EKMO bypass in the CTICU and just wait.

Dan and Teri arrived. Opa, Nana and Morgen arrived. I had been without my breast pump all day and was desperate to relieve the pressure. I accidentally sprayed breast milk on the wall opposite me while trying to get Morgen to latch. I made some joke about shooting their eyes out. Folks laughed.

Sometimes you have to laugh.

Two days later an ultrasound showed that your heart had no muscle contractions. Without the aid of a pacemaker there was no electrical current. 

On August 31^st, 2011, at 3:23pm you died in our arms. I held you as daddy held us both. Your Uncle Rod said a blessing. Your Aunt Susie stood at his side. Nana held Morgen. We cried. We wailed. We listened to One Eskimo sing “Amazing” just as we did when each of you were discharged from Cedars.

Since that shitty day (yes…that’s how I described it then and still now) we have struggled. We have cried rivers of tears. We held a memorial service for you and we scattered your ashes at sea. We placed a bench in a beautiful meadow at the South Coast Botanic Gardens with a plaque that read “Sonne Koerper Hetzel. Daughter, Sister, Friend. Your Light Always Shines.” We visit often.

To this day I can still hear your Aunt Jenna heartbroken asking, “What happened?” when I called to tell her we were taking you off life support. Your great-grandmother saying, “It should be me. What good is an old lady like me when that baby has her entire life ahead of her.” Your Papa telling me and Nana that he would be here the next day by 11am.

Close friends convened at our home and did their best to comfort us. Food was dropped off, cards received. People tried to say the right thing and more often than not failed.

I broke down hysterical one afternoon in your father’s arms. I didn’t hold you enough. I couldn’t bear to be at the hospital again when you were at Children’s. I felt so guilty but they would hardly let me hold you or nurse you. I was a helpless observer and at least at home Morgen needed me and I could do things for her. 

Once Morgen weaned I looked at your daddy and said, “I want another baby.” We agreed to go back to see Ghadir just after your second birthday. 

Everything was harder this time around. I was 40 and I was only giving us one chance. Thankfully we had two normal embryos. We implanted one. It took. Our 20 week ultrasound was with Dr. Esakoff. She remembered us and you. We were referred for a fetal echocardiogram, but she believed that your sister’s heart looked normal.

That’s right: another girl. I looked at daddy and we both started to cry.

Three weeks later the echo confirmed Esakoff’s beliefs. Her heart was perfect. I could finally breathe and start to enjoy this pregnancy and with every developmental milestone I felt lighter and happier. The baby liked to dance around just like you.

Your baby sister Aurora – Latin for Light – was born on June 12^th at 10:50am. She weighed 7lbs 12 oz. It was another C-Section and it was such a contrasting experience. The delivery OR felt so calm. Once delivered, she was held up for us to see. I said to your dad, “She’s so big! We can see her from across the room.” This time our family left the OR and went to the recovery room together.

Oma, Opa, Nana and Morgen arrived at Cedars that afternoon. Morgen beamed the biggest smile I have ever seen upon meeting Aurora. And she is a great big sister. I know you already know that, but I wanted to tell you all the same. You’re a great big sister too.

Aurora is eight months old now. At times she looks just like you – especially when she nurses. When she was a newborn and nursing it was almost as if I was holding you again. It was magical.

You should be 3 years and 9 months old now. You should be playing Star Wars with Morgen and arguing over who gets to be Luke Skywalker and who has to be Princess Leia. You should be going to preschool and running and jumping and singing and dancing and playing. You should be testing my patience as much as Mo, if not more so.

You should be, but you’re not.

So we talk about you all the time. We tell Mo stories about “Morgen-landia” and in them Princesses Morgen, Aurora and Sonne are all together. Morgen insisted upon that. Morgen knows about your surgery and often asks me to tell her about it. This past Christmas she even suggested that Santa gave you yellow cookies which you must have eaten because the sun was shining so bright. She has also said on many occasions that she’s going to have a baby in her belly and that baby is going to be another Sonne…but her Sonne won’t die. 

I talk about you with friends, family, and coworkers. I said something about when I was pregnant with twins and a new coworker excitedly asked, “Oh! How old are your twins?” and I told him about you.

There was a random encounter in CVS when I was trying to figure out which cold medicine to get for Mo and another mom offered her advice and as we got to talking about our kids she mentioned her angel baby – they too had lost a daughter after a failed heart surgery. 

And there was my conversation with Rose one morning after dropping Morgen off at preschool when I learned about her two angels. 

Yes…the universe has an uncanny way of connecting us to others when needed.

And of course, because you are our sunshine, you shine down upon us nearly every day. We say Guten Morgen Sonne to you as we head off for the day’s adventure and at night we always say, “Schlaf gut. Susse Traume. Wir lieben dich.” Sleep well. Sweet dreams. We love you.

Here’s the thing, honey. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you and wish you were here. You are my little-little then, now and forever. But I have learned to laugh again. I have found joy and happiness again. I have gained an incredible perspective through your loss and, as a result, the little things, the bullshit which so many people get wrapped up in daily tends not to bother me. I can finally listen to “Good Day Sunshine” again.

I am endlessly thankful for the time we had together. 109 days is terribly, terribly short, but I cherish them. I would relive each of them again just to hold you once more. And sometimes I dream that your surgery was a success, or even that you were born early but without any heart defects. And dreams are wonderful things because in them you are happy, vibrant, radiant.

Thank you for being my little-little. You still give me so much every day. You, your sisters and your father complete me in a way I never imagined possible. And for that I shall always be grateful.

To quote One Eskimo’s “Amazing”: It’s in the stars, it’s in the sun. It’s everywhere and everyone and it will be every day. From now on, from now on we are one. And it’s amazing.

Wir lieben dich, Sonne. Ich liebe dich.

Mommy.

Three Years Later

Dearest Sonne -

Three years have passed in the blink of an eye and yet it feels like yesterday. 

I imagine the little girl you would be today, playing alongside Morgen, running, laughing, sticking beads up your own nose too.

Would she insist that you be Anna while she is Queen Elsa?  She is the big sister after all.

Would you be equally obsessed with "A Bug's Life" or would we have to compromise on pizza/movie night and alternate weekly so you could watch your favorite movie? What would your favorite movie be? 

And now we have Aurora in the family.  She reminds us so much of you.  I get to relive some of my favorite memories with her in my arms. She is so alert, her eyes so bright. Much like you she tends to watch me closely, making intense eye contact while nursing. And oh how she smiles!

I know you would be a great big sister to her just as Morgen.

Morgen talks about you every day.  She looks up at the sun and excitedly says, "Mommy! I see Sonne! Hi Sonne!"

Today she sad she was sad about you. I told her that we were sad too.

I haven't looked at the old blog in a long time and I haven't kept up with yours or Morgen's either. Life has gotten busy. I've moved on in many ways, but tonight I looked through the entries from August and September in http://themorgensonnereport.blogspot.com and the tears flowed heavily from my eyes. Three years ago today, despite how the surgery went on the 29th we were still so hopeful.  There was still a chance. And yet, I think I knew in advance the ultimate outcome.  I remember hearing Paul McCartney's song "End of the End" on the way to the hospital the morning of your surgery. I had never heard it before and it felt so poignant.  We ended up including it in your memorial service.

And then on the morning of August 31st our biggest fear became our reality.  Your heart hadn't recovered. There was no more hope that you might come home with us. The nurses helped me make your hand and footprint in clay and also with ink. Friends came to the hospital to say goodbye. Some met you and said goodbye to you at the same time. And then all that was left was for us to say goodbye and then you were gone.

Slowly we heal. I found myself incredibly moved by the John O'Donohue poem which Jim retitled Sonne for your memorial service:

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,

Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn

Brightening over our lives

Awakening beneath the dark

A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice

Found for us

A new music

That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze

Quickened in the joy of its being;

You placed smiles like flowers

On the altar of the heart.

Your mind always sparkled

With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,

Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer

From the old distance of our names;

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,

As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,

We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,

Smiling back at us from within everything

To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,

Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,

Beside us when beauty brightens,

When kindness glows

And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,

Darkest winter has turned to spring;

May this dark grief flower with hope

In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love

Until we see your beautiful face again

In that land where there is no more separation,

Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,

And where we will never lose you again

I miss you, my sweet little, little.

And I love you with my whole heart...forever.

Xoxo....mommy

Good Day Sunshine

Dearest Sonne --

I listened to "Good Day Sunshine" by The Beatles today.  It was the first time I was able to hear it without tearing up.

Do you remember how daddy and I would sing it and change the lyrics from the title to "Morgen Sonne"?  It was our anthem for you both long before you were born.  It was the perfect song to express how excited we were about your impending arrival.  It was the perfect song to capture our love of you both and of our family.

I have a whole playlist of songs that remind me of our excitement.  I have a whole playlist of songs that remind me of our joy.  Our love.  Our girls.  And of all these songs, "Good Day Sunshine" has been the one that I have not been able to listen to since we lost you.

Until today.

Today hearing your anthem made me smile.

Today thinking about dancing and singing "Morgen Sonne" while massively pregnant gave me hope.

We love you and we miss you.  But today, "I need to laugh and when the Sun is out.  I've got something I can laugh about.  I feel good in a special way.  I'm in love and it's a sunny day.  Morgen Sonne!.."

All my love always....Mommy

Punctuation

My dearest Sonne --

The days seem to pass so quickly.  A year passed so quickly and here we are in the midst of the holiday season again.  It feels harder this year.

I'm sad.  I'm angry.  And every emotion is heightened with a giant exclamation point.

!!!!!

I know life isn't fair.  I've known that for a very long time.  But I cannot fathom why.

?????

The one idea that gives me some solace comes from the Buddhist philosophy.  In short, when a baby or child dies, the belief is that person only had a small lesson left to learn before achieving Nirvana.  That their karma was such that they were able to leave suffering behind forever.

I know I'm not stating that quite right, but that's the gist of it.

While you were here, you were so calm.  You were put through so much in your short life and yet you always seemed at peace.  Perhaps the Buddhists were right.  Perhaps you only had a little more to learn before leaving the cycle of life behind.  If that's the case, then I feel honored that you chose our family to care for you during this last go around.

And yet...

Things just seem harder this year.  Perhaps we were on auto-pilot last year, just powering through to try and make the holidays feels "normal."  Perhaps this year we just need "normal" to be more emotionally authentic.  I'm not sure what that means, per se, but I do know that something is different this year.  

Your loss feels more poignant.  More final.  More punctuated.

I love you and miss you.

Always...mommy

One Year Later

My Dearest Sonne --

A year has passed since we said goodbye to you.  Some days are good.  Some are awful.  You are never far from our thoughts and you are always in our hearts.

I will forever be grateful for the time we had with you.  Thoughts of your smile brighten my days.  Remembering the way you always seemed happy, despite the poking and prodding of doctors and nurses, fills me with such pride.  You were such an easy baby.

We are proud of you.  You are our little, little and you are amazing.  You touched our lives in ways we never dreamed possible.

Your name means "sun" in German.  In so many ways you were perfectly named.  Your smile brightened the room and now you shine upon us every day.  I always felt an affinity for sunflowers and how, no matter what, they will lift their heads to face the sun every day.  And now, every day as I lift mine it is to you, my daughter.  You give me strength and hope.

We were in Hawaii a few weeks ago.  We saw your sunrise from the Haleakala crater.  It was magnificent.  Daddy watched from the lookout station while I sat in the car with Morgen.  She slept in my lap and I cried.  I told her more stories about you and how much we love you both.

During the days Morgen would chase waves on the beach while you shone down upon us.

In the evenings we would watch your sunset from the lanai.  You would bathe us all in the most beautiful light.  You never failed to put on a brilliant show.

Now back in Los Angeles we find ourselves wishing for a better view of the sunrise and sunset.  A better vantage point from which to glimpse your light.

With every sunrise we heal.  With every sunrise we remember.  With every sunrise we honor you and your life, albeit far too short.  And with every sunset we say goodnight and look forward to the morning when we get to bask in your glow again.

Wednesday was the first anniversary of your surgery.  As difficult as that day was, I am so thankful that the surgeon was delayed.  We had two more hours to hold you, to be with you, to see you smile. 

Yesterday I cried.  I cried long and hard for the times I wasn't with you.  I cried out my guilt over not being able to be in the hospital with you.  After nine weeks in the NICU, I just wanted to be home with my girls.  I didn't want to be separated from either of you, but I couldn't bear to be sitting in a hospital room.  The NICU was so different from CHLA. The nurses that Cedars became a kind of extended family.  We always had someone to talk to. The CHLA staff, while incredibly skilled, tended to leave us alone and I desperately didn't want to be alone. And yet I will always be thankful for your CTICU nurse Lily.  She had been caring for your since surgery and, though she was scheduled to have the day off, she came in to care for you on your last day. I suspect she knew your heart wasn't healing.  Even so, her willingness to be there for us meant so much.

And today I woke up feeling hopeful.  Perhaps it is because a year ago your struggles ended.  You were finally able to be at peace.  You were finally free.

Your Oma and Opa are here with us today. The family is heading to the garden to your meadow.  Your Aunt Tanya and Uncle Chris are meeting us there too.  Your sun is shining and it is a beautiful day.  We are going to bask in your warmth and celebrate your life.  

109 days. 

Whoever could have predicted that a life so short would leave such an indelible mark upon so many?

We love you and miss you.  You are forever in our hearts.

Xoxoxoxoxo...Mommy, Daddy, and Morgen

Ps...Morgen just started walking this week.  I suspect she will show you herself while we are visiting. 

I Miss You

My dearest Sonne --


I miss you.


Love...Mommy.