2 years

We celebrated Lily for the 2nd year yesterday. Naturally, I thought about her and lots of the what ifs throughout the day, but my overriding feeling was love and gratitude for my child. We invited the same intimate group of family over to send balloons to heaven and to enjoy "birthday cake". Last year, this was the best way we could explain to our 2 year old son what we were doing. We told him it was Lily's birthday party. I anticipated having to elaborate on this as the years went on, but it wasn't necessary this year as he vividly remembered the celebration from last year. He wanted to make sure that there would be cake, and that he could have a green balloon just like last year. He was emphatic that everyone else would have pink and he would have green. He stated that next year, he will send her a blue one, but this year, it must be green. He asked me if she would get a birthday card in heaven. I explained that just like last year, we could write her a message or draw her a picture on our balloons and those would be like cards for her. He was satisfied with that, and initially said that he would like his balloon to say "Happy Birthday", but when the time came, he chose to draw on it and leave it at that. Some may think that it is strange that we choose to celebrate her in this way each year because we never experienced life with her. We never laid our eyes on her while she was living. We don't choose to do this out of grief for our loss. We choose to do this to remember that she was alive. I could never discount the life that she had, regardless of how brief it was. She was a blessing from God. She was a part of me. There is a portion of the evening that has an awkward feel to it, though, as we all know why we are gathered together, but we don't really talk a lot about it. There isn't much to say. Our family's presence says it all to us. So, instead, we watch our children play. We watch the lives before us while we remember the one who is missing from it all. We independently focused on our own balloons and we watched the children among us embrace this new tradition without questioning it. For the 2nd year, I had my own moment of discomfort (although, I'm not really sure that is the best word to describe it) when I knew that everyone was done writing their message or drawing their pictures, and it was nearing the time to let our balloons go, and I just wasn't ready to let go. I enjoyed watching the kids run around with their balloons in their hand, tied to their wrists, or attached to the steering wheel of the motorized vehicle they were riding in, and I wanted to imprint those images in my memory because during those moments, Lily's memory was present. The evening was for her and about her, and while each person held on to the string of their balloons, we all thought about her. I wanted to make it last. When it was time to let our balloons soar, we gathered together and with few words spoken, we released the 1 green and 12 pink balloons and watched them inch their way to the clouds. With my camera ready, I snapped pictures of our balloons in the sky because it really is a beautiful sight and that is the image that I want to have to remember Lily's 2nd birthday celebration. This year has brought some changes. Owen referred to his baby sister as "Illy" last year, but sometime over the last 12 months, he has improved his ability to pronounce his L's, and he is now calling her "Lily". That was a little bit sad for me to be honest. I loved hearing him say "Illy". Another change this year is that Lily's baby sister, Ainsley, was born so she enjoyed the festivities for the first time. Lily's cousin, Quinn, is always fun for me to be around because he is an every-present reminder to me of Lily. Lily would be exactly the same age, and doing many of the same things. This time last year, Quinn wasn't yet walking. He had just started sitting up, and I remember propping him up in the wagon for a ride. This year, he was walking, running, and riding along with the big kids. What a difference a year makes! Tonight, as I reflected on the events of last night, I saw a beautiful rainbow in the sky. I have talked before about the significance of rainbows as they relate to our youngest child, Ainsley. She is my "rainbow baby", my peace and hope after the devastation and the storm. I felt grateful for this obvious reminder of God's faithfulness, and it couldn't have come at a more fitting time. God's timing is perfect; He's been with me every step of the way, and has never left my side.

Memorial Day Memories

So, the hardest part about waiting so long between posts is not knowing where to start. This week marks the 2nd anniversary of that life changing sonogram and diagnosis. This anniversary certainly stirs up all of those feelings of grief that really have never gone away, but were residing quietly in my memory and in my heart. I can so clearly remember the denial and shock that I felt those days leading up to Memorial Day weekend 2 years ago as the unbelievable medical facts and statistics were thrown at me. Looking back on that time, I can vividly remember my tears all the way home from the first sonogram, during which we didn't really learn anything, but I had a suspicion that things were not as they should have been. I remember avoiding the texts and calls from my family who were excitedly waiting to hear if we were team pink or team blue. I remember waiting for the phone to ring to hear some confirmation that things really were just fine, that our sonogram tech was just having an off day and overreacted. I remember the uncontrollable sobs that shook me to my core and scared my then less than 2 year old son when that call finally came. I remember him looking at me with such confusion and fear. I remember the drive to Annapolis less than 24 hours later. We got pulled over for speeding, and the officer made some joke about the beach being in the opposite direction implying that we were going the wrong way. My husband told him that we were headed to a doctor's appointment, and when the officer looked over to see my swollen belly with a tissue box in my lap, and a sea of wet tissues covering the floor of the car, he looked at us with pity and graciously let us go with a warning. How I wish we were headed to the beach that day to enjoy some fun in the sun without a care in the world. I remember preparing myself to hear that our baby girl had Down Syndrome, as if that would be the worst news ever. I remember meeting with the genetic specialist who had on a pretty necklace and was so calm and nice. I very clearly remember seeing the framed pictures of her two beautiful children on her desk, wondering what my two children would look like posed next to each other for a picture since my daughter might have Down Syndrome. I still didn't get it. My two children would never meet. I remember using the last tissue from her box to soak up my neverending tears. I felt like the walls of the room were closing in on me as I looked at charts of chromosomes that took me back to high school biology. I remember wondering if maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe they got me mixed up with someone else. When I was growing up, there was another child who shared my same first and last name and even the same middle initial. My mother told me that our medical information had gotten mixed up once as we both had the same pediatrician. I think one of us even got the wrong immunization one time as a result of the mix up. Maybe the same thing was happening here. Maybe there was another Wendy in the waiting room carrying a baby who seemed likely to have Trisomy 13 or 18 because my baby was supposed to have Down Syndrome, which at least was compatible with life. I was in such denial about the reality of our situation that I thought we would still be leaving the next day for a weekend family getaway full of laughs and happy memories. I think amid my shock, I even asked the genetic specialist if we could still go, like she was my mom and I needed permission. She was so sweet. She didn't look at me like I had lost my mind, which clearly, she could have. She gently reminded me of some of the reasons why that may not be a good idea as I was expected to have severe cramping and discomfort from the amnio and was instructed to not do a lot of walking. The other obvious reason to not go was that we were planning to go to Sesame Place, which naturally, would have been filled with beautiful happy children, babies, and possibly, pregnant women. That would have been like torturing myself. Needless to say, we postponed our trip. I spent the weekend flooding myself with information, reading websites and blogs, emailing other Trisomy moms, crying more than I have ever cried, and waiting.... It's kind of crazy how vivid these memories and feelings still are 2 years later. Last year we planted Lily's memorial garden over the Memorial Day weekend. It's neat to see how her garden has grown and evolved over the last year. Some things have grown so much that I want to move a couple of things around and divide some plants that have really taken off. I'll probably spend some time doing that this weekend in preparation for her "birthday party". Last year, we celebrated Lily by hosting a balloon release and having birthday cake outside by her garden on June 6, the one year anniversary. It was a very touching evening for us. This is something we plan on doing each year. All three of our children have been born within 1 month of each other, so we are planning to spend some time this weekend preparing to celebrate each of them on their birthdays. Lily's birthday kicks off the summer birthday celebrations- we will celebrate her for the second year on June 6, our youngest, Ainsley, for the first year on June 18, and their older brother, Owen, for the fourth year on July 3. Just like most mothers, as we celebrate, I will be reminded of each of their birth stories as well as the precious time spent with each of them in my womb leading up to the first time I laid my eyes on them and held them in my arms, on the days of their births.