The hole she left

I've been watching the show Doctor Who on Netflix.  A couple days ago, I was watching the episode "The Doctor's Daughter."  The Doctor and company had ended up on a planet where they were immediately taken captive and the Doctor's hand was shoved into a machine where a tissue sample was taken, his DNA was recombined, and a woman was made from it.  One of the Doctor's companions joked with him about "daddy shock" resulting in sudden unexpected fatherhood.  He then explained to her that he had been a father before, but like his planet and race, they were gone now, casualties of the great Time War.  And then he said, "When I look at her, I see the holes they left and the pain that filled them."

I loved that line because it resonated so much.  Whenever someone makes a comment that insinuates that since I have had three healthy children since Cora's death I should somehow be "better" or that grieving somehow means I'm not grateful for those three, this explains how it feels.

Whenever I look at them, I see the hole she left and that pain that filled it.  Whenever I watch them play, hug, hold hands, or even fight, I see what is missing.

It's like seeing a ghost almost.  I can see in my mind where she would fit.  I can't help but imagine what she would do and what she would say, who she would be.

I find so much immense joy in my children.  I love every small moment with them.


But when I look at them, I see the hole she left and the pain that filled it.

Anniversary & Father's Day

Friday, June 17, 2005, Matt and I were married.  It was one of the happiest days of my life.

Saturday, June 17, 2006, we spread Cora's ashes on the water of Jenny Lake in the Grand Teton Mountains.  It was one of the saddest days of my life.

Interesting how so much can change in a year.  The day after we spread Cora's ashes was Father's Day, of course.  But how do you celebrate the father who can't hold his child in his arms?  We'd also planned on having Cora blessed in our church that day.  It was really hard.  I've never been able to tell if it was harder for me or Matt though.

So today it's my anniversary AND Father's Day, and I can't help but thinking of what it should have been.  We've had 7 great years and have 3 healthy, living children, and I'm missing the one we don't have something fierce.

How Great Thou Art

I've been watching the show "Duets" lately, and this last week's episode was "Songs That Inspire."  John Glosson chose "How Great Thou Art" in dedication to his family.  His older brother died of leukemia the day after his mother found out she was pregnant with him.  Listening to him talk about his brother that he never got to know...I really hope that Erin has that connection to Cora when she's older.  I hope she never truly understands what it was like for me when her sister died, but I hope that as she comes to understand what death really means that she will still feel the connection she seems to have now.  And that Patrick and Allison will grow to have that too.

Because as long as we remember she's never truly gone.

Butterflies and rainbows

Unlike last year, we had good weather for Cora's birthday this year, so we were able to release her butterflies on her birthday.

and the place we went to dinner was next to a Build-a-bear, so Erin decided we needed to go stuff a bear for Cora.  And she chose a rainbow bear.  A rainbow bear stuffed with love by her rainbow siblings.

I love that Erin has such an attachment to her sister that she's never met.

Dear Cora,

I can't believe it's been 6 years.  Who would you be today?  It's hard not to try to imagine you here with me, my life as it should have been.  I wish I could know what you would have been asking for this year.  Would you be a girly-girl, all ponies, princesses and dolls?  Or would you be a rough-and-tumble tomboy?

I miss you.  More than any words can say.  You have a part of my heart that nothing else can take.  There isn't a day that you don't pass into my thoughts, some way, some how.  I wish I could care for you like I do your siblings, and get comments about you from strangers.  Your hair would be a hit, I just know it.

I love you darling girl. Happy birthday.

Love, Mommy

If Only I'd Known.

I have often regretted not going to the hospital Cora's last night, when I was at work and a coworker offered to take my place so I could go in because I told her I felt "off."  Especially after looking at the ultrasound from 23 weeks and it becoming painfully obvious that her cord was around her neck then.

I've often told myself that "if only I'd known" about her cord placement, I might have gone in and maybe they would have seen her distress and could have saved her.

But in thinking about it today, the anniversary of the day we confirmed she was no longer living, I realized something.  I was thinking about the last movement I remembered, a long stretch into my ribs that prompted me to ask her not to hurt me, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was the last I remembered because it was the last.  If that is the case, then even if I had gone to the hospital then, it would have been too late.

This actually gives me peace, even though some might think it would do the opposite.  It means that my inaction didn't alter the outcome.  

I still hurt immensely for her.  I miss her today of all days, as I relive the trauma of the doctor's awful words "her heart's not beating," and that still image that is seared into my mind.  But it gives me some peace.

So many emotions

I've had an extremely busy couple of days.  Too much to really feel anything, but now that it's calming, it's all crowding around in my head.

Yesterday we went to help a friend move in to her new house.  She works with my husband, and she invited another coworker who brought her daughter.  Her daughter Cora.

Matt had the gracious foresight to warn me, so meeting her wasn't too bad.  And she's 12, nowhere near my Cora's would-be age.  No, the hard part was hearing Erin and Patrick running around yelling to her, coming back and telling me how much fun they were having with her, how much they liked Cora.  I miss having that name used like that in my house.  It's weird to say I "miss" it too, because I never got to experience it in the first place, but there isn't really a word for how I feel about it.  I hate that Cora is more of an abstract concept than an actual person in my home.


And today is an anniversary of my greatest regret, possibly.  I was thrown a small baby shower by 3 of my friends, it was just the four of us, but it was nice.  Someone asked me how I was feeling, and I said "I almost don't care about the baby anymore, I just don't want to pregnant and sick anymore."

Cora died the next night.