And so, like that, Christmas has come and gone. I am on one hand relieved it's over. I think it's true, as some have said, that the anticipation of anniversaries and significant days is worse than the actual event. While I dreaded the day coming, I was able to find some moments of levity, laughter and comfort in it all. Tim's dad sent a beautiful, serene painting he did, dedicated to the memory of Isla, it choked everyone around the tree up when we opened it. It was a beautiful gesture, and really thoughtful of him. He did an identical one, with the same inscription, that is hanging in the dialysis unit where he has his treatments. Amazing. I'm touched more than I thought I would have been by this. We have been so lucky to have supportive friends and family through all of this. I hear/read stories about families who tell the bereaved parents to "suck it up" "get over it" or put their "chin up", and it just astounds me. Do they think a pet died? Or that someone has moved away? Their CHILD died. A person. No less significant than yourself. A human being! How can they possibly just 'get over it'? I am shocked that the topic of a baby that has died can be taboo around a family gathering. I have always felt comfortable talking about Isla, to anyone, especially her family. Even though I am often the one to bring it up, no one has ever tried to change the subject (I would be so very insulted by this), or told me not to talk about it because it upsets someone. I feel so sad for the parents who are not encouraged, and even forbidden to talk about their baby's death. How absolutely tragic. I feel like that should be the one place you can turn for comfort, memories, sharing grief, and these parents cannot. They have nowhere to turn, and my heart breaks for them. I could not imagine Isla being a 'taboo' subject. She's a person. No less worthy of discussion in her honour, in laughter or tears. She is a family member. Not a disease or a mistake.
Christmas itself was as good as I could have expected it to be. There were moments of mild chaos (what Christmas would be complete without that though, really?) where I felt I needed to excuse myself periodically. There were moments of fun; we played games, reminisced about Christmases past. We thought sadly about what 'would have been', had Isla lived. That she'd have been dressed in a beautiful holiday dress, buckle shoes and tights. A little red bow in her hair. She'd have sat at the table with us, and entertained us all with her 3 month old antics. It was quieter than it should have been, even with Evan's electric guitar blaring away... How can a home that's never been graced with the presence of a missing family member feel quieter than before they were even born? Yet it did. Though Isla never came home, her absence was palpable. We missed her like crazy, and knew exactly all the wonderful things she'd have been doing. It would have been perfect with her there, and I don't think I'm romanticizing or idealizing one bit.

I've been visiting a website/message board for bereaved parents. Mostly moms, but some dads, which is nice. One mom went into her older child's bedroom when she was sleeping, and placed her palm on the child's chest, and felt the heartbeat...it was a beautiful feeling to her, one that she'd never stopped to appreciate before, yet such a precious thing. I can relate to this new gratitude for something so seemingly insignificant. Last week, I went into Evan's room when he was sleeping, and bent down near his bed, and just watched him breathe. I listened to the gentle, even inhaling, and exhaling of breath from his sweet little mouth, and watched his chest softly rise and fall. His skin and lips were pink and rosy, with life flowing through him.
Something so trivial, that most would not think twice about has become a sacred thing for me. The simple fact that my son's chest rises and falls with life is a gift beyond which I can be grateful for. I held my daughter while she died, never to take a single, sweet breath on her own. I see the gift in Evan that is life, and I treasure it like nothing else. If it is true that grief is a cleansing of the non-essential of one's life, then that has never been more apparent than here. I have never stopped to appreciate the sacredness of the fact that I have created life, from my own self. That a separate entity thrives, and craves life solely because of me. Watching this part of me live and grow and 'become' is nearly more than I can bear sometimes. What a gift my little son is. I love him more deeply, more fiercely than I ever thought possible. I am glad to know that the maternal ties between us are as strong as they are, but saddened for the reason I must discover this. Perhaps this is one of the 'gifts' Isla brings. A tangible appreciation for that which I cannot put a price on. A 'thing' that is not really a 'thing' at all, but rather a whom. There is no replacing a loved one, once they've gone. And I am learning every day, every hour, to hold dear that which I cherish the most. My family, the people I love, are more important than any 'thing' will ever be. I must continue to try not to get caught up in competitions of affluence and greed. I want my son to know that the best things in life are not things at all, but rather, the people we share our lives with. The loved ones, family and friends who enrich our lives, and give us joy and laughter, share our tears and tragedies. This is the rich meaningful stuff fulfilled lives are made of. That is what must fill that hollow nagging 'need' that exists in so many people's lives. It is meaningful relationships that make meaningful existences. The most special joys in life are much more special when shared, and the tragedies, more bearable when the weight is distributed among many. When George Carlin lost his wife, he wrote the following commentary, and I've revisited it often, and find it resonating with me more and more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
by: George Carlin
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but
shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more,
but have less; we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and
smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees
but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more
problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little,
drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too
little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our
possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and
hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to
life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but
have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer
space but not inner space.

We've done larger things, but not better things. We've cleaned up the air,
but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice.

We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less.

We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold
more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less
and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small
character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of
two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes.

These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one
night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer,
to quiet, to kill.

It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the
stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time
when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going
to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to
you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your
side.

Remember to give a warm hug to the one next to you because that is the only
treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent. Remember,
to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all
mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep
inside of you. Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday
that person will not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak
and give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I firmly believe that we would be a much happier, healthier society if we just reached out more, and allowed ourselves to be reached out to, instead of isolating ourselves in bubbles, unwilling to take chances, extend a hand to a stranger, put an arm around a hurting friend. We are a society full of fear of nearly everything: weirdos on buses, old people who may want to talk too long in the grocery aisle, bratty kids and their negligent parents....lots of people we'd rather not bother with. So we often end up alone, isolating ourselves from everyone. It can be a really lonely world sometimes, and the worst part is, it doesn't have to be. We bring it entirely upon ourselves. Life could be so much more fulfilling, if we just let down our guards, and allowed ourselves to love, and be loved.
So many people (myself absolutely included) spend a lot of time and money searching to fill a niche that cannot be filled with junk from Wal-Mart, or food from McDonalds. There is a hunger that is for human companionship, relationships, and community, that is insatiable by other means. As a society, we keep trying to 'better' everything... have more, make more, use more.. more, more, more. I think actually, that the answer is less. Less stuff, less crap, less distractions in life preventing us from achieving true happiness, which I believe, is to be found in loving, fulfilling, meaningful relationships with others. It's not a big house with fancy furniture. It's a young child, climbing into your lap, telling you you're his "best mom"... you cannot buy that kind of pride and happiness. It's not a shiny car, or fine china... it's holding hands on a walk with a little boy who thinks the world of you, and vice versa. It's shedding a tear for a part of your life that's gone forever, that you miss, and ache for, because it meant so much. It has nothing at all to do with money or wealth. And though I am glad to know this, and know it well, I am sad for the reason I must know it.

I miss you so much sweet baby Isla. You would have changed the world, even more than you already have. I love you more every day. Thank you for being my baby girl, you are so very special to me.
xoxo Mom.