Friday, December 19, 2014

Dear William

Dear William:

Today is an important day for me and your mom. Today would have been your big sister's first birthday. It's also the first day on the calendar where we've never gone to bed expecting a baby. We don't know what it's like to be expecting on December 20th, or Christmas, or New Year's Day, or Valentine's day.

It's all a big unknown right now. But we couldn't be happier that you're here for this journey.

I am going to make a leap of faith and fast forward through time a little bit. To a time where you're with us, happy, young, curious.

I expect that you'll be especially curious about December 19th. Who is this person we celebrate every year, who we say is your sister, that you'll never actually have the chance to meet? In a couple of years, you might become familiar with the concept of our family including Anya. In a few more, you may vaguely understand the concept of death. But you probably won't really, truly understand what December 19th means to us until much later.

By that time, I expect that what December 19th means to us will have evolved from what it is today, on the first anniversary. So I am writing to tell you what it means to me, at age 29, right now.

To be completely honest, today is a day that I have dreaded for the past week. It's incredible just how vivid the memories of December 18 and 19, 2013 still are. More than anything, I remember the moment where - probably almost a year ago to the minute, as I write this -  a doctor walked into my waiting room in the ER. I asked him if Anya was okay. And he shook his head. I asked if she had died. He nodded. And I fell apart.

Today is a day to pause and remember that. How low I felt. How terrible the world was that day. It's also a day to pause and reflect on how much I've been able to heal. To appreciate all of the love that our friends and family have given us, and all of the help we received in this dark time.

Finally, it's also a day that we appreciate all of the love that your sister has brought to the world. She made me a dad. She brought me and your mom closer together. She helped renew and strengthen friendships.

She would have loved you, William. I would have loved for her to be your guide, your friend, your defender. I am sorry that she won't have that chance. I hope that you can find a place for her in your heart regardless.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Being There

Below is a post that I had written over the summer, but never ended up publishing (until now). A big part of this journey for me has been accepting (or trying to accept) my own limitations. It's a bit difficult to share, but I feel it's important to acknowledge the difficult parts.

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August 11, 2014

Grief has taken a lot out of both of me and Kayleigh. For the vast majority of the time, though, when one of us was having a weak moment, the other was there to comfort, and vice-versa. In a perfect world, we would always be able to balance each other out in this way.

But there are times when emotional exhaustion has had the better of me. It happened once last week, where I had to say "I'm sorry, I really can't help you right now". I felt I didn't have the capacity to deal with the anxiety that comes with the fears and tears.

Then I caught myself, and I thought "wait. I can't help my wife right now? When she needs me? This difficult stuff is part of the job that I signed up for - the good and the bad". Then came the guilt. And a bit of fear that maybe I wasn't deserving of all her love, while I stood there unable to give her what she needed.

As I started explaining to her why I felt I wasn't able to help - along with the self-loathing that came with it - she thanked me.

That surprised me. For the most part, I would've said I understood our love very well. I hadn't understood until then, though, that love can mean realizing that your partner may not be able to give you everything you need - and being okay with it.



Monday, December 1, 2014

Hello December

It's December again. It almost feels like we've been living in December for the past year.

This month of course, on the 19th, we'll celebrate Anya's first birthday.

I'd be lying if I said that approaching this milestone hadn't already been a challenge. Everything about December, about the holidays, reminds us of Anya. Putting up our Christmas tree. Going to work parties. It's too easy to remember what we were doing exactly one year ago. Those last few weeks where everything was so... normal. 

If you had asked me at this time last year what the next twelve months had in store for us.. this current reality would not have been one that I could have pictured. Some possibilities are too sad to really consider.

Yet here we are, almost a full twelve months after Anya left us, and we have a surprising amount of things to be grateful about. Kayleigh and I have had some of the worst moments we could possibly face, but we've faced them together. We've weathered the storm (if not all of it, then hopefully the worst of it). And we're still here, stronger than ever. We've also been lucky to have the support we've received from our family, friends and work colleagues.  

We're also incredibly lucky to have William. Our son. He won't be joining us for another three months, but there's no doubt that his presence - and his flurry of kicks -  has made us much more hopeful about the future. In that other reality, he may not have joined us for another few years. 

All that to say, December feels bittersweet. It's a month of sadness, and a month of hope. It will forever be Anya's month. When I think about her legacy, it is not measured in tears, but in how much love she brought to our world. How much she made us appreciate the people around us. 

Anya, we hope to be better parents to your little brother because of you.We're going to tackle December thinking of you. We're going to be sad. But we'll remain forever thankful for having the chance to have you.