love notes

IMG_5363my sweet, darling girl- how much we love you, how much we hold you and walk with you – it fills my heart, to the brim, spilling over sometimes, in tears, in hugs for your brothers, for you. i love you, sweet girl, my daughter, my darling, my love. together, my girl.

all the words of love and love are sometimes not even close to enough


This love

Sometimes, I all want to say is I love you.Nora

I love you, little girl. I love that I have a daughter. I love that you were so brave to grow inside me. I love that I felt you, that I grew with you. I love that we labored together, that I birthed you. I love that the whole time, you were showing me how, guiding my body, being one with my heart.

I love that we had peace, that it was in our home and on our time. I love that we figured out what we needed.

I love that I looked so beautiful with you inside. I had the most beautiful round belly.

I love that euphoria I felt when I first realized I was pregnant with you. I love that we did get those first 12 weeks were everything was a miracle, everything was perfect. I do love those moments of no fear, no tears, no pain.

I love that these days, almost 7 months later, the world looks so different. Everything brings me close to you. I love that I am so much closer to my essence because of you.

There is a lot I don’t love. I don’t love that your body was not what we expected, and that it didn’t let you stay on. Although I do love that you had a body, even for the shortest time, that I got to know how real you are.

I love that I feel: love, pain, loneliness, longing, bursts of joy, sharp incandescent pain. I love that you are real.

I may sound like a fool.

In fact, I think I most probably actually do.

But sometimes, I talk so much about the journey, about all that I had to let go.

Today, I just want to talk about how much I love you. About how my life is better because of you.

I love that now, again, I write. Before, when I was young and free of people that loved me more because I am mom, before, when it was just me being 20 and so immersed in my own head, I wrote. Intellectual rumblings, flashes of aesthetic genius, falling in love with myself, critiquing every coma, debating every change of paragraph, spiralling into self absorption in a way that at 20 and in New York is wonderful and important.

Now again, because of you, I write. There is no genius, no critique. It is just words that gush from my heart like rivulets of blood. This blood is life, our life, yours and mine, now and forever one life. Blood that keeps me alive, and though me, you. Blood that because you lived, now carries tiny cellular molecules from your body, changing mine.

All this silliness to say,


i love you



ImageI am sad to see 2013 go. I wanted to dig in my heals and refuse to accept a different year. 2014 didn’t see Luna alive, didn’t hold her and have her. She lived in 2013. The year started as Luna was becoming, as her magnificent billions of cells started to be her.

So I am going to do a 365 photography project.

Luna brought me to Beryl and Bella, who gifted me photography, and let me see Luna all around me.

I hope this project is a way for me to be present, to see the beauty around me. To see.

I’ll do 2014, but I’ll hold on to 365.



Feliz navidad, mi amor.

We were so prepared. I thought it would hurt, so we made christmas ornaments for you. The 21st was the winter solstice, and six months since you were born. Then three days later, wham!, christmas. We prepared, with crafts and pictures, and as always, talking of you. Friends throughout, with broken hearts and missing babies of their own, we held each other and remembered our little ones together.

But all the moments and the required merriment and the hurt treaded through me with heavy marching steps.

Your godmother, she gave me a gift. It is a little half moon, some kind of colored rock that speaks of you. She gave me a hug and a kiss, and I left tears on her shoulder. Tears of missing you, and of thanking her- so much – for remembering you with us.

And you dad, my darling girl, he saved christmas. He got your brothers a guitar and a ukelele, and he spent these mean christmasy days playing and singing for us. Melancholy, fun, and full of love for the lot of us. He also cleaned and cooked and picked my clothes up off the floor. He took care of us. I made cookies and your dad made christmas be ok.

He sees me

A friend, a sister, introduced me to digital artist Christian Schloe. Maybe he is a bereaved mama too…

Because this is how i feel:



And this is what I dream of:

Christian Schloe 4

My voice and difference

Carly Marie wrote this beautiful and oh so powerful article at Still Standing Magazine. It struck me deeply, I have been thinking about it since I read it. Parts of it I am struggling with, parts of it I still don’t understand. I’m not sure if the article made me feel liberated or stuck. Maybe it didn’t make me feel either, maybe it was thought provoking but it was about her – her voice and the way she is different.


Carly hears her precious Christian whispering, “Let me go, Mama.” That part sent me spinning down into greyness. Coincidentally (or not) the very day Carly wrote that I had been to see my ethiotherapist, that beautiful woman who works with kinesiology and Chinese Medicine and tends to kick my butt. She mentioned that I had to let Luna go. That love, real, good and generous love sets us free, doesn’t try to tie the beloved down, but gives her wings, lets her spread her wings and sets her free. Screw real love, my baby died.

What is this letting go people speak of? Is it about writing less, grieving less, forgetting more? Is it about saying I have two kids instead of three? Is it about admitting I don’t know where the heck her little spirit is, as much as I want it to be in my heart? Is it about accepting that I don’t dream of Luna that much and maybe I won’t and I shouldn’t wish it because she needs to be free? Screw it, my baby died.

I am her mother and she is dead. How much more can I let go? Maybe Luna died but I never did let go. I didn’t “let her” die, she just did. But I am her mother, it is in my nature to want to hold on to her, to always be here for her. Oh, those two things are different. I can let her go and always be here when she needs to come to me. It is just too hard to comprehend the middle ground when it involves my dead child. My living children, I somewhat get it: they go off, do their thing, when they need mamá, here I am. How does that go, exactly, with death? Maybe I’ll know when I’m there. Which is not now. Because even when I think I didn’t wake up thinking of Luna, I realize I had her in my thoughts all along, just not in words. And from where I stand, I think if that didn’t happen I would be so sad and so so lost.

And as for angels and rainbow babies? The term angel, it’s just not for me. My baby was a girl, a person. she didn’t “get her wings” and she is not with god. Mostly because I don’t personally believe in god, and if even if I did I might still want my own daughter to be a person and stick around. I liked a bereavement page on facebook at one point, until someone posted a picture of Jesus (the really good looking, sexy bearded Jesus that is as close to conversion as I ever get) receiving a baby. The caption was about Jesus taking the baby and loving him in heaven or some such. It broke my heart to pieces, this Jesus adopting a baby that died, a baby that belonged to broken parents. Like the image of a downcast mother handing her bundled up dead babe to an angel, who takes the baby in her arms and will care for her. My atheist mind wants to scream, get your own damn babies! But this is my own rambling, the real point is, as Carly said, calling our babies angles makes them not dead people, which is what they are: real human babies that died, which is terribly unfair and terribly sad and it just happens all the time. I think this idea is important, that calling our dead babies angels dehumanises them. But the real bottom line is, I think, your baby died, if you want to call him an angel, by all means, much love to your little angel. And I will call your baby an angel myself and tell you that at least you have your own little angel looking down at you from heaven (which got said to me, with love and very nice intentions, but I did not much like). Which I guess, at the end of the day, is the real point: our babies are dead, there is no right way to talk about it, no standard words that will make us feel good because our babies died and no matter what you call them it just sucks.

Rainbows? I like the term rainbow. Not everyone gets a rainbow. Yes, I know. We have also been generously gifted by the infertility fairy. Something I don’t talk about too much, but it’s real enough to mean that we might not get a rainbow. It’s still a cute term, though. A little rainbow baby? How cute is that?! Even if you don’t get your own, it doesn’t negate the cuteness. I guess that means Luna was my storm baby. She might well have been one of those powerful tropical storms, with that sweet clear smell that means rain is brewing in the air, then the clouds are so powerfully grey, they are dense and enveloping. And then the rain. The air is still a little warm, but your body is soaked through. And you want to walk and run in this rain, because it is so different and so strong and you just feel so much. It’s breaking you in pieces and you will never feel the warmth of that day, you lost your chance and you will not feel the warm rays of the sun kiss your skin. There will be less kisses, kisses you were oh so very much looking forward to sharing. When the storm passes, everything has changed, your body feels different, and it seems impossible that you will ever be dry again. Getting dry is a humongous effort that sometimes seems too great to undertake. That moment, that powerful moment of being soaked and standing in the rain and feeling it all come down, where everything you hoped for and planned for is taken away and the strength of it all is so much bigger than you… that is real. And on days where the emptiness is deafening, I like to remember just how much I felt, how real it was, to be soaked. When my arms are so empty and there is no sign, no whisper, I like to remember how much I felt during the rain.

I guess that makes my older boys my sunshine children. In a way they are. They are from a time when I didn’t realize how blissfully ignorant I was of how things could turn. From days when big worries were laughable.

I don’t like the terminology. We label ourselves too much. Especially our children. The last thing they need is to grow up with another label attached, defining them, telling them who they are and what is expected of them. They are just children, free to be whomever they are. But sometimes, I do like to get away with dreaming of a little rainbow. Because a rainbow baby, it is just so cute!

As for having deeper conversations that go beyond “I miss my baby”… maybe I’m not ready for that. Maybe time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it transforms. Maybe that’s a good thing, for how long can a heart bleed bleed bleed without emptying out?

I am so happy that Carly was brave enough to start this discussion. I am amazed that we have been talking about this – death and religion and our own children – with so much respect and care. I wish I had never had to know of its existence, but how glad I am for this community of shared love and support! Our babies’ love does some amazing things…

Help when it hurts

Last night was tough. I cried. Those moments of pain that take you by storm. That go through you with no mercy. And like with contractions, the only way that I can let it work for me is if I lose myself in the tide. If I let it take me and shake me and spit me out from time to time.

It was that kind of crying. Where my throat closes up and the tears are like acid in my eyes.

I had been looking for comfort. Not comfort for my pain, but company fr my heart. Sometimes in this company I find my daughter. I feel like I see new things of her, like I get things that I didn’t have before. Like we discovered a new game or took a new picture. O maybe it feels like when I sit and peruse my other kids’ baby pictures. My sons that are alive and growing. Sometimes when they’re asleep I look through their baby pictures and it’s so sweet to revisit their baby faces, to remember such lively moments I had forgotten. These photos are ours, so very ours, and they are little presents, gifts of our love.

I go online to find baby pictures of Luna, captured moments of us that I may have forgotten. Of course, the internet doesn’t have that. But it does have other moms and other babies and other stories of love. These will have to do. And they do feel like a moment for Luna and me to reminisce, to be surprised about how beautiful we were and how happy we looked and how much, much love there is.

Two beautifully heart wrenching blogs helped me last night. I cried with them. And I learned from them. And they gave me so, so much. Thank you, onceamother, and thank you, Catherine W, you are an amazing writer.

So thank you, sisters in grief and love, for sharing, for giving me a place to grab, something to hold on to when the need for my baby is so great and there is so little to touch.

And then, this morning, I had a little message awaiting me from my Secret Santa. The beautifully kind Eileen had finished our gift last night, and she had been thinking of Luna too. What a lucky girl, to have such outpouring of love from so many generous hearts.