Ainsley's Home Birth - Finding the Sun

When we got married, I said I wanted to have four kids. I think Edgar thought I would change my mind. After 12 years of marriage, he now knows better - some may call it stubbornness but I prefer to think of it as stoic determination. :) Even after our first three children were born, I always felt like our family was missing someone. I was right. (Something else my husband has learned a thing or two about in the past 12 years. LOL!) Here is the story as I wrote it just before Ainsley's First Birthday this past January. Warning: there are some details that some might consider fairly graphic. If you've ever been at a birth at all, you should be just fine!

Dear Ainsley,

I have wanted to record the story of your birth since the very moment you entered our world. I wanted so badly to record every single thought and memory I had and I knew if I didn’t do it soon afterwards, many of those memories could be lost. So I wanted to do it soon, but it just didn’t work out that way.

Instead, it is almost 12:30am on April 2 and in just 4 days, you will be three months old. You’re sleeping on the floor and the house is quiet, so I thought I should take advantage of this opportunity to put it into writing.

I suppose I should start at the beginning, back when we found out you would be joining our family. It had only been about 5 months since my dad died, and I was really struggling to find my way in a world where he no longer existed. As you grow, I will teach you everything I can about your “Papa T” and so I am confident you will have a full understanding of the impact his death had on me. It is a loss I know I will never heal from, and those first few months after he died were especially hard for me. I struggled to be the mother and wife I wanted to be, and the daughter and “successor trustee” I wanted to be. I began to learn all kinds of legal things and waded my way through logistics and paperwork I never wanted to deal with. I got my insurance licenses so I could carry on with my dad’s business, but I never felt as though I was finding the right path.

Then, the Saturday night before Mother’s Day of that year, I posted on an internet board about some strange symptoms I was having. I even joked that if I were reading about someone else, I might suspect they were pregnant. A woman on that board named Nicole has become pretty well-known in our internet community for being able to see into the future, so when she suggested I get a pregnancy test I took her at her word. I got one and took it that night, and couldn’t believe it when I saw the result.

Instantly, I believed with all my heart that you had been sent here by my dad, to help me heal my pain and to help me find my way once again. One day just a few weeks later I felt a calmness come over me and I just knew in that moment that this pregnancy would be ok, that you would be ok, and that your birth would serve a great purpose in my life. I made the decision to sell my dad’s insurance agency, knowing he was trying to help me get back to the life I had before he died. I also felt strongly that you would be a girl, because my dad loved his little girls and he would know how desperately I wanted a second daughter.

Spiritually, the pregnancy with you was a life-changing and transforming positive event. Physically, I struggled through those first few months just as I had in the past. Through days at the pool, a trip to the ADPi Grand Convention in Orlando, and a week at Walt Disney World on a family vacation, I dealt with morning sickness. I tried everything imaginable to cope including ginger, homeopathic remedies, acupuncture, and finally a prescription medication. In the end, what helped the most was time and eventually it passed and I worked hard to enjoy the pregnancy.

In many ways, I think I was more conscious of enjoying that special time with you than I had been before. I expected this to be my last pregnancy, and it was a bit of a bonus one at that (not unplanned or unexpected - there is a difference!) and so I cherished each moment. I spent the second half of the pregnancy working to finalize the sale of the agency and hoping it would be wrapped up before you arrived. We almost made it, but not quite!

Early in the morning of January 5, I noticed I was starting to have contractions about 10 minutes apart. They were mild and reminded me somewhat of the latent labor I had experienced when Aidan was born. I couldn’t sleep and so I paced around the house and then finally sent a text message to Tammy at about 3:30am that I thought I might be in early labor. Because she is a teacher, I knew she needed plenty of notice in order to call in to work and drive down here in time. (Tammy lives in Lake in the Hills.) When your dad woke in the morning I told him I thought things were happening and we made the decision to keep Ethan and Elisabeth home from school. They had only just returned the day before after the Christmas break, and they were very excited that you were finally coming!

However, the contractions seemed to slow down after the business of the morning waking hours and by the time Tammy arrived around 9:30am, I thought it might all have been a “false alarm.” She decided to stay and see what happened, and we spent the day laying around just talking and resting. By that evening I was feeling restless to get out of the house, so Tammy and I went to Starbucks and then out to my grandma and grandpa Shanklin’s house.

Grandpa Shanklin was dying at home, having just been diagnosed on Jan. 1 with late-stage liver cancer. It was another transformational time in our family, and very spiritual to be waiting for your life and his death at the same time. He was still awake and alert that night, and he joked with me again about having not had the baby yet. While we were there, I noticed my contractions seemed to pick up again, and soon they were coming with some regularity.

We drove home (I drove, even though Tammy offered, but they weren’t that intense!) and at 8:55pm I realized it had only been 10 minutes since the last one. I watched the clock and sure enough, they started coming regularly every 10 minutes again. I could feel my adrenaline picking up and at some point we called the midwife to let her know what was happening. I labored in the family room for a while, and a little before 11pm decided to head upstairs and get in the bathtub.

The bathtub offered a lot of pain relief and helped me to relax, and I could tell the labor was intensifying. We called Brande again and asked her to come - no hurry but I wanted her to start making her way to the house. After I talked to her and knew she was on her way, it was like the floodgates opened and my body just barreled into the labor. I got out of the bathtub for a few minutes to use the toilet and quickly realized I was much better off in the water, so I got back in as soon as I could.

That was probably the moment I decided to birth you in the water, although it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part.

(coming back to write the rest many months later, now January 2, and unfortunately I doubt my memory is so clear. :( )

I began to feel very out of control during the contractions, and I wasn’t getting much of a chance to recover between them. They were coming fast and furious and I felt myself struggling more and more to stay on top of them. My friend (part doula, part photographer) Beth arrived and was able to perch herself over the bathtub and do the hip squeeze on me. It gave me so much relief but it was tricky to get into the right position with me in the tub, and I seem to recall that after a few contractions that way I didn’t feel it was helping as much. Brande and her assistant Penny arrived and there was a lot of activity out in the bedroom.

They were setting out the supplies for the birth - both those we had collected (plastic shower curtains, a crock pot for warm water, clean towels) and those that Brande brought with her. I remember thinking to myself that they were doing a lot of unnecessary prep work because I knew by then you were going to be born in the water, but I never said it out loud to anyone else. When the contractions came now, I felt an urge to push through them and so I did. After a few of them that way I told Beth that I was pushing and asked her to relay that to Brande... who of course had already heard me and knew what was happening. She came into the bathroom with these long plastic gloves that went up to her elbows and I knew we were getting close.

By now, I felt a sense of urgency to have you born and remembering a visualization/vocalization I had read in “Birthing from Within,” I started to moan in a low, loud, almost guttural voice “ooooouuuutttttt” during the contractions. It felt natural at the time, but as I look back now at the video of this I often cringe as it seems like I was angry and yelling at you to get out of my body. The reality is that in that moment, every primal instinct in my body was saying it was time for you to come out and the low, deep sound of my voice was a coping mechanism for those last few contractions. Finally, I felt you moving down and I pushed with everything I had - much harder than I remembered pushing for any of my births and on some level I kept wondering if I was even doing it right - when suddenly Brande said, “the head is out.”

I didn’t wait before giving another long, hard push and I felt your shoulders, then your arms, then your belly, knees, and finally your feet come rushing out of my body. I was on my hands and knees and Brande handed you to me back through my legs. I sat back on my thighs and looked up with you held tightly to my chest, saying “Thank you... thank you.” It was a prayer of gratitude to God that the labor and birth were over and that you were in my arms after so many years of waiting.

You were born at 12:50am on Wednesday, January 6, 2010.

Daddy was calling for the big kids to “come see” and there was general surprise and exhiliration in the air as everyone came to the realization that you were here, the baby was out. There was no rush to see if you were a boy or a girl, and it felt like minutes passed as I held you and just enjoyed the moment in its purity. Although it felt like a long time, the video shows it was just a short bit before I leaned you out away from my body and looked down to see if you were a boy or a girl. The umbilical cord was right between your legs and that combined with my deep-rooted desire for a girl made me unsure at first that I was even seeing it right, so I very tentatively announced, “it’s a girl!” to everyone there. When Brande came back in I asked her for confirmation but of course I knew. I had known all along, deep down I just knew and now holding you I couldn’t imagine that you could have ever been anything but. In that moment, I knew I had my little Ainsley girl that I had waited so long for.

After a few more minutes, I turned around to sit down in the tub and with that, the water suddenly turned a dark crimson red. I held you in the water and we put a towel over you and remarked at how perfect you were. We told everyone that your name was Ainsley, but we were still undecided about your middle names. The truth was we knew what they would be, we just hadn’t decided what order to put them in. Ironically, before she left Beth mentioned to me that the last song she remembered hearing on my iPod before you were born was the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.” That song had become such an anthem for our family and where we were in the grief process that I found myself smiling at the irony and at the same time, not at all surprised to hear it. Beth suggested we name you “Sol” or some other variation of “Sun or Sunshine” for a middle name, and I just smiled because I knew it was already decided.

I was nervous about delivering the placenta but about ten minutes later I stood up to get out of of the tub and before I could step out, gave a little push and out it came. Brande caught it and put it in an ice cream bucket we had lined with saran wrap and then she and Penny helped me walk to the bed. Once we were settled, Elisabeth cut your umbilical cord. I guess this means your birth was also a partial lotus birth... where the cord is not cut until the placenta is delivered. (To this day, your placenta is in our deep freezer and I smile every time I open the door and see it there.)

You were rooting around right from the start, and took to nursing like a true natural. I think you had nursed from one side to the next before we even got a chance to weigh you! One of my favorite parts of the home birth was getting to weigh you using the “fish scale” Brande had brought, although I was surprised when you came in at 6lb. 7oz... making you the second smallest baby when all through the pregnancy I had been so sure you would be the largest! We continued to take video and pictures and laugh and enjoy the moments. Brande and Penny did all the “usual” assessments on you and of course, everything looked great.

By 3am, everyone had gone home, our room and bathroom were cleaned up and back to normal, and the only sign of what had happened just two hours before was the beautiful baby girl cuddled in my arms.

In the days that followed, we had many interruptions to our “baby moon.” You had dangerously high bilirubin levels due to an ABO blood incompatibility and had to be admitted to the NICU in an emergency situation when you were just 48 hours old. Within hours, they were performing a complete exchange transfusion while your dad and I sat a few feet away, feeling helpless and scared and vulnerable. I lived with you in the hospital for 3 days and we were so grateful when you rebounded so quickly. At the time, it felt like one of my worst fears being realized to have to be there but in retrospect, of course it really wasn’t. It wasn’t the start I had hoped for and envisioned for your life, but it was just a bump and we got through it. You were admitted on Friday afternoon and you came home on Monday night. We were so lucky.

Two days later, just one hour short of you turning one week old, your great-grandpa Fred died in his sleep at home. Because you were born at home and the bilirubin issues didn’t manifest right away, we were able to take you to visit with him while he was still conscious and lucid and you were just 12 hours old. I took your picture with him, and I will treasure it always. By the time your hospital ordeal had ended and I could go visit him again, he was unconscious and slipping away from this world. The last time he and I talked together, it was so I could introduce you to him. Your connection runs so deep, I am sure of it. Born and died within a week of each other, both at home. His death and your birth both had so many lessons to teach us all about the circle of life and the importance of respecting and honoring those passages by allowing them to happen as our bodies and nature have both intended. When we made the decision to birth at home, I knew we had made a very spiritual choice but I couldn’t fully understand the impact of that until it all played out in our lives.

I learned so many lessons from your birth. I learned again that birth is a powerful force that cannot be summed up as one experience... it is the transformation of woman into mother, man into father, and bump into living, breathing being. I learned that I am even stronger than I thought I was, and that birth is even more beautiful when you leave it be and let it be. I learned there is a difference between a “natural” hospital birth and a home birth. I learned that we can feel very alone in this world, even when we are surrounded by people who love us... but that there is also great power in that loneliness and rather than fear it, we should embrace it and welcome it.

And I learned again that God does answer prayers. For years I had prayed to be blessed with another child if that was God’s plan for us. I didn’t pray for it, but deep in my soul I wished and longed for another daughter. And to this day, it absolutely takes my breath away that you are here. That I carried you, birthed you, and have the amazing honor of being your mother on this Earth. You have completed our family, and you are sent from heaven... sent by my dad, who won’t ever know you on Earth but does know and love you nevertheless, and sent by God who had planned it this way all along.

In just a few short days, you will turn one year old. The memories of your birth and the days that followed have already started to fade with time. But the intensity of your place in our family is secure and strong and our love for you continues to grow. We love you Ainsley Rose Sunshine!

Wow, how time flies

So, I'm blogging again.

There, I said it. I made it official and after I post this I'm going to let others know.

I'm making a commitment.

It's funny to see that it has been almost exactly two years since I last posted an entry. Ironically, it was Election Day that had inspired me that day and here I am, starting at another Election Day just around the corner. The first time we will elect a Mayor since my dad was re-elected four years ago.

Four years ago. How is that possible? For that matter, how have 2 years passed here?

Funny that I didn't seem to take my own advice. I know (and knew) that I needed to journal more. But doing it was just a commitment and let's be honest, I was in no place 2 years ago to commit to much. It's interesting to look back on those last few posts though and realize that although it seldom feels like it, I AM making progress on this crazy grief ride.

Oh, it's still a roller coaster. And this week has been full of some unexpected twists and turns. But I've felt my dad beside me through it all and when I doubted, he sent me little signs to remind me.

The major change in our life of course came in the form of sunshine... and the best kind of sunshine you could possibly get. Funny that I last posted about being so tired in the mornings... I didn't know it at the time, but of course there was a reason for that. Her name is Ainsley and she is my "rainbow" baby. (No offense intended to my friends who have lost babies as that term is generally reserved for them. In this case, I hope they'll understand my use of it.)

Had she been a boy, we had planned to name her Noah because she was the light after the storm. But the truth is, I always knew she was a girl. And it was a beautiful moment that cold January morning when she entered the world and proved me right. (More on Ainsley's birth to come in another post.)

In any case... here we are, back to another Election Day. Time moves on, whether we like it or not and whether we feel ready or not. I've been working on another person's campaign - someone I know my dad would support and feel very happy about. I find myself, these days, trying to maintain his legacy while foraging ahead with figuring out my own. Some days I find the balance. Others I don't. It's all ok.

I still miss my dad every single day. I am grateful for the people who have taken the time in the past few weeks - out of nowhere (and one of them was a stranger) to tell me they miss him too. They were worried about saying the words, didn't want to make me cry. Believe me, I'd rather shed a few tears and know I'm not alone. Some days, I still feel very alone.

I really am going to try to blog more. I've said it and committed to it, so there it is. I think I need it. And my life doesn't feel so stuck in grief anymore so I hope I can find interesting snippets to write about. We all have a "story" - and this is mine. Picked up from 2 years ago and moving forward. I think it's time.

Thanks for reading!

Shannon

Election Day

Today is election day in our city.

It also happens to be the first election since my dad died.

I expected to be a bit more emotional as I stepped into the polling booth, but this turned out to be one of those moments that you expect to be hard, but really isn't in reality. I'm sure it would have been different if he had been on the ballot of course, but today's election only represents what was to have been the half-way point in his term. 

Even so, my dad was so interested in this election and how it was going to change the face of our city council with three of the six seats up for election. He was so excited by the possibilities and some of the prospects of who he'd get to work with.

It's so hard to believe he isn't here to see it play out.

He did vote in the Presidential election last November. Interestingly, he decided to vote early one day after he got frustrated with a friend who was pushing him to vote for Obama. (He didn't, he went and voted for McCain.) At the time he told me, "you just never know... I might get busy and tied up with stuff on election day, at least this way I know I've voted."

His heart attack was Nov. 1, he was in the hospital on Election Day - but his vote counted.

It's hard to believe that it has been just a short two years since his own re-election as mayor. We worked so long and so hard on that campaign and for as long as I live, I will never forget the night he won. It didn't all end the way we had hoped, but I am eternally grateful that he was doing the job he loved when he died.

I will never look at a campaign sign or step into a voting booth again without thinking of my father.

But today, it felt really good to vote for the "next generation," so to speak... to vote for the people who are going to carry forward with the work my dad devoted so much of his life to. 

It was a small step, but it was a step forward.

Waiting for the Sun

Today is a better day.

The sun is shining and I slept until noon (with the kids right next to me playing the Wii on mute... LoL!) and now have a couple of windows open. It's amazing how fresh air can make you feel.

Sadly, the forecast for tomorrow does not look good for open windows... and so it goes again. Just when I start to feel like I'm getting somewhere, another setback.

It's as if the weather is a metaphor for grieving. Two steps forward, and then at least one and maybe three steps back. 

This winter has been for me - both literally and figuratively, the longest winter of my life.

My father had his heart attack and went in to the hospital on what was literally the last nice day we had before winter hit. When it came, it struck with a vengeance - taking our breath away with its fierceness.

We teased my dad about the change in weather and its correspondence to his hospitalization, and how he wasn't going to believe the difference when he got out. He hated winter, and we figured that at least this way he was missing out on having to deal with the time of year he so dreaded. We were trying to be optimistic, and still so full of hope.

We had no idea how much colder and darker the days were going to get.

As my dad's hospitalization passed through Thanksgiving and into December and then took its sudden turn for the worse, the weather also continued to only get worse. 

Appropriately enough, the sun was shining through a crisp, clear sky on the morning my dad passed away. We had waited through days of dreariness... told over and over again that we should "come right away" because the moment was near.

At least four times over the course of the 9 days he was in a medically-induced coma, we rushed to the hospital through the dreary clouds and wind.

But on the day the call was for real, the sun shone so brightly. It was so beautiful. And I thought to myself, "of course... I should have known. He was waiting for a day like today."

School was cancelled on the day of my dad's visitation a week later due to snow and ice, and things weren't much better by the funeral the next day. It made travel treacherous and even impossible for some. 

It matched my mood perfectly.

Even in that though, there are two things that stand out to me, comments made during the visitation that wove together the weather and my dad.

The ice storm that had hit overnight before the visitation had left everything in the city covered in a thin sheet of ice. Tree branches dripped frozen icicles and as the sun shone down, everything looked like it was covered in brilliant diamonds.

I knew that at any other time, I would think it was beautiful.

I don't remember who, but at the visitation someone told me that the icicles everywhere seemed to him as though our whole city was shrouded in tears for my father.

Beautiful.

Someone else said they couldn't help but think that as beautiful as the city looked that day... my dad *always* saw Pekin that way. He always saw the beauty and the good and thought it an almost magical place. 

He was right.

This winter has dragged on and sometimes I wonder if it's just my state of mind, but I know that even in a literal sense, it's been a bad one. A few weeks ago I took my kids to play in the sand at the lake near our house, last weekend six inches of snow were dumped on that sand.

My dad loved spring, and this year I can't help but feel it keeps eluding me. I need it, I need it more than I think I've ever needed it in my life. But a part of me is a little afraid too, because it will seem like such tangible proof that my dad is gone.

So I'm going to try to soak up the little teases I do get and continue to try to be patient waiting for the real spring to arrive and fervently hope it will bring with it some of the healing I am so desperate to feel.

My best friend, who happens to know a thing or two about grieving, suggested to me this past weekend that I should be journaling more.

I know she's right. But the thing about grief is that sometimes it's so exhausting just getting through the necessary "to-do" items for the day that it's hard to even entertain the idea of doing anything "extra," much less doing it.

Right now, anything "extra" in my world is defined as something that neither me nor my children is dependent upon for breathing and staying alive. Yes, that means my husband is kind of on his own!

We are heading into the four-month mark and there's something about this particular milestone. I remember reading it after Natalee had died, and trying to give Tammy ample warning. For some reason, I kind of forgot about it for myself until just recently.

The four-month phenomenon goes something like this: Four months have now passed since the death of your loved one. In that time, it's likely you've even gotten through the first significant holiday or other event without them. Other people who are close to you, but were not necessarily as close to the loved one, have moved on into their normal lives and are, on a subconscious level, anxious for you to do so as well. Certain behaviors, actions, and feelings that were ok in the weeks following the death are suddenly starting to seem odd. After all, it's been FOUR months.

A few weeks ago, a man I do not know wrote a very nice letter to the editor about my dad. The next morning I tried to read it to my kids - to illustrate to them another part of their grandfather's legacy - but could not get through the words without crying.

My 6-year old daughter, usually very sensitive and intuitive, said to me, "Isn't it about time we get moving on from this?"

I was stunned. Sometimes, as a parent, it's like a double-whammy in the grieving process and I guess that's something I don't feel some of family or friends really understand. In that moment, I needed to teach her about grieving - while dealing with my own. So I tried to explain to her that grief has no timeline and that it's ok if she's feeling better and not so sad, but I'm just not yet. And it's all ok. She immediately wanted to just drop the discussion, and was obviously remorseful she'd said anything at all. Now that's acting just like an adult.

Last week I attended the memorial service for my aunt, my dad's sister. When will I be able to get off this ride? She died March 19th, just about 3 months after my dad, after a brave battle with cancer. Her memorial service was beautiful and touching, but I don't think I've ever felt so emotionally removed from a situation that I should have been in touch with.

As I watched the video of pictures of her life play, my heart broke at seeing pictures of my dad. And my grandpa. And my grandma. And now my aunt. All such had such a huge presence in my childhood, in shaping me, in creating the person I am today. And all of them are gone. And I need and want them all HERE still. I felt like I was standing outside a window looking in at a life that couldn't possibly be mine. How is it possible to have everything I wanted in my life and still be so miserable and lonely?

I'm not in a good place right now, but there's really no place for that in daily life. When people ask how I'm doing I try to be honest but the truth is noone has time to hear it all. And everyone has their own life problems and issues to deal with, including grief. I'm hoping that by recognizing the depths I'm sinking to, I'm taking the first step in climbing back out. I never expected it to be an easy or short road - and truly the loneliness is the only thing that has caught me by surprise.

When Natalee died, I was angry with people around me who were having babies and just assuming everything would be ok. It got so that I stopped seeking out friends who were pregnant, because I just felt so frustrated with them. Now I find those same feelings starting to surface again... toward friends and family who are just going on with their lives exactly as they've expected to. Nothing about my life is what I expected it to be six months ago and none of it has truly been by my choosing.  And it continues on.

I've been giving some of my friends a hard time about upcoming vacations... it seems like 3/4 of everyone I know is headed somewhere sunny and warm for spring break. And the truth is, most of them need a vacation every bit as badly as I do - they also need a break from the strains and stresses of family illnesses and other stressful life events. In some ways, knowing that we all share those burdens is even more depressing. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being jealous, I would love nothing more than to escape this town for a few days and leave my worries behind - as much as one can anyway. But even that is not up to me, and a vacation right now is just not possible unless I feel up to doing it on my own with the kids. And THAT doesn't sound like much of a vacation, does it?

So here I am... trying to process all of this, struggling to get out of bed on the days I have nowhere to go and resentful of the days I have somewhere to go because I can't have time to myself and the life I used to know. 

So there ya go Tammy, I journaled it. 

Dreams

I believe very strongly in symbolism. I believe that everything has meaning, and that if you are open and receptive, you'll see it.

I also believe that souls carry on, and I believe in eternal life and the connection between this world and the world that exists after death.

I happen to believe in Christianity too, and of course these two things are connected.

My dad believed all of these things too. My dad was never overly-zealous about his religious beliefs. Many people who knew him well did not even know how very deeply religious he was. And while his conviction was strong, he also did not pass judgment on those who didn't agree. He worried about friends and family who did not believe in the tenets of Christianity. Not because he was worried about their souls and where they were destined to spend eternity - because he knew there is a certain kind of comfort and peace that covers you like a shroud even during the darkest of times, if you do believe. He worried about how those who didn't believe in an everlasting life could possibly get through the difficult times of loss.

My father's death has not shaken my faith. In many ways, it has strengthened it. I talked to my dad a lot in his last few days (this was a one-sided conversation but I know he could hear me, on some level...) and I talked about how I would need him to see me through these times. I told him I would be watching for signs... things that would comfort me with the knowledge of his presence in my life, despite our physical separation. I didn't need them for proof, only for encouragement.

In the days immediately following his death, it became a standard joke in my house that I was "overlooking" the signs he was sending me. We frequently see deer where we live, but usually in groups and always only does. The night my dad died, I happened to look out our front window and saw a single buck standing in our front yard.

The following day as I was riding with my mom to the mall, we passed under a tunnel of sparrows - thousands and thousands of them that had filled the road and then lifted up like a large sheet as we passed beneath. It was something I had never seen before. 

On Sunday, as I sat by the fireplace lamenting the lack of "signs" I had received from my father, a sympathy card fell from the mantle and hit me in the head. My husband joked, "there's your sign.." and then I remembered the deer, and the birds, and the bright sun that shone as my dad slipped away and the large moon that hung in the sky that night (the closest the moon will be to earth probably ever again in my lifetime was that night) and I laughed. Sometimes we don't see the forest for the trees, do we?

I felt content. I could almost hear my dad saying, "I sent you the deer, the birds... come on now I'm busy up here trying to meet people! I'm here. You KNOW I'm here."

A few days after my dad's funeral, I woke up in the middle of the night. I was awake, not dreaming, and I suddenly felt as though my dad was in the room. I felt him so strongly, and as the realization swept through me I heard his voice - clear as day - say, "Good-bye." Suddenly, I felt him leave.

The next morning, I felt angry about the experience. 

I have not yet had one of those moments so many people describe where I momentarily forget he is gone and have the urge to call him or expect to see him coming through the door. Instead, I am painfully aware every moment of every day that he is gone. 

So in frustration I asked, "why GOOD-BYE? Good-bye is painfully obvious to me right now, I GET that. Why couldn't you have used that amazing opportunity to say something, anything else?"

And then I realized that while I had the chance - many of them actually - to tell him good-bye, he had not. The part of his illness that took his life came on very fast and in the effort to treat him, he was medically sedated into a coma. There was no time when that happened to say good-bye. And even though there was nothing left unsaid between us and a deep level of understanding, I know he still would have wanted to say the words.

Last night, as I said my bedtime prayers, I again asked for guidance and direction from not only God, but from my dad as well. I drifted off to sleep and was startled awake just minutes later from a very real-feeling dream. I was sitting in my dad's office working at his desk and he came around the corner and said, "well... hi there!"

As I saw him, a feeling rushed over me... and I thought to myself, "there you are!" as if he had been lost. I felt such relief - not that his death had been a mistake or a misunderstanding, but that he was there to help me through.

There is comfort in these dreams and in these signs, but there is some distress as well. They make me aware of feelings and issues that lie far beneath the surface, beyond the abilities of consciousness. They force me to deal with those issues even when the more mundane tasks of everyday living need to be accomplished. They make me grieve at the most unexpected moments and remind me that I am only in control to the extent that the universe deems it. 

I am wading my way through. Sometimes a day at a time, sometimes an hour at a time. 

But I know that while he is gone, my dad is still very much with me.

The Bamboo

A year and a half ago, my mom and I bought bamboo at the Pekin Marigold Festival.

Mine was two stalks actually, held together with twisty ties to make a sort of heart near the top.

The bamboo has sat in a little vase next to my kitchen sink ever since. A couple of times a week I refill the water - to just root level, per the directions. With no more attention or care from me, they have flourished.

Everything in my life has been total chaos since mid-October. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition came to town and my dad and I dove in, anxious to be a part of it all. Just about a week after the big "move that bus" day, our church had its annual Pancake and Sausage event. We met my dad, who joined us for pancakes after his shift making them was finished. We had a nice talk, good quality family time together.

On the way out, my dad put his hand on my shoulder to guide me first through the door, ahead of him. As he touched me, I felt a shock go through my body. Not an electrical shock, a shock of realization... in that moment, I was certain something was going to happen to my dad that day.

Around 3pm he called me and I missed the call. I decided to wait to call him back, but 15 min. later his neighbor called. My dad was in trouble, she had called an ambulance.

That was the beginning of a very long story that unfortunately, has no happy ending. For the next six weeks my life was consumed with traveling to the hospital, talking to doctors, and enduring the endless roller coaster of emotions. Things around the house started to change, or become amplified. Laundry was behind - way behind. There was more fast food and carryout for dinner than even before.

One of the bamboo stalks started to show signs of distress. I changed the water, made sure the level was right... did all the things I'd done before. As the weeks went by, the bamboo got worse. Only one though - the other continued to hold its own, still tied to the struggling bamboo and showing some signs of stress but largely doing ok.

Until early December, I truly believed my dad would recover. I truly believed he would be home for Christmas. But things took a bad turn and after all it had been through, his body could not stand up to a horrible infection.

After 8 days in a medically-induced coma and 10 days after our last actual conversation, my dad slipped away. As I type the words, I still cannot believe they are true. But I am painfully aware of this every moment - every second - of every day. He is gone.

The second stalk of the bamboo is gone too, browned and wilted and dry - it looks nothing like it did just a few months ago when it was growing strong and healthy.

But it is still tied to the stalk that is thriving. I took off the twisty ties and tried to separate them, but their roots are intertwined. They are still joined together, they are still a part of each other. The heart shape they formed is broken, so they aren't together like they were. And yet the thriving stalk is finding a way to go on.

Yesterday the kids returned to school, Edgar returned to work and for the first time since mid-October, I got a glimpse of our "normal" life. Normal is re-defined now, of course. Nothing here is the same.

Including the bamboo.

Edit: Today a friend pointed out to me that this was posted exactly one year before Ainsley's birth. I find that amazing, and the message is so clear.

Sadly, I no longer have the bamboo. Although the second piece continued to flourish for many more months, it did eventually die. Again, I don't think I ever cared for it any differently, but I think it is still symbolic - despite my efforts, fate intervened. Eventually, there are certain things that we have to let go of - including in some respects, the people we used to be. It was a hard day when I threw away that bamboo, but I recognized it as a positive step in my healing as well. It was ok to let it go. There was a baby on the way. Nothing is the same. I am not the same, he is not the same. But we are still connected.

In many ways, I've just had to start over. I've had to build a new relationship with my dad.

So this year maybe I'll buy another bamboo.