Remembering Molly (12 years) ~ Happy Birthday Baby Girl!

Happy 12th Heavenly Birthday, Molly Marie!

Oh, how things can change in 12 years, not to mention 12 months…

This picture certainly represents that — combining a symbol of the difficult, uncertain, and heartbreaking reality our nation and world are living through (a roll of toilet paper), with an imprint of a symbol that is meaningful to our family when it comes to your life and memory (a butterfly).

We’ve had such a random assortment of TP in recent weeks, with little to no choice of brand, quality and quantity, that I was taken aback the other day, when I noticed this one. It still works for me to believe, on some level, that you send us signs like this. In the moment I experienced this one, I felt both comfort and amusement.

It was incredible to celebrate the 11th anniversary of your birth and death last year, as part of our family’s Spring Break trip to Universal Orlando, at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. As planned we toasted you with Butter Beer and it was a lovely and bittersweet day.

This year our entire country, including Disney and Universal in Florida, as well as much of the world, are shut down/practicing social distancing and sheltering in place because of the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s still hard for me, and so many, to wrap our brains around what is happening.

Your Daddy, Sean, Abby and I have been safe at home, working and doing school remotely, while trying to help “flatten the curve,” since one month ago today (March 17th), though we started backing off attending big gatherings almost a week before that.

The last time life felt this surreal and I felt quite this disoriented was probably the time that I carried you, followed by your birth and death. As much I as I tried to prepare myself for what was to come back then, I had to do my best to navigate each day and moment as it arrived. That is not easy for anyone and especially challenging for control freaks, such as your mother.

I’d like to say I’ve come along way since then and in many respects I have. I certainly know myself better, including understanding how generalized anxiety disorder impacts the way I perceive and experience life. 12 years later I know the importance of boundaries, especially when it comes to relationships, and don’t try to control as much as I used to.

There is a level of collective grief happening now that also feels bizarre. When you were born and died, in 2008, it was hard for some to appreciate what our family and I were going through, mourning your death. Whereas now, most people seem to have a connection to those who have been diagnosed with, or died from, this novel coronavirus, as well as to be dealing with the loss of what day-to-day life used to be like.

Your Daddy teases me that I follow the news, including watching New York Governor Andrew Cuomo and Illinois Governor JB Pritzker’s daily press briefings, like it’s my job. It works for me to feel that level of informed during this time, one of my many coping mechanisms. I appreciate the emphasis on mental health, at least in our state and amongst those I am connected with, as so many are struggling to navigate this.

Up until this whole thing began, I’d been feeling very lucky, at least when it came to the trips our family had been taking/the adventures we’d been getting to have over the last year. In addition to spending Spring Break last year in Florida, we got to travel to Door County, WI with our Benson family in July, Hilton Head Island, SC with our Axe family in August (the picture below was taken on the beach there), and then I got join your Daddy, on my first transatlantic flight in almost 24 years, for a work trip to Poland, which I somehow also turned into a short visit to England. It was an incredible opportunity and I had a wonderful time getting to explore Krakow and Warsaw in Poland, as well as to return to London and Southampton, England.

And that was just the beginning… Sean and I were scheduled to go with his high school’s concert choir and band on a Spring Break Trip to Orlando earlier this month, which unfortunately was cancelled due to the pandemic. Also, this summer Abby, my mom/your Grandma Jacquie and I are supposed to be traveling to New York City for an adventure with Dance Gallery Chicago and your Dad, Sean, Abby and I were planning to spend much of August in the UK, which we were all so excited about. However, both of those are up in the air right now and we will not be surprised if they are cancelled and/or we postpone to be cautious.

This is our current reality.

It sucks and we feel lucky to be able to stay safe at home.

We get it.

We are incredibly thankful for and grateful to those serving on the front lines, in essential services.

This is one of those times in life/history when, not unlike 9/11, most people old enough to remember will see a distinct line between what things were like before and after.

I am finding it difficult to reflect or pontificate as much, right now, as I typically do in my annual post in honor of the anniversary of your birth and death.

Though it sounds dramatic, I’m doing my best to survive and help my loved ones do the same.

I’ve written and shared three posts in the last few months that cover what this past year has meant to me and in all of them I mentioned you. That may be another factor why I don’t feel compelled to say more in this one:

Up On the Watershed: The View from 45 (March 6, 2020)

Leap Day #12 (February 29, 2020)

Rewind 2019 (December 31, 2020)

I continue to find meaning in helping those who follow in our footsteps navigate life after the death of their babies, as well as others dealing with grief after loved ones have died. Earlier this week a dear friend (who I’ve known since Sean was a baby and has walked with our family through all of this) connected me to someone she knows who recently experienced a stillbirth. Though I wouldn’t wish being a bereaved parent on anyone, I am glad I can be a resource for and support others who find themselves in this club.

Abby continues to think and talk about you often. It is clear how much she wishes you were alive and at home with us. Abby likes to imagine what our family might be like if you had lived longer and asked recently if I thought you two would share a room. She also wonders what your hobbies and interests would be, especially what things you would have in common with her. Earlier this week she even told her school friends and homeroom teacher, in their Google Classroom Chat, about you and that your birthday was coming up. I am grateful that Abby cares so much about you and it breaks my heart that you didn’t get to meet in this lifetime.

Today won’t look like it has most of our family’s “Molly Days” over the years, on April 17th (when we’ve been in town) or sometime close (when we were traveling). Our traditions include going to mass at St. Barnabas (which we’ve had said in your honor and memory), visiting your grave at the cemetery, enjoying a special meal (often with with extended family and sometimes friends) and doing fun things together (that we imagine you’d enjoy).

We still plan to get to the cemetery, where we will decorate your grave, blow bubbles and sing Happy Birthday. We’ll likely get carry out for dinner from one of our favorite local restaurants, since eating there isn’t an option during this time. Besides that, your siblings actually have an institute day off from school (which for now means no remote learning assignments/chats/video meets) and Daddy had already planned to take the day off from work, so we can spend more quality time together playing games, watching a movie and/or whatever else sounds good to us, as we remember you.

In mid-December 2007, when I was about 12 weeks pregnant with you, I started spotting. Your Dad was stuck at work and so your Grandma Jacquie came with me to our obstetricians’ office, where I had an ultrasound. The tech had trouble determining your heart rate at first, because it seemed to be beating irregularly. Eventually, he was able to share that it was low, around 65 bpm. The tech tried to help us focus on the positives, that you were moving around and measuring on track for our due date. Then one of the OB’s came in to meet with us. She was very kind, as well as honest, in discussing the odds of miscarriage. The doctor was also clear that there was not much we could do, other than wait and see. However, she did remind us that you were still alive at that point and said, “Where there is life, there is hope.”.

Those words helped carry us through to the next appointment and many more after that, during the heartbreaking and hope-filled roller coaster ride that was our pregnancy with you.

I know I wouldn’t have survived 2008 without hope.

To this day, I believe that, regardless of our circumstances, we can find and focus on hope to help us survive and to carry on.

From navigating this pandemic, to celebrating your life, and mourning your death (12 years later), there is hope.

We love you and we miss you so very much, today and everyday.

Happy Birthday, Molly Marie!

Love,
Mommy