"The future is, most of all, in the hands of those people who recognize the other as a 'you' and themselves as part of an 'us.' We all need each other."- Pope Francis
Our family loves visiting Maryland each Memorial Day weekend! This year Mary Allison ran "3... 2... 1... blast-off" into the Chesapeake Bay on repeat until she stuffed her face with watermelon and her first brats from the grill. She was thrilled to see so many creepy critters and sang "the itsy bitsy spider" each time she came across one. Afternoons included boat-watching with even more singing. "Row, row, row your boat, Mary is a dream," she says. I can hardly believe my animated little girl used to be the tiny 6-week-old babe that we introduced to the ocean two years ago!
I'm five days away from Tiny's due date. The family bassinet isn't set up. I haven't read Mary Allison picture books about becoming a big sister. I still have an innie, can still zip up my jeans and tie my own shoes. May 24th will come and go and I won't be any closer to meeting my baby. I missed Dot's 12-week ultrasound by three days. The automated phone service from my midwife's office called to remind me. I abruptly stopped looking for matching clothes for my kids, erased my imaginations of Christmas Eve with four stockings to stuff, and buried my maternity clothes as far as I could in tubs under my winter wardrobe. Dot's 20-week ultrasound was scheduled on Mary Allison's second birthday-- I missed that one, too. I'm only a couple weeks away from my third trimester but I'm not any closer to meeting this baby either. But somehow the calendar keeps moving forward. I crossed off lots of due dates at work, passed my yearly evaluation, survived a Mother's Day that didn't seem worth keeping, and celebrated friends' birthdays, anniversaries and baby showers. Our annual trip to Maryland is only a week away, and we even have a closing date on an adorable house penciled-in on the calendar at the end of this month. I still haven't figured out how the calendar keeps going when my timeline is at a jarring, deafening halt. I don't like to leave words untied, without a conclusion, but miscarriage and infertility feel a little bit like that. Untied. Unfair. Unfinished.
It's 24 months of May! (Can I still give my daughter's age in months!?)
In the past three months Mary Allison trampled through a blizzard with snow drifts higher than her head, conquered the Philadelphia Zoo with baby doll in tow, started (a somewhat rigorous) gymnastics class, and has proven that it's time to pack up her cloth diapers. She's developed her own sense of style this month frequently demanding red polka dot socks with her white church shoes and always begs for the dinosaur pj's at night. She prefers to wear either several pairs of pants at the same time or goes completely commando-- there is no in between. Most days include hours of dada horse rides around the house, piles of library books, a watercolor painting, and meticulous care of her growing stash of baby dolls.
It is mostly impossible to believe that our tiny black-haired newborn is already growing into this little girl. On her birthday two years ago my mom described her this way: "She is sweet. She is smart. She is strong." And although she has grown and changed so much in the past 24 months, she is still that.
We wish you all the joy and hope of this Easter season. Mary Allison woke up on Sunday to a house full of family, a basket full of eggs, and snow covering the entire Texas panhandle! Despite the Christmas scene, we donned our pastels to mass to celebrate the Resurrection with our St. Thomas community and join in the Alleluia anthem sung throughout history. We feasted with family and friends, danced to "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" too many times at the toddler's request, and enjoyed the beautiful springtime weather that decided to join us after lunch! Then we added a birthday party to our celebrations for our almost two-year-old complete with party hats and a four-layer cake. What better day to give thanks for Mary Allison's life than on the day we rejoice in our rebirth.
Jesus Christ is risen today! Alleluia! Alleluia!
She was super sad to stop building snowmen to take these pictures.
With my parents and two sets of aunts and uncles!
My mom and her oldest sister...
if only the other six Gahan kids came too!
Please note my kid's favorite things: her baby dolls and toothbrush.
Three weeks have passed since I heard Dot's heartbeat for the last time. "Perfect heartbeat," my midwife said.
Two weeks have passed since I stared at the last grainy image of sweet Dot... so tiny and so still. Not the somersaults that I remembered at her big sister's twelve-week ultrasound. The nurse didn't need to say anything.
My body went into labor that night and by morning my baby, the one with the perfect heartbeat, was gone.
Grieving the unborn is hard; I mourn so deeply but don't know the person whom I mourn. I have no memories to relive-- only the ones left undone, just expired dreams, really. No proper name to recall, no baby shower to plan, no newborn to swaddle and share. I don't even know what pronouns to use.
So when I couldn't cry any more (and didn't know what else to do), I cut off my hair, bought Mary Allison the hideous, overpriced baby doll she'd been wanting for months, dove into work head-first and have listened to one song on repeat for days and days. The lyrics go like this:
"Lover of my soul, even unto death, with my every breath I will love You. In my darkest hour, in humiliation, I will wait for You. I am not forsaken. Though I lose my life, though my breath be taken, I will wait for you. I am not forsaken."
I am grateful for the comforting melody and words streaming on live-demand through my head. It has been my constant reminder in this, my darkest hour, that Jesus is my joy, my hope, and my glory. And though my baby's breath was taken before her first cries, I will continue to use mine to give thanks and praise to God.
