Uncommon Misconception

Something to Hang My Hat On (Or, Somthing On Which to Hang My Hat... if you want to be a stickler)

This post has been brewing for months and months.  I'll start it today, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if it takes me a few days to complete. (Ahem... I wrote that sentence one month ago.)

For years now, ever since I spoke openly about Thomas, his arthrogryposis, and our decision to end his suffering, I've felt myself flailing and scrambling to explain that his case was no "ordinary" case - if such a thing even existed.  I have struggled to explain what our doctors were telling us - probably because much of the detail was lost in the flood of grief and shock that comes with such a diagnosis.  I was left with a clear "big picture", but no real way to tell others why we were so certain that Thomas would not have survived.

Every now and then, an adult living with the disease comments and tells me that I made a grave mistake because arthrogryposis is not a death sentence.  Some are gracious and attempt to be civil and understanding.  Others are not.  I can understand the motivation - not wanting others who may find this blog to misunderstand their own case or that of their child's - but nearly all make the mistake of equating their circumstances to ours.

Here's the bottom line: if you are LIVING with arthrogryposis, the severity of your disease is not the same as Thomas's was.

And now, I can explain why.  Scientifically.

A few months back, while following the searches that lead to my blog, I found this study.  My blog and this medical anthology are both listed when one searches "necessary termination for arthrogryposis".  Intrigued, I read the whole entry.  No such information was available online at the time we were making our decision.  And I wish it had been.  Because it would have been easier for my scientifically-inclined side to understand what the doctors were saying within a clinical context. 

But for those of you who have better things to do today than read through dense medical texts to learn about a disease that most likely will never touch you or those around you, here's the main thrust:

The text cites a study* of 15 infants with severe arthrogryposis, who also had markers that indicated they could not breathe on their own (decreased fetal movement, micrognathia, polyhydramnios, and thin ribs). Thomas was suffering from all three of these medical conditions.  In this study, 14 of the 15 were confirmed to have arthrogryposis (one case was a misdiagnosis, and ended up being a different kind of severe muscle disorder), and of those 14 every single baby died when life support was stopped at anywhere from a few hours after birth to a couple of months.

Every. single. baby.

That is what the doctors were telling us, and that is what I tried to convey in all of my other posts before this.  Thomas would not have been able to breathe on his own.  And our decision to end his life peacefully, without the bone-breaking** pain and suffering of a delivery; without the risk to my own body from carrying a baby that would never live and all of the medical complications that come with that; without the myriad of emotional damage that would have come from the congratulations of strangers at the sight of my belly; all that Todd and I went through was to save Thomas from that indignity.  And I will forever know in my heart and soul that we did the right thing.

And now I hope that those of you who come here in defense of those living with arthrogryposis will understand that your circumstances were not ours, and that our choice does not diminish your life in any way.

*Between the time I began this post and now, the PDF has been redacted.  The pages that cite the study are no longer available.  So these statistics are now from memory.  But the conditions that indicate an inability to breathe without support are still available.

**Thomas's body was too frail to withstand delivery.  His bone density was so low that birth would have very literally broken him.

Walking That Fine Line in CrazyLand

Julia at I Won't Fear Love has a great post (and blogiversary celebration) up about the conundrum people find themselves in when something tragic has happened in their lives.  She references the Pain Olympics, which you might remember if you were blogging in the infertility world back in the stone ages.  She outlines the concept just fine, so I'll wait while you read her post.

Done?  Okay.

I couldn't agree more.  In the years after the loss of all our boys, and particularly after Thomas's death, I constantly walked this fine line.  I wanted people to know and recognize that something had broken my entire world - something momentous and irrevocable.  I wanted them to know that I was hurting in ways that defied description and that I would never, ever be the same.  I did not want them to try and lessen my pain with any of the lifeless verbal band-aids and lame condolences we are so driven to awkwardly give one another in times of crises.

And yet, I loathed the idea that people were feeling sorry for me - that my story had turned from one of a good girl living a good life, to a sad girl trying to survive tragedy.  It did not mesh in any way with my self-concept.

What I finally arrived at was this:

I wanted pity, but I did not want to be pitiable.

Read that again, because it's an important distinction:  I wanted PITY, but I did not want to BE pitiable.

The only reaction from friends, family, or even strangers that I found acceptable was ABIDING.  To simply be there with me.  To tell me that this sucked more than they could conceive of and that they had no words.  To sit with me and not try at all to make it better or to lessen the pain I felt.  To give me hugs or fall silent on the phone.  To bring me carbohydrate laden food or send me tasteless e-mail jokes or take me to a movie and just hold my hand when I cried in the concession line as a pregnant woman walked past.

Whatever the grief, whatever the cause, I can't help but feel that mine was a common response:  I am sad.  I am stricken.  But that does not make me OF that pain, and it is not my state of BEING.

I don't know if that makes as much sense on paper as it does in my head, but I thought I should share - for those who have been there and for those who strive to be there for their friends or loved ones in times if crisis.

Everything Old is New

I suppose your thirty-first birthday is as good a time as any to feel that you've truly come into your own.  Considering where my family stands, financially, at this given moment, that may seem like a strange statement.  But yesterday was indeed my thirty-first birthday, and I can truly say that I have never felt more contentment.

Do I have the material trappings that I always dreamed of?  No.  And I will actually be (temporarily) losing a great deal of those that I do.  And yet, nearly every night as I drop off into exhausted sleep, I find myself smiling in the dark of my great good fortune.

I am surrounded by people who love and support me.  My husband looks past my occasional bitchiness and tells me every few months that he knows I'm going to write a best-seller one day.  My oldest daughter thinks I hung the moon and then wrote the story that goes along with it.  My youngest visibly shakes with glee when I enter the room.  My mom cries over the photos I take because she finds them so moving.  My dad... well, my dad has learned to give me compliments out loud instead of only in his head, and I cannot say how much that means.

My best friend tells me almost every time we talk how much I mean to her and how we share a sisterhood that biology never granted us.  Our other close friends share their lives and those of their children in such an open and familial way that we never feel alone.

I have an amazing career that is actually paying more than I every really believed it would - at a time when my family needs it most.  And I seem to be stumbling head-long into another career that could keep me fulfilled beyond my highest hopes.

I have a community of "virtual" friends who are sometimes more real than anyone else; who share with me their hopes and sorrows, their knowledge and experience, their crude jokes and personal grooming habits.

Above all, I spend my waking and sleeping hours being thankful - being genuinely, bone-deep grateful for all that I have.  Even when I'm bitching. Even when I'm annoyed.  Even when I'm falling over in my tracks with fatigue.

So at the conclusion of the first three decades of my life, I can feel a new sensation looming.  The sense that I may finally "get it", for once.  But I'm sure, not for all.

Thank you for coming along for the ride.

The Kindness of Strangers, and an Update

Emily from Not That You Asked has posted an update.  Collectively, the Internets have donated over $15,000 in a little over 48 hours.  Amazing and humbling, isn't it.

They now have a diagnosis for little Emily: Atypical Teratoid Rhabdoid Tumor.  It is very rare and very aggressive.  And the family will likely have to travel somewhere else in the U.S. for treatment in order to find an oncologist with experience treating this type of cancer.

Please, keep the prayers and the financial assistance coming.  I know that $15,000 sounds like a lot of money, but having spent more than that on Hannah's simple five-day NICU stay, I know that this family will likely need much more to give their daughter the best fighting chance.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you for keeping this family in your hearts.  I'll keep you updated as I can.

I Cannot Imagine

Do you remember Emily?  Not my best friend-Emily, but Emily of the blow-soda-out-your-nose-funny-story fame?  Emily is a good apple.  She's funny, she's kind, and she's someone I can relate to.

Recently, she wrote to me about some of her close friends.  I will let her tell you what happened, but the short version is this:

They have a beautiful, light-of-their-life 16-month old daughter.  And while on vacation in Savannah for Easter, they learned that she had a baseball-sized tumor growing on her brain stem.  They were told to gather their relatives to say goodbye before she went into a 12-hour-long surgery because the doctors were doubtful that she'd survive.

But it was Easter Sunday, and survive she did.  The were able to remove about half of the tumor, but the part that remains is likely a very aggressive form of cancer.  She will need much more treatment and her parents have decided that Savannah is the right place to get that treatment.

Here's the sticky wicket: The dad is a teacher and the mom has stayed at home since their daughter's birth.  They have no money, but many expenses.

If you can imagine how scary all this must be for them, if you can wrap your brain around making that call to your parents and loved-ones to say your toddler will likely die, well, you're either better at empathy than I or have had to endure your own personal nightmare.

Either way, I imagine you could spare five dollars, or maybe even more.  I don't want to sound pushy on this - and the bottom line is you'll give if you want to , and won't if you don't - but there is a genuine need here, and collectively, we can do something about it.

If you haven't already, please go and read Emily's post.  And say as many prayers or send as many good wishes as you can.

I Forgot

It took more than five years, but somehow, I finally forgot.

This morning my mom sent me a link to an article about perinatal hospice and a warning that I'd need some kleenex and some quite time to read it.  I thought perhaps I could just steel myself and read it dryly and quickly, but when I got to the part about the mementos - the lock of hair and the hand prints - well that's where I lost it.

Many white hot memories came screaming back with astounding clarity.  It's amazing how PTSD can persist and how traumatic memories can be seared in such a way.  There were far too many to list here, and really, no point.  Because it was in the middle of these memories that I realized it:

That I forgot.

I looked at my calendar through a blurry mess of tears and saw today's date: the 24th of March.  Thomas's due date was March 19th.  I missed it.

A while back I decided to give myself a pass - that lighting the torch for every one of my due-dates-that-weren't and anniversaries of death was simply too much of a burden, something I shouldn't force myself to do.  None of my boys would want me to mourn them in that way.  And so I have missed anniversaries and almost-birthdays.  Several.

But never his.  Never Thomas's.

I felt guilty for a good half-hour, thinking of all the silly things I did last Wednesday.  About how bitchy I've been lately and how I keep losing my temper with Hannah over silly, typical toddler crap.  I considered texting Todd to let him know how guilty I felt.  You know, to spread some of this joy around.

But then it dawned on me that this may be a blessing.  That maybe forgetting to spend a day locked in solemn memories was not something I owe him.  That Thomas doesn't want any more of my tears unless they're joyous.  Maybe my forgetting is a milestone.  An accomplishment.  The freedom to love my son when and how I want and to cry for him whenever I need to, and not because I'm supposed to.

Nonetheless, I'll be taking his memory box out tonight and looking through his album.  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

How Blogging Saved My Life and Built This Family

When I was in junior high, I watched a man on a TV news magazine (60 Minutes is my guess because it was prior to the advent of the myriad of others) talk about the future of computers.  He was a "futurist" and my dad and I listened avidly as he talked about the changes that were to come. 

Our family computer was used for three main purposes at the time: playing a game in which you tried to build up civilization while some evil force tried to destroy it; checking e-mail, which was a very new phenomena; and writing my essays for school.  My school had computer labs.  We were learning to use DOS code to "draw" clunky square-based pictures (you know, because it's so useful), and how to type proficiently (okay, that one paid off).  Most of my friends' families had a computer, too, and they were used much for the same reason as ours.  Tetris.  But we also knew many, many people who did not have a computer, and given the somewhat frivolous applications at the time, I didn't envision them investing in one anytime soon.

Which is why I was amazed when the futurist proclaimed that in the future, every family would have a computer.  And that the computer would function as their portal to the rest of the world.   There would be this "place" where everyone could "meet".  We would find recipes, pay our bills, and "talk" to one another - all without ever stepping foot outside our front door.  His eyes went all dreamy as he spoke and you could see him turn into his five-year-old self, geeky though he was, right there in front of you.

I was dubious.  It sounded about as likely as the jet-packs promised to my father's generation.  And, frankly, I told my dad, even if it did come to pass, it sounded sad and lonely.  Who wanted to sit, cooped up in their house, performing all the functions they used to do in person but without ever coming eyeball-to-eyeball with another human being.

And why in the world would I want to "meet" someone in this non-existent "place", rather than go out and make friends with people I could size-up, and eventually hug?  I raised my eyebrows in my patented family expression of doubt, rolled my eyes, and dismissed the whole thing.

Of course, now we know why he was the paid professional "futurist", and I was, well, a junior high kid.

___________________________________________________

Four years ago, on the eve of a new year, I decided I needed a new start.  I needed to reach out in the ether and connect to others who had been through some of the same things I had.  And the only way I could access them was in that very "place" the futurist had described decades earlier.

My blogging career, as it were, began at a precarious time in my life.  It came at the end of what was easily the worst year of my life.  A year that entailed trials and loss that many never endure - let alone endure in such a small space of time.  As my bio detailed, I had lost three children, moved to a new home, and began a new career.  I had endured numerous surgeries.  I had become pitiable - something this perfectionist had never, ever seen coming.

And I was crazy.

I don't mean that in a funny, "man, you were really out there!" kind of way.  I mean I had lost my mind.  I was at the bottom of a big hole of grief and I did not know how to pull myself out.  I was not sane.  The "me" who began blogging four years ago was still in the thick of it: full-blown post traumatic stress disorder.  I could not hold a thought in my head.  Todd had to constantly repeat facts for me, up to a dozen times a day, and still I could not repeat back to him whatever sentence still hung in the air. 

And the flashbacks were nearly crippling.  One minute I was standing in the shower, and the next I was there in the hospital bed, holding Thomas and staring at his closed eyes.  Or I was frantically tying on my tennis shoes in my bedroom while I sat on a red towel with my pants unbuttoned, trying to organize an emergency trip to the ER without rousing my sleeping relatives while I hemorrhaged over Thanksgiving.  And then I would come to, and not know how much time had passed.  Which is fine when you're in the shower - but not while you're pulling out into the "chicken lane" and crossing traffic.

Ironically, I did not talk about those things when I first began blogging.  I was not ready to be vulnerable in that way.  Not here.  Not out in the open for everyone to see.  And yet, I was ready to share something: my anger.  And there was plenty of that.

Those early entries are bitter and sharp-edged.  And there isn't much forgiveness for anyone who strayed into my line of fire.  But it was necessary.  I needed to put that anger somewhere, and I had only just found someone who showed me how.  It was getupgrrl.

At the time of my third loss, I was part of several online message boards.  I'd moved from "Due in March" to "Loss Support" to "Pregnancy After Loss" back to "Loss Support" back to "Pregnancy After Loss" and then finally to "Multiple Miscarriages".  And there, Ollie posted about a blog she'd found called Chez Miscarriage.  She warned that it was dark, but funny.  And dead-on for the inexpressible grief and anger we all felt.

Chez Miscarriage was only a few months old at the time and I breezed through the entries in an hour.  After ravenously awaiting new posts from getupgrrl for a few weeks, I decided I should get me one of those new-fangled blog things.  So I did.  And I focused what little energy I had on being crafty and strong and witty.  And unleashing the anger and ire.  And I found a whole network of other women who were doing the same thing.  And I cannot underestimate how it changed me.

I also began seeing a therapist.  And she told me I was crazy - which I needed to hear.  And she told me to slow down.  And my new doctor told me to slow down.  And so I finally did.

And into that void of quiet stepped a whole world of women who were as real to me as if I'd met them over dinner.  Better, in fact.  Because in this "place" called the internet, we were more real, more honest, and less guarded than in real life.  We had conversation about topics we could never have with our friends and family because they had never been on this path.  We said hard things because we knew we would be understood for feeling so dark and unyeilding.

Slowly, my sanity began to return.  Because my therapist and my newfound friends began to help me take it one moment at a time.  They told me it was not only okay to be crazy, it was mandatory.   And they said they would help me move through it instead of skipping over it.

Even though the vast majority of these new friends had not been there to witness me move through all that loss (though some of you did), they stuck around.  And they held on as they watched me heal.

_________________________________________________

Recently, blogging as a phenomenon seems to have caught the attention of nearly everyone.  It is now a subject of dissertation.  A media trend.  An advertising venue.  A source of news and community.  And as such, I've been contacted here and there to participate in groups or studies about the effect of blogging on this or that.  Which got me thinking:

Without blogging, I never would have known exactly how full of it my first RE was.

Without blogging, I never would have had the courage to tell her to cancel my surgery and transfer me to her partner, thankyouverymuch.

Without blogging, I never would have know about Asherman's Syndrome and what questions to ask of my new RE.

Without blogging, I doubt I would have come back from my first scar-removal surgery to get pregnant with Hannah.

Without blogging, I would never have known that I was at a high risk for placental problems, or that they could be diagnosed via MRI.  I would not have demanded to have one, and would have simply tried for a vaginal delivery.  I would have almost certainly lost my uterus and potentially could have bled out.

Without blogging, I would not have survived the parenting trials of raising Hannah - of reflux and sleep regressions, of temper tantrums and cluster feeding.

Without blogging, I would never have had the courage to stand up for my rights, my family, and the thousands of other families out there who have needed choice.

Without blogging, I would not have had the opportunity to share the grace and blessings that Hannah brought into our lives.

Without blogging, I never would have had the courage to try for Caroline and endure the fear of another pregnancy and delivery.

Without blogging, I never would have figured out how to help Caroline through her GI problems.  Let's face it - poop is not such a great dinner table topic.

But most importantly, without blogging, my life would have been infinitely smaller.  And lonelier.  And sadder. I would not have all of you.

In a Christmas card from a friend, I was recently reminded that happiness is a choice.  It may not be a simple "yes" or "no", but it is a series of little choices that brings us around to happiness or sorrow.  My friend told me that when she receives and e-mail from me I always look so happy.  And she's glad that I keep choosing that path.  I think she's right.  And I thank all of you for making that possible - for lighting the way with your own stories, words, and yes... even cyber-hugs.

My hat is off to you, Mr.Futurist.  You could not have been more right about this wonderful new world, filled with as much warmth and human touch as the old.

I Watched It

Yes, I watched Extreme Makeover Home Edition last night.  And yes, it was hard.  It always is when something reminds me of Thomas and hits so close to home.

For those of you who haven't the foggiest what I'm talking about, last night's show was about a family who's two-year-old had arthrogryposis and a skeletal disorder.  I missed the first minutes, so I'm not completely clear on the details - like whether or not they received their diagnosis prior to delivery - but I did hear them say that originally he was not expected to live.

This little boy's severity was closer to Thomas's than anything I've seen documented on television so far.  Though still, Thomas's was worse.  Watching shows like last night's is difficult in a number of ways, primarily because it begs comparisons.  It is inevitable for me and anyone who's heard my story (and can manage to remember the term "arthrogryposis") to watch and wonder.  And then the questions come.  And the questions are sometimes valid, but sometimes they aren't.  Because at the end of the day,  their son is not Thomas, and Thomas is not their son. 

I was so happy for that family: that their boy lived; that they were given a new home that helped them survive; that he had an older brother to interact with; that they felt blessed for every moment they've been given.  And I was jealous.  Jealous of the smiles he was able to give.

But I was also relieved.  Relieved because of the reality of their situation and what I can extrapolate would have happened to us, had Thomas some how been able to survive until birth, and then managed to live for a few years.  Watching the few things their son could do only reminded me that Thomas would not have had even that.  Thomas's arms were fixed in a straight position, not bent, as their son's, which meant he would not have had use of his arms.  The clubbing of Thomas's hands and feet was more severe, too.  And surgery likely would never have been an option because Thomas's bone density was already so compromised.

And that's to say nothing of all the daily life-saving measures - the trach tube, the feeding tube, the colostomy bag, the physical therapy.  I watched that mother's fear over their limited access to suction for his trach and my heart melted.  We lived (and still do ) in a two-story home.  Because stairs are out of the question, we would have had to build some sort of bedroom in the open dining room.  The debt from medical bills would have bankrupted us, as it nearly did without any bills beyond his birth.  We would have been unable to move to an appropriate house.  I would never have begun my freelancing career - or any career, for that matter.  Siblings would have been out of the question.

And then there's the aspect that scares me most: the pain.  I did not hear this family address it specifically, but at least as often as he smiled, a grimace crossed their beautiful boy's face.  He was bright - in possession of all his mental faculties - but unable to communicate beyond a few attempts at sign language (which again, Thomas could not have done).  I remember that the physical, mental, and emotional pain of our son were Todd and my greatest fears as we tried to decide what do.

I am quite sure that those who disagree with our decision to end Thomas's life will see this as proof that we were wrong.  I cannot help that.  And frankly, it doesn't matter one iota.  Because to wish for what that family had - to wish our decision away - would be to wish for a life without Hannah or Caroline.  I won't do that.

I try to be as honest and forthright with you as I can be about Thomas.  I try to do the same thing for myself when I see shows or hear stories of other's suffering from the disease.  Because to create a revisionist history of what really happened won't help anyone.  Do we know for sure that he would have died in utero?  No.  But we can be very nearly sure.  Can we know if a miracle might have happened?  No.  But even the most miraculous picture was a grim one for Thomas.  And I believed that allowing his suffering to continue in the hopes that God would literally, physically save him was tantamount to daring God, and it was backing away from the trust He placed in me to do what was right by Thomas.

Instead, I try to share that it does hurt to think he might have given us smiles.  When the father in the show told of wanting to grab his son, pull out the tubes, and run away with him when he first saw him after his birth, I could do nothing but nod in agreement.  But he didn't, because he was being his father.  I remember standing in the shower, rocking back and forth while I held my belly, wanting nothing more than to run away - to keep Thomas safe inside and pretend that I knew nothing about what was going on.  But I didn't, because I was being his mother.

I have been telling Thomas's story for five years now.  In that time I've met and spoken with dozens of families who've faced the decision of termination.  Some have, some have not.  Every story is different, as is the outcome.  But never in that time had I found someone who terminated because of a diagnosis of severe arthrogryposis.  Until the five year anniversary of Thomas's passing when I received an e-mail from a woman who was already undergoing the long process of termination for a baby with severe form of the disease.  And then the following week, another woman who had terminated years before but always felt isolated and alone until she found my blog.

I don't believe the timing was coincidental.  It's just too eerie.  I needed to know at that point in time that I was not alone.  So for them, and for myself, I want to say that we made the right decision for our children.  And had we decided to try and bring them into this world, that would have been the right decision, too.

I know that every time I write about this subject I run a very good chance of incurring hurtful comments from drive-by posters who don't really care to learn about me or my family.  But I think it must be worth it because for every one person who tells me I have no right to say the Lord's Prayer, there are thousands more of you who lift me up and thank me.

So thank you for letting me share.

Five Years

Five. Years.

I cried last night as I did the math three times because I just couldn't believe it.

We love you, Thomas, and there still isn't a day that goes by without thoughts of you and how you forever changed our hearts.

Perspective

My family owns a little piece of land - about 40 acres - out in the country.  It's set on a creek that meets a lake very near our property line.  It's a rock bottom creek that's mostly good for wading, with an occasional dip in a swimming hole.  There are woods and springs and critters.  My parents bought the majority of it when I was four.  They installed two campers and set up a fire pit and a "toilet" on a hillside overlooking the creek.  We went nearly every weekend, weather permitting, when I was young; and later, in my teen years, they dragged me kicking and screaming as often as their will allowed.

When I was a preteen, my grandparents purchased a few acres next door that included a glorified shed.  They turned it into a very livable cabin, perfect for weekend getaways.  The improved accommodations did much to make the whole place more hospitable.  Sulfury-smelling well water is still a huge improvement over no running water at all.

When I became an adult (whenever that was) I began to appreciate the uniqueness of this land.  I have so many memories of the place that just being there makes each one come alive.  Even the bend of particular trees is familiar to me, though the landscape as a whole is now overgrown and entire roads and paths have disappeared.

It was this place that I pictured when I thought about having children.  I pictured them splashing on the rocks in soggy, saggy diapers, with a bit of mud on their cheeks and squeals of delight in the air.  That was the image I held in my head as I said the Lord's prayer over and over and we stopped Thomas's heart.  And it seemed only fitting that that is where I chose to scatter his ashes four years ago tomorrow, on a hillside cliff overlooking the creek, as we marked his due date.

When my grandma died, my mom and I went out to the cabin and cleaned the place up.  And ever since, I've been waiting for the weather and our schedule to clear up enough to take Hannah.  Yesterday, I finally did. 

Todd's schedule doesn't permit much in the way of weekend activities (that's what being a real estate agent will get you), so it was just the two of us.  We took two trips down to the creek where we waded (with the utmost caution) hand-in-hand along the slippery rock bottom while Hannah squealed "Hannah slippery! Hannah slippery!" over the roar of the water.  On the second trip, we saw a herd of horses and she discovered the sheer glee of fishing rocks off the bottom and throwing them to make a splash.  Back at the cabin, I pointed out two lizards that we'd scared out from some driftwood.  "More lizard, more lizard!"

And then, after dinner, Hannah and I went for a walk all around the area where the campers were.  We made our way up the slope to the hillside where Thomas's ashes are, and I felt myself start to go all liquidy on the inside.  I was carrying Hannah, who'd suddenly developed a fairly rational fear of cacti, up high on my ribs, her leg swung over the bump of her sister.  I was struggling to take it all in: the four years that have passed since I dug my fingers into those grey ashes and watched the wind carry him away; the unspeakable blessing of watching my dreams come true as Hannah squealed in the water earlier that day; the knowledge that even more love is coming my way in forms I will never see coming; and the reality that none of that keeps me from missing the sons who aren't here.

Then Hannah began pulling on my eyelashes.  "Mommy crying."  She said it almost like a question.  I laughed and explained, "Yeah, Mommy is crying.  Mommy is sad. She misses your big brother.  But she's so glad to have you here.  You make me very happy."

"Mama sad," she repeated, and then, "Hannah sad, too."

"That's okay, sweetie.  Sometimes people get sad, and it's okay.  Because then we find what makes us happy and we feel better."

I hugged her and smiled, and hugged her again.  "Crying all gone?" she asked.

"Crying all gone," I lied, and I kissed her on the forehead.