The Birth of Hope

Yesterday morning as I was preparing some food for Thanksgiving,
Dahlia asked Dave to see some of the videos of her with Tikva.
We watched one of her visiting Tikva on July 26.
She was so sweet and gentle with her baby sister,
She asked that Tikva dream of "happy and not scary stuff,"
Of the two of them together.

It was the day before we started to understand just how fragile Tikva was,
The day before I collapsed to the floor leaning against Dave
As all of the doctors came racing into the isolation room to help her recover from a major desat.
I was right there in that moment, as if it had just happened.

Then Dahlia pointed at the computer screen and said, "That one!"
And there I was standing next to her yesterday,
Watching Tikva coming out of me on the day of her birth.
I cried thinking, "That was just the beginning,
There was so much hope.
The birth of hope."

I felt such incredible profound love and wonder for Tikva as I watched her come out of me,
Then be taken away to a small room a few feet away
To be stabilized for all that was ahead.
She was so brave...
And so was I.

It's harder to be brave after you've lost your child,
Much harder, and so much more important.

When her little head full of hair started appearing,
I reached down to feel my baby coming out.
I said, "There you are."
I pushed her out in deep sighs
And noticed how beautiful and perfect and robust she was
When she was out of me and I got to see her for a few seconds
Until her umbilical cord was cut and she was carried to the setup room.

I watched closely on the video to see through the window into that room,
To see what they were doing there for her.

There is something kind of haunting about watching the beginning
Now that I am at the other side of the end of Tikva's life on earth.
Something so hopeful, even though the hope is now in the past.
Just watching the beginning
When everything was ahead...
Ahead.

I got an email recently from a sweet woman who is 25 weeks pregnant
And found out her baby has CDH.
She had found my blog somehow.
I cried when I read her email, for all she has ahead of her.
Tears of sadness and tears of hope,
Wondering how it felt for her to read that Tikva died
While she carries her little one in her belly.
She tells me that my words give her comfort and inspiration.

I played with baby Isaac at Thanksgiving and he was a sweet little gem.
Four months old, tiny, sweet, big brown eyes and little sounds coming out of his mouth,
He's discovering his voice right now and talking to his stuffed toys.
I connected with him as a pure soul.
He isn't Tikva, he's just him,
Each of them on their own journeys,
Each of them radiant.

I did miss Tikva at moments throughout the day,
But it wasn't because of Isaac.
I could've been anywhere missing her,
Reflecting on this past year
And all that has been gained
And all that has been lost.

I keep thinking about something Alesia wrote me:

2008 is the year Tikva lived and died.

I don't forget that this year she lived.
I don't ignore how huge that is,
That even that is a gift not everyone gets.

I think there is a part of me that is starting to release some of my attachment
To what isn't,
To what could've been if only...
There is great sadness in that release,
A loss in itself,
But I don't know what other choice I have.
And I know it's what Tikva would want from me,
To release that attachment
And remember her beauty and grace and not dwell on her death.

I looked at Isaac and thought,
"They're just different, Tikva and Isaac.
This little one was meant for a different journey than Tikva's.
Not because he is more special or more important,
Not because his parents are more deserving,
Just because he is Isaac and she is Tikva."
Just because...

My older wiser friend shared with me something his father shared with him years ago:
That we have no idea what God has in store for us.
No idea...