Catching Up With My Heart

One kind of marble, a very dark green, had glimmers of phosphorescent white, like mother of pearl.
You could see how little stones had been packed together over millions of years, forming rock as big as mountains,
The speckles of white lost amid the darker stone, but not lost really, actually standing out from the darkness.
I liked that one.

Standing next to Tikva's grave, I looked at the headstones of some of the other babies buried in that corner of the Jewish cemetery.
Most are plaques, but they are always covered in grass after they've mowed, and I don't want Tikva's name covered in grass.
There are a few medium sized headstones, a foot and a half tall and wide,
And in the corner, one smaller headstone, only about a foot by a foot.
That one makes me sad, I said to Dave.
It reminds me how small Tikva was when she died, and that makes me sad.
I don't want to feel sad when I come to the cemetery.
Enough said, he replied. Let's get a bigger one.

I was drawn to the green stones, and the ones with spirals in them, movement.
I was drawn to the one that was almost lavender with tiny specks of deep red.
In one section nearby, where Dave's grandparents are buried,
Was a small headstone made of pearl white stone.
It looked old, what they used to make all headstones from in another time.
I liked the white, but then it made me think of when babies died a lot
Of things like cholera or rheumatic fever.
It felt kind of haunting.

I liked the vines carved into some of the stones,
Like a plant of hope with shallow roots but always growing easily,
Like eternity.
I like curvy letters, the thought of Tikva Ahava written in Hebrew
To represent the words Hope and Love.
I imagined a milkweed carved into the stone,
Dave said, What about a Red Tail Hawk?

Dahlia and I saw two hawks overhead today...

That must've been so hard/heavy/sad.
Both my sister and Karina had the same response when I told them we'd gone to Colma yesterday to start thinking about a headstone for our Baby Girl.
It wasn't exactly hard, or heavy, or sad.
It felt similar to creating Tikva's altar, Tikva's scrapbook, Tikva's box of things, Tikva's quilt.
Something in memory of her, but mostly for the rest of us.
Maybe we can get a bench next to her grave, for your dad when he visits, Dave said.
My father visits Tikva at the cemetery more than anyone, each time he visits us, on the way up and on the way back down.
He reads her Goodnight Moon like he did in the hospital each time he visited.
I feel like he will be the keeper of her grave when we move away.

My precious husband and I talked about how it is always a choice, which lens we choose to look through in every experience.
How it doesn't have to be heartbreaking to do something like choosing a headstone for our daughter who lived for just two months.
I really felt that when we were there - presence, clarity, connection to my Tikva's sweet gentle spirit, the peace and freedom she feels now.
I continued to feel it when Dave left to pick up Dahlia and I had a few hours in the afternoon to go to Whole Foods and visit Dave's aunt and uncle at their work.
I felt like I am going to be okay, all in all.
And I am, I know I am.

But then about 3 blocks from home,
After I'd driven all the way across San Francisco because I took the wrong way and ended up totally on the other side of town,
After I'd gone to get us sushi for dinner,
A song came on the radio about leaving a light on,
I turned it up really loud
And just cried.

I cried for my daughter who isn't here anymore.
I cried for myself, a year ago in Israel,
Praying to God, Please don't make me bury my daughter. Please...
I cried because I have already held her as she died,
Watched her tiny coffin lower into the ground,
Shoveled dirt over her fragile body,
Watched my husband as he shoveled the rest, every inch of it over her,
Visited her three times at the cemetery in the past 6 months...

Six months today...

And now I am making decisions about how we will mark the final resting place of her fragile little body,
Its fragility the reason she isn't in my arms right now.

I still don't know what to say when people ask me how I am.
I'm alright, pretty okay.
I'm going to survive this, I am surviving this.
I am hopeful, surprisingly, about the road ahead.
I look older, not just because I'm 37, but because the past year has aged me.
I still cry daily.
I still feel disbelief.

A few days ago at work, I told the pregnant woman I work with about Tikva.
We were talking about her pregnancy, she's at 35 weeks now and has had a few challenges lately.
I'm pretty sure she'll be fine, and so will her baby, but it opened up deeper conversation about it all,
About how she just wants her baby to be okay, everything else is gravy.
I didn't want to keep having conversations about pregnancy and birth where I combined both of my experiences into one,
Elusively.
So I said something about how during my second labor I...
I had to say it in two different ways for it to register.
She asked, So you have two daughters?
I fumbled and said, Yes, I have two daughters, but only one is living.
The other one lived for just two months and she died last summer.
Oh, I'm so sorry, she said. She was very sweet.
She didn't ask for more, but I told her about Tikva's CDH and her lungs and...
I told her a little about my daughter, and it felt good.

Sometimes it takes me a few days to catch up with my emotions.
I think I'm okay, I'm even surprised at how easy something was compared to how I thought it would be.
Then a few hours later, a day or two later, I get really sad, or irritable, or grumpy, or weepy
And I realize it's just me, catching up with my heart.