Which is harder?

 I found myself in tears tonight while doing the dishes.  This tends to happen every August as we inch closer to the 19th, Tessa's birthday.  My emotions run high at odd times during the day, usually while I'm alone in the car or alone in the house (which does not really happen these days 😩).  A friend once asked me which day is harder for me, Tessa's birthday or the anniversary of her death (August 22).  

Without a doubt, I find that I grieve the hardest every August 19th, on Tessa's birthday. 

Birthdays obviously are a celebration of life and yet that day is just a horrible reminder that she's not here with us.  The girls see Tessa's birthday as a celebration because birthdays, to them, equal happiness, cake, parties, gifts, and adding one to the previous age. Each year as they get older, I think they make a little more sense out of the situation.  We sometimes have cupcakes, we have released balloons for the last many years, but still for mom and dad it's a sad day.  

Another reason I always find Tessa's birthday tricky is because it generally falls on or around the first day of school.  When it's a staff development day, I find myself having to leave the room/staff meeting/training to let myself release the tears.  When it's the first day of school with students, I force myself to limit my grief to before and after school hours.  My people, my best friends, are all there with me at work and they give me the warm smiles and big hugs that I need, but I have to flip a switch when I'm with my brand new class of 3rd graders (or previously 4th graders).  This year, although the 19th is the day before school starts, I'll be greeting my new students in a car line to distribute materials as we start the year in distance learning.  I'll be genuinely excited and eager to meet them,  but then I'll retreat to the safety of my classroom to process the immense sorrow that I always feel on her birthday.  

Now August 22nd is complicated.  Some years I'm hit hard by the anniversary of Tessa's death and other years it feels just like any other day.  Honestly, I think I've blocked out a lot of the details of that day.  I remember being called in to the hospital early in the morning, Mike and I looking at each other with panic.  I remember later in the day meeting with a team of doctors who told us she had developed a pretty serious post-surgery infection.  I remember the decision we made with the team to transfer her to Stanford by ambulance (we joked that she must be super smart to be admitted to Stanford at such a young age), and then I remember the team telling us she likely would not make it through the ambulance ride.  I remembering looking at Mike, both of us knowing the decision that needed to be made.  I remember holding her as she was disconnected from all the tubes and supports, and I remember thinking, "How do I know when to stop holding her?"  After that, I really don't remember much.  I know a lot of things happened that day, but I can't recall them clearly.  Maybe it's because the details are kind of fuzzy in my brain that this day isn't usually a huge struggle for me.  I'm not sure.  

With my brain currently swirling with back-to-school thoughts, I felt the need to just get this out.  As I've said before, writing this stuff down is more for my sake than anyone else, but I'll share because I know that people have said they appreciate it and it helps them understand.  So please know that while the beginning of the school year is always exciting, happy, stressful, and busy, it's also my biggest time of sorrow, especially on August 19.  

Reliving the memories

Facebook memories reminds me every year around this time of the excitement and anticipation Mike and I were feeling as we waited for our first baby to arrive.  We had furnished and decorated the nursery (painted a very light green as we didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl), packed the hospital bag, unwrapped a stack of diapers, taken and posted bump pictures, unwrapped numerous shower gifts and written thank you notes, and I had prepared sub plans for my new class of 4th graders.

I had one strange test result (low estriol) from my 13 week NT ultrasound, and after some genetic counseling, we decided to follow up with amniocentesis.  The waiting period between the amnio and the results was a little stressful, but all our results came back normal and there was no explanation for my low estriol.  We assumed that whenever he or she was ready to arrive, a healthy baby would emerge.

Every time I look at these pictures pop up, I think, "Wow, you were just a young soon-to-be-mom with absolutely no idea what was about to hit you."

I look back on these Facebook messages and pictures and am slammed hard by the shock of all that unfolded between August 19 and August 22, 2011.  To be honest, it is still really hard to believe that our baby who seemed so healthy and perfect in her first moments of life would slip away from us mere days later. 

I still frequently find myself thinking of Tessa and trying to remember what it felt like to hold her. I still remember the pain and agony of those days in the hospital, wishing we could just take our baby home rather than have conversation after conversation with doctors and specialists, all of us searching for answers.  I still remember the devastation I felt when we first believed Tessa would need to stay in the NICU for about a month. I still remember feeling hopeful after meeting with the surgeon who successfully repaired a tear in her colon.  I still remember staring at my baby through her isolette and whispering, "I'm here, sweet girl.  You are so, so strong."  I still remember being jolted awake by the phone ringing the morning of August 22, 2011.  We scrambled to get to the hospital as quickly as we could.  It wasn't looking good.  I remember the room we sat in as the doctors explained Tessa's current condition and the new complication of a post-surgery infection.  And I remember what may be the most pivotal and heartbreaking moment of our lives, when Mike and I looked at each other after talking to the doctors. Our hearts shattered as we held Tessa for the last time.   

Tomorrow, Tessa would be turning eight years old.  She'd be going into 3rd grade, the grade I currently teach.  While I really try hard to not dwell on the "what ifs," I can't help but wonder what she would be like at this age.  

While I can't help but to relive the painful memories each August, I also feel really proud of what our family looks like eight years later.  I'm proud that we can talk about Tessa to her sisters.  I'm proud that we have friends and family who support us in keeping her memory alive.  I'm proud to have four beautiful daughters. 

Preparing Elise for August 19

Tonight while putting Elise to bed I told her that Tessa's birthday is in two days.  I wanted to help prepare her for our emotions on that day, but I also just told her because it's normal for us to prepare her for things a few days in advance.

Her first question was, "Will she be there?"  She looked confused as she asked this, as she knows Tessa has died.  I said, "No, she won't be here on her birthday because she died when she was just a baby."  We went over the details again.  She kept saying, "Can you tell me more about what happened?"  I told her pretty much everything . . . how mommy and daddy decided they wanted to have a baby, how she grew big in my belly, how we didn't know if it was going to be a boy or girl, how she arrived on August 19, how happy we were that it was a girl, how we named her Tessa Bunny (which got some giggles), and how she started to get sick because a part of her brain didn't grow, how Tessa rode in an ambulance to a different hospital where they could take better care of her, and then that she died.

I explained to Elise that on Tessa's birthday, mommy and daddy might be sad because we miss Tessa so much and we wish she could be with us on her birthday (and every day).  I started to cry while explaining this to her and she got out from under her covers and enveloped me in her arms.  For a while we just sat there holding each other in this hug, and neither of us said a word.  It's a moment I will never forget.

Then I reminded Elise that her middle name is Tessa so she can always have a little piece of her sister with her.  We made a plan to look at pictures and talk more about Tessa on the 19th.   These conversations are becoming so special to me and each time we talk, I become less scared to broach these kinds of topics with Elise.

"I miss her."

About a month ago Elise and I were laying in her bed at night and she was playing with her stuffed animals (one of them she calls Daddy . . . he's a panda).  She said something about "Daddy (panda) had a brother who died."  I have no idea where she came up with this or why she said it, but I responded with, "Did you know you have a big sister, Tessa, who died?"

Elise just looked at me very thoughtfully and asked why she died.  I thought for a split second about what to say and then I decided the most truthful answer would be best.  "Tessa had a part of her brain that didn't grow and that made it very hard for her to stay alive.  You and Rosie have big, healthy brains."  She was quiet for a few moments.  Here's how the rest of the conversation went:

"I miss her.  I want her to come and live in this house with me and Rosie," Elise said. (These were her EXACT words.  I start a steady stream of tears at this point.  I mean, seriously?  Could there be any more loving response than this?)

"I miss her too.  But we can remember her by looking at pictures of her."

"I know!  We have a picture of her in Rosie's room."

I asked Elise if she would like a picture of Tessa in her room and she said, "Yes."  We talked about it a little bit longer, although I don't remember exactly what was said, and then it was over.

It turned out to be simple and so much less scary than I thought.  Of course, it stirred up all sorts of emotions for me.  I held it together fairly well until I got downstairs and told Mike about the conversation.  We both had a good cry and I felt a huge wave of relief.  It's like I had been holding this conversation inside for so long, worrying about what to say, when to say it, how Elise would respond, how I would respond.  And it just happened.  Naturally and perfectly.  Exhale.

Thanks to Joel and Jenn Corcoran for this picture

Fear of the Questions

A few weeks ago I went to dinner with a friend.  She told me that she was talking to her daughters about the new baby that is joining our Walton family when she decided to remind her daughters that Elise already has a big sister, Tessa, who is in heaven.  She was really proud of herself for bringing it up to her girls because it just isn't easy to bring up or talk about.  I was so appreciative that she told me this and that she's talking about Tessa to her girls, when it would be much easier to say nothing.  It got me thinking, though.

I've written a little bit before about talking to Elise about her big sister, Tessa, and I've always felt like I was doing a good job.  Elise and I used to sing a song every night to Tessa.  We would look at her picture in Elise's room (next to pictures of her cousins) and talk about it.  If I asked Elise who her sister is, she would say "Tessie" but I know she didn't really understand.

For many reasons, talking about Tessa to Elise has become harder for me.  First, Elise moved into a "big girl room" and the pictures of her cousins and Tessa are still in the baby room.  But that's really not the main reason it's gotten harder.  Now that Elise is extremely verbal and is questioning everything (yes, we are in the "why?" stage), I'm a bit fearful of talking to her about Tessa.  I'm worried about the questions she might ask.  I'm just not sure how to respond to any of them.  I'm worried that she WILL understand what happened or that it will somehow cause her fear.

If Elise were to ask, "Where is she?" . . .  I'd like to respond, "She's in heaven" . . . but it feels a little wrong to say that and not know if I fully believe it or not.   I'd love to think there's a heaven out there and that's where Tessa is, but I also didn't grow up with that kind of faith.

If Elise were to ask, "Why is she in heaven?" . . .  I don't even know how to start with that one.  Talking death with a toddler is not my idea of fun, and I don't know how to boil down the medical reasons Tessa died into toddler language.

I can think of so many other questions that might pop up, big and small, and they all scare me to different degrees.  I've never been good at "on-the-spot" thinking, so I know this is something I need to think more about and research.   I know of some good resources to turn to, but I wanted to write about it because it's been on my mind a lot lately.  For now, I've set a small goal for myself: to move the pictures of Tessa and the cousins into Elise's new room.  Baby steps . . .

Thank You #2

After Tessa died, we had many questions about what happens to her body.  It was not something we were prepared to deal with and I definitely was not in the right emotional state to start making arrangements.  We spoke with a social worker from Kaiser about different options (burial, cremation, memorial service, mass, etc.).  We knew there would probably be some people who expected us to have some sort of service, but it really didn't feel right to us at the time.  We ended up deciding to have Tessa cremated, but I had no idea how to go about that.

Fortunately my sister, Lexy, graciously volunteered to make all the phone calls and investigate how to get the cremation process started.  In her research, she found a man named John O'Connor, a local funeral director for 50 years.  Lexy told him about our situation and he said he would take care of the cremation free of charge.  Mike and I met with him that week and were overwhelmed by his kindness.

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Dear Mr. O'Connor,
Exactly four years ago, our sweet daughter Tessa passed away.  She had lived only three days and my husband and I were torn apart with grief.  My sister spoke with you about our wishes to cremate our daughter and you told her you would take care of it, free of charge.

I wanted to sincerely thank you for such an enormous gesture of kindness.  When my husband and I met with you to fill out paperwork, you told us, "No parent should ever have to go through losing a child."  You approached the difficult conversation about cremation with such care and sensitivity. Then, you took care of everything for us, like picking her body up from Oakland after the autopsy, taking her to be cremated, making sure we gave you a blanket for her to be wrapped in, and then bringing her remains back to us.  You made us feel comfortable with the whole process.

We are so lucky to have met you and I can't thank you enough for taking care of us and for taking such good care of Tessa.  Your generosity and kindness will never be forgotten.

Sincerely,
Georgia Walton

Thank You #1

At the writing retreat I attended in January, one of the assignments we had was to write a letter to someone.  It could be something we intended to send to the recipient or a letter that would remain totally private.  I didn't even have to think twice about who I would write to.  Since Tessa's death, I've thought a lot about the people we came in contact with over the three days of her life.  For some reason, I often find myself thinking of the man and woman who transported me via ambulance from Kaiser Redwood City to Kaiser Santa Clara so I could join Tessa (who had been transported earlier in the day) during her stay in the NICU.  I've wanted to thank them for so long (you'll see why in the letter), but I always put it off.

One day I mustered up some motivation to start investigating.  I couldn't remember the names of the ambulance folks, so I e-mailed my doctor and asked if there was any way she could find out their names by looking back at my medical records.  Now, I can't even begin to tell you how often my medical team goes above and beyond for me (like taking time out of their busy days to investigate a request like this), but I told her why I wanted to know and she got right on it!  The next day, she e-mailed me their last names and the name of the company they work for.  Incredible!  I haven't officially tracked them down (who knows, they may not still work for the ambulance company), but I fully intend to get this thank you letter to them.  

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Dear DB and JH, 

You met me once, a couple of years ago, on August 20, 2011.  I had just given birth to my first baby the day before.  You had a simple job . . . to transfer me onto a gurney at Kaiser Redwood City, load me into the back of an ambulance, drive me to Kaiser Santa Clara, and leave me with the lovely folks in the Mothers and Babies unit.  You ended up doing so much more than just your job.

You made me laugh during one of the scariest days of my life.  You told me about how you two had just become partners and how you got along so well from the start.  You teased one another, which made me relax and giggle along with you.  When we arrived at the hospital in Santa Clara, you didn't have the faintest idea where to take me.  You rolled me around the quiet hospital wings.  It was deserted (I remember it was a Sunday), and we were clearly in the wrong place.  It turned into a funny game and our laughter echoed through the empty patient waiting room areas.  We tried one hallway, only to reach a dead end and have to turn around.  You must have been rolling me around on that silly gurney for a good 15 minutes before we found the Mothers and Babies Unit.  

I can't explain why I think of the two of you so often.  I think it's because it was the only time I laughed that day and in many days and weeks to come.  I've always wanted to say thank you to you.  You gave me two amazing gifts that day: you gave me laughter and you delivered me to be with my daughter, Tessa, before she died two days later.   These two simple gifts made such a big difference to me. 

I am forever grateful.

Sincerely,

Georgia Walton