Each year like so many proud parents, I'm always excited to share
those "first day of school" pics of Roslyn and Gabriel. But this time of
year is also a painful reminder of the one who is not here.
Yes, Natalie would be starting high school today! It's been hard to
get my head around. It just feels kinda surreal and it's just so sad.
Everything we're missing out on, that SHE'S missing out on... It breaks
my heart that Roslyn doesn't get to share the experience of being in
the same school with her sister, playing the part of the big sister,
the trail blazer helping Natalie find her way around Classical. It's another one of life's milestones missed.
I'm sharing this photo, which I found the other day while looking
through a folder of pics my Mom took in 2005 on her first visit to meet
Natalie when she was about one month old. I just really liked it. I
always try to imagine what she'd be like now as a bright, beautiful,
full-of-life 14 year-old -- and I can conjure up some thoughts, but
that's all they'll ever be. Losing Natalie is a pain that will never
leave me, nor do I want it to because the measure of the pain is a
measure of love. It is endless.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Memories and baby elephants
It was 12 years ago right around this time (it's about 9 o'clock as I write this) that I tucked Natalie in for the last time. The past few weeks have been more difficult than usual, leading up to the dreaded March 18th.
Today in particular I thought about our last day together, 12 years ago. It was a Saturday and kind of a crappy day in terms of weather -- we'd gotten a few inches of snow followed by rain, which created slush. Natalie and I had both come down with a cold the day before. Although the three of us girls were taking it easy at home, I felt the very least I could do would be to clear the slush off the front steps for the mailman. I rallied Roslyn and Natalie to go outside for a bit while I did that. Natalie flat out refused to put on her snowsuit and I didn't have the energy to argue with her. She wore her winter boots and coat. Roslyn who was fully suited up was having fun frolicking in the slush, but all Natalie wanted was for me to pick her up. She kept reaching her arms up at me saying "up, up!" I obliged, picked her up, and managed to push the slush off the front steps with a robust toddler in my arms. We went back inside as quickly as we could, had some lunch, and then I took Natalie upstairs for her nap. She nursed, but had trouble falling asleep. Finally, she drifted off for only about 30 minutes. I don't remember the rest of the day other than we had spinach pie for dinner and Natalie ate pretty well. When I put her to bed, the light from the streetlight outside her window was enough so that I could see her face in the dark. She was wide-eyed and looked right at me as I said good night. I kissed her again and said "nite, nite, sweet girl. I love you."
No parent ever thinks when they put their child to bed that it's going to be the last time they ever see them alive. Why is the universe so cruel?
I don't really have the energy to write any more about that night or the morning of March 18th, 2007. I have found it remarkable that several adorable baby elephant pics and videos have popped up in my Facebook newsfeed in the past few days -- three in the last 36 hours alone! Natalie loved blueberries, her favorite color was purple, and elephants were her favorite animal. One of her favorite bedtime books was Eric Carle's "From Head to Toe" and she took pride and joy in showing me how she could stomp her foot like an elephant (such a big girl!). I've written about signs before, usually in the context of butterflies, but I'm taking all of these baby elephant appearances as my sign this year. I love you, Natalie, and miss you more than words can say.
Today in particular I thought about our last day together, 12 years ago. It was a Saturday and kind of a crappy day in terms of weather -- we'd gotten a few inches of snow followed by rain, which created slush. Natalie and I had both come down with a cold the day before. Although the three of us girls were taking it easy at home, I felt the very least I could do would be to clear the slush off the front steps for the mailman. I rallied Roslyn and Natalie to go outside for a bit while I did that. Natalie flat out refused to put on her snowsuit and I didn't have the energy to argue with her. She wore her winter boots and coat. Roslyn who was fully suited up was having fun frolicking in the slush, but all Natalie wanted was for me to pick her up. She kept reaching her arms up at me saying "up, up!" I obliged, picked her up, and managed to push the slush off the front steps with a robust toddler in my arms. We went back inside as quickly as we could, had some lunch, and then I took Natalie upstairs for her nap. She nursed, but had trouble falling asleep. Finally, she drifted off for only about 30 minutes. I don't remember the rest of the day other than we had spinach pie for dinner and Natalie ate pretty well. When I put her to bed, the light from the streetlight outside her window was enough so that I could see her face in the dark. She was wide-eyed and looked right at me as I said good night. I kissed her again and said "nite, nite, sweet girl. I love you."
No parent ever thinks when they put their child to bed that it's going to be the last time they ever see them alive. Why is the universe so cruel?
I don't really have the energy to write any more about that night or the morning of March 18th, 2007. I have found it remarkable that several adorable baby elephant pics and videos have popped up in my Facebook newsfeed in the past few days -- three in the last 36 hours alone! Natalie loved blueberries, her favorite color was purple, and elephants were her favorite animal. One of her favorite bedtime books was Eric Carle's "From Head to Toe" and she took pride and joy in showing me how she could stomp her foot like an elephant (such a big girl!). I've written about signs before, usually in the context of butterflies, but I'm taking all of these baby elephant appearances as my sign this year. I love you, Natalie, and miss you more than words can say.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Grieving Parents Club: Thoughts on the Death of President Bush
The passing of a president naturally causes people to reflect—both
on the president's life and time in the White House and their own lives seen
through the lens of that time. I was deeply moved by today's funeral service
for President George H.W. Bush. The four eulogies were eloquent and honored the
life of our 41st president with warmth and dignity.

I cried as George W. Bush broke down at the end of his eulogy, thinking
about his father finally being able to hug Robin and hold Barbara’s hand once
more. What a comforting idea that is. For a parent who has lost a child, the
thought of one day being reunited is sometimes the only way to get through the
agony of having to go on living without her. It is a thought I sometimes
entertain about Natalie… (until my pragmatic side wakes up and causes me to
question it).
Listening to all the stories and analysis of George Bush’s life and
his presidency has been illuminating, but through it all I am left with the
image of a father who lost his baby girl and lived the majority of his long,
full life grieving her each and every day. Despite all the privilege and power
and politics of the Bush family, I am left with the image of an imperfect but very human man who welcomed
death with open arms so he could be with his beloved wife and daughter again. I
hope he has found them.
Thursday, September 6, 2018
A Shooting Too Close
Yesterday a 15 year-old boy was shot and killed just outside Roslyn's school. According to the latest reports, he was an innocent bystander, a "good kid" in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is sad and absolutely heartbreaking. The tragedy has sent a tsunami of fear and sorrow and anger throughout our community. My Facebook feed is now full of posts from friends, parents with kids at Classical, expressing their sorrow for the family, worry about their children's safety, and relief that they came home from school yesterday. We are all scared and sad. It was too close, way too close.
Earlier this morning, I found myself involved in a Facebook conversation where some people were talking about this incident as a "school shooting," and I felt compelled to clarify, to point out that this wasn't like Parkland or Columbine. This wasn't a crazed maniac entering a school armed with assault rifles and opening fire. This happened on the street, in front of a school, during a fight, with a handgun, one shot fired. This is in so many ways NOT a school shooting. Or is it?
I started to question why I felt the need to point out the distinction. Why was I so uncomfortable with it being talked about as a "school shooting"? Like everyone, I'm still processing what happened, but maybe I was triggered because I cannot even begin to allow myself to entertain the possibility of an actual school shooting happening so close to home. Maybe if I focus on all the ways this ISN'T a school shooting, that it's not some random evil act by a lunatic with machine guns, maybe then it's not quite so scary. But unfortunately, it is that scary. It really is. Because when it comes to the possibility of losing your child, it doesn't matter how.
People talk about this incident as "every parent's worst nightmare" -- and it is. I know that it is. But what does that mean really? Haven't I also lived "every parent's worst nightmare"? Eleven years ago, I put my happy, healthy toddler to bed one night and she never woke up. No warning, no explanation. Where is the outrage? Where is the outpouring of calls for research funding to find out why thousands of children each year die suddenly without any explanation?
It's because it defies comprehension. We can look at this boy's tragic death and get angry that politicians continue to do absolutely nothing time after time, or that we don't have enough resources to help our troubled youth. You can point a finger and identify a culprit and place blame and that makes it just a bit easier to get angry and feel a little bit less helpless.
When I heard about the shooting yesterday, I instantly burst into tears. Rationally I knew Classical was on lockdown and Roslyn had to be safe. (Right? She had to be...) But irrationally, I felt that I could not survive losing a second child. I know what it feels like and it would literally kill me.
There's a saying that when we have children, it's like having a piece of our heart walking around outside of our bodies. It's true. When your child dies, your heart is forever broken. As a "bereaved parent" (that's what we're called because the English language doesn't actually have a word for us like "orphan" or "widow/widower"), I'm now reprogrammed to be extra careful, extra vigilant to potential danger -- and extra grateful when my kids come home safe and sound.
Yesterday's tragedy hit like a sledgehammer reminding me of all the things that are beyond my control. The truth is, we cannot protect our children. It's one of the hardest realities of being a parent. We are helpless, and when you add guns into the scenario, it's downright terrifying. Life is so fragile. Don't take anything or anyone for granted.
I hugged Roslyn extra tight yesterday when she got home. We talked about what happened. She said it was scary during the lockdown. I wish none of us, but especially our children, had to live in a world where the threat of gun violence is an everyday reality. I hope soon, very soon those who are in a position to do something about it will act.
I am deeply sorry for the family and friends of William Parsons. I'm sorry his parents are now part of the club no one ever wanted to be a member of. But I know after surviving 11 years of grief that somehow we manage to breathe and keep on going. When this tragedy is no longer in the news and everyone has gone back to their regular lives, I hope William's parents know that they are never alone. I hope they know that he will never be forgotten.
Earlier this morning, I found myself involved in a Facebook conversation where some people were talking about this incident as a "school shooting," and I felt compelled to clarify, to point out that this wasn't like Parkland or Columbine. This wasn't a crazed maniac entering a school armed with assault rifles and opening fire. This happened on the street, in front of a school, during a fight, with a handgun, one shot fired. This is in so many ways NOT a school shooting. Or is it?
I started to question why I felt the need to point out the distinction. Why was I so uncomfortable with it being talked about as a "school shooting"? Like everyone, I'm still processing what happened, but maybe I was triggered because I cannot even begin to allow myself to entertain the possibility of an actual school shooting happening so close to home. Maybe if I focus on all the ways this ISN'T a school shooting, that it's not some random evil act by a lunatic with machine guns, maybe then it's not quite so scary. But unfortunately, it is that scary. It really is. Because when it comes to the possibility of losing your child, it doesn't matter how.
People talk about this incident as "every parent's worst nightmare" -- and it is. I know that it is. But what does that mean really? Haven't I also lived "every parent's worst nightmare"? Eleven years ago, I put my happy, healthy toddler to bed one night and she never woke up. No warning, no explanation. Where is the outrage? Where is the outpouring of calls for research funding to find out why thousands of children each year die suddenly without any explanation?
It's because it defies comprehension. We can look at this boy's tragic death and get angry that politicians continue to do absolutely nothing time after time, or that we don't have enough resources to help our troubled youth. You can point a finger and identify a culprit and place blame and that makes it just a bit easier to get angry and feel a little bit less helpless.
When I heard about the shooting yesterday, I instantly burst into tears. Rationally I knew Classical was on lockdown and Roslyn had to be safe. (Right? She had to be...) But irrationally, I felt that I could not survive losing a second child. I know what it feels like and it would literally kill me.
There's a saying that when we have children, it's like having a piece of our heart walking around outside of our bodies. It's true. When your child dies, your heart is forever broken. As a "bereaved parent" (that's what we're called because the English language doesn't actually have a word for us like "orphan" or "widow/widower"), I'm now reprogrammed to be extra careful, extra vigilant to potential danger -- and extra grateful when my kids come home safe and sound.
Yesterday's tragedy hit like a sledgehammer reminding me of all the things that are beyond my control. The truth is, we cannot protect our children. It's one of the hardest realities of being a parent. We are helpless, and when you add guns into the scenario, it's downright terrifying. Life is so fragile. Don't take anything or anyone for granted.
I hugged Roslyn extra tight yesterday when she got home. We talked about what happened. She said it was scary during the lockdown. I wish none of us, but especially our children, had to live in a world where the threat of gun violence is an everyday reality. I hope soon, very soon those who are in a position to do something about it will act.
I am deeply sorry for the family and friends of William Parsons. I'm sorry his parents are now part of the club no one ever wanted to be a member of. But I know after surviving 11 years of grief that somehow we manage to breathe and keep on going. When this tragedy is no longer in the news and everyone has gone back to their regular lives, I hope William's parents know that they are never alone. I hope they know that he will never be forgotten.
Thursday, July 26, 2018
13
July 29th is coming up in three days. I’ve been
reflecting a lot on the fact that Natalie would be turning 13 this
year—officially a teenager and another milestone we won’t get to share. This
summer I’ve run into some other 13 year-olds, the children of friends whose
kids have grown up to become awkward, introverted, and lanky teens… all the endearing
things a 13 year-old could be. Seeing these kids now—kids who I knew way back
when they were toddlers, when Natalie and I would drop off Roslyn as East Side
Nursery School—sometimes stops me in my tracks. It’s an odd perception of time because
these kids are now going into the eighth grade (!!), but Natalie is and will
forever be a little 1½ year-old girl. How is this possible?! The perception of
time is so subjective and changes constantly. I look at Roslyn, now heading
into her sophomore year and it feels just right. I’ve watched her grow up into
the confident, sensitive, and loving young woman she is each and every day—and
though sometimes it does feel like time is moving too fast, it also feels absolutely
perfect.
I have written about this before—wondering what Natalie
would be like. But this year, another milestone birthday, it strikes a bit
harder. What would her passion be? Music? Sports? What would be her favorite
subjects in school? Would she like math and science? Or maybe art? Or Spanish? Would
she follow in her sister’s footsteps and love theater or would she be playing
bass in her own punk band? Or maybe it would be something else entirely that I
can’t even begin to conjure in my brain. And what would she look like? She had the best giggle, I wonder what her voice and laughter would sound like. I can imagine, but then I just
can’t. It’s a strange paradox—and sometimes it just hurts too much to think about it. More than 11 years ago, the universe decided
that we wouldn’t ever get to know these things, and Natalie’s life was taken away. We
were all robbed of the beauty, joy, and amazing amount of fun she brought to
the world. I can only imagine now that she would still be wreaking havoc, only on
a bigger scale—doing all of the things a 13
year-old girl should do. It is forever heartbreaking that she can't.
Since 2007, I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of
saying “happy birthday” to Natalie, but I am starting to think about it in a
new way. It always felt awkward, because the truth is, she is gone and there is
nothing happy about that. Instead I would acknowledge her birthday by honoring the
day she made her grand entrance into the world and celebrating her beautiful,
happy life and all of the love she brought to our lives. I’ve said this before
and I’ll say it again: for all the indescribable pain I have suffered as a
result of losing Natalie, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I am so, so, sooooo
happy Natalie was born. I love you, sweet girl—soooo much! Happy Birthday.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
A surprise gift
Today marks 11 years since we lost our precious Natalie. Last night, I was looking
through old photos and noticed something on this one that I'd
never noticed before. Natalie was born with a small patch of white hair
on the back of her head, which you can see in this photo! I am so
thrilled to have some kind of tangible record of this unique little part
of her because a few days after she died, the funeral director
had given us a few "keepsakes" -- a lock of her hair and some plaster casts of her hands and feet. It reminded to ask about the white tuft of hair and I asked if there was any way I could have it as well, but
unfortunately it wasn't possible due to the autopsy (let that sink in). It broke my
heart but there wasn't anything anyone could do and it felt like another little piece of her had slipped away.
Last night I was looking at every photo, not just the "good" ones of her beautiful smiling face. Since this one is taken from behind, I'd never really looked too closely before, but suddenly there it was! Her precious little lock of white hair. My heart leaped to receive this special gift, especially now on her Angelversary.
I remain eternally grateful to all of my friends and family who continue to support me and my family on this life-long journey. My dear friend Laura Prieto, who also happens to be the first person we called 11 years ago this Sunday morning, recently commented "Love keeps her memory strong." I love this idea and it's true because the depth of the grief is measured by the depth of the love. And the love is oh so strong. It is unbreakable.<3 p="">
3>
Last night I was looking at every photo, not just the "good" ones of her beautiful smiling face. Since this one is taken from behind, I'd never really looked too closely before, but suddenly there it was! Her precious little lock of white hair. My heart leaped to receive this special gift, especially now on her Angelversary.
I remain eternally grateful to all of my friends and family who continue to support me and my family on this life-long journey. My dear friend Laura Prieto, who also happens to be the first person we called 11 years ago this Sunday morning, recently commented "Love keeps her memory strong." I love this idea and it's true because the depth of the grief is measured by the depth of the love. And the love is oh so strong. It is unbreakable.<3 p="">
3>
Saturday, July 29, 2017
#Natalie
Today
my beautiful Natalie would have turned 12. As the years go by, the pain
of losing her has not diminished. If anything, the longing and
wondering what she'd be like grows ever stronger, and the magnitude of
her loss is amplified through all that could have been but will never be.
Her memorial website is temporarily down, something beyond my control. In lieu of a virtual candle there, let's light up Instagram and Facebook with messages and/or pictures of candles, blueberries, or anything else that reminds you of Natalie with the hashtag #Natalie.
We celebrate this day she entered the world 12 years ago and the 19 months and 18 days she was here to brighten our lives. Remembering Natalie always with so much love.
Her memorial website is temporarily down, something beyond my control. In lieu of a virtual candle there, let's light up Instagram and Facebook with messages and/or pictures of candles, blueberries, or anything else that reminds you of Natalie with the hashtag #Natalie.
We celebrate this day she entered the world 12 years ago and the 19 months and 18 days she was here to brighten our lives. Remembering Natalie always with so much love.
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