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| Our 2006 Christmas photo, two months after Anna's death. |
One of the hardest parts of losing a baby is the wondering. A
stream of questions without discernible answers emerges in the wake of loss.
Who would this child be? What would he or she be like? What parts of family
temperaments would have merged to create his or hers? What would family life be
like if this little member had lived? Which of this child’s interests and
talents would we be supporting as parents? And, conversely, which of his or her
quirks would be driving us berserk?
These are the questions that creep up on me in the middle of
ordinary days and haunt me in the dead of night. When I lost my youngest daughter,
I lost any semblance of the future I’d planned. My sugar-candy former life dissolved
into a murky puddle of grit, gratitude, and grief. What appears clear on the
surface—even now, years later—is muddied and dark at its depths.
One of the ways I cope with sadness is by imagining what
life would be with Anna in it; not wallowing in the past, but contemplating who
she might be at this point in her life. These wistful daydreams honor her
spirit in myriad ways—they enable me to continue to acknowledge her brief presence
in the world, to affirm the value of her life, and ensure that she is
remembered fondly by her family.
My imaginings of Anna are translated into concrete form through various investments of time and
treasure in ventures that support children and families. Over the years, I’ve
cultivated a habit of giving the holiday gifts I would have bought for Anna to
charitable organizations that get them into the hands of actual flesh-and-blood
children. I always shop for the little girl that Anna would be in this moment
in time. Sammy usually goes with me to help me pick out exactly what Anna would
have wanted, she being the closer-in-age expert on Anna’s tastes.
We’ve purchased the frilly pastel dresses that would have
appealed to her inner princess diva. We’ve wrapped the dolls that she would
have cradled in her arms. We’ve boxed up the books she would have loved to listen
to, over and over again. One year, we bought the matching big sister and little
sister pajamas that Sammy coveted, packaging the little sister-sized set for a
stranger.
Though each of these shopping excursions pours a measure of
salt in a still-open wound, my continued compulsion to provide gifts for Anna
seems to somehow be a necessary step in my healing process. With each box I
wrap, I weep not only with an ache for the baby I buried, but also for the
young recipient and her family, who are suffering their own sorrows.
Every time I hand off a present meant for Anna, I give away
a piece of my beautifully broken daughter in a way that keeps the tiny flicker
of her spirit alive in this world.