Ten years. (from Dad)

[A guest post written by D.]

To my daughter, Mila….

Today would have been your 10th birthday. 

I used to think about what you’d be like at 5. Or 10. Or 18. But with the passage of time, I no longer think about who you would have been. I think about who you were and what you mean to me today and forever.

You are our first child. As much as your sister likes to argue the merits of her being the “oldest”, you were our first. When Mama was pregnant with you, we were so excited. We waited for you for 9 whole months, building to a crescendo of new-parent anticipation, love, and yes, preparation. And then, in an instant, we lost you. 

And even though we held you for only a few hours before we had to say goodbye, you will forever be our first child. We love you always.

You are the foundation on which our family is built. Your death was like an earthquake. It was so disorienting. The life path we were on wasn’t altered…it didn’t come to an abrupt dead end…  It completely disappeared. 

Suddenly we were in the middle of a dense jungle with no path or purpose in sight. We had no choice but to start over and carve our way out. But which direction should we go? Any direction we could pick was as good (or as bad) as the next. What more did we have to lose?

So we took some risks. We moved abroad. The entire trajectory of our family was changed by you.

And even more importantly, you changed who we are as parents. How I am as a dad. How Mama is as a mom. When I see your brother and sister and how close they are, I’d like to think you had something to do with that too. Who would they be without you? Would they even be?

You are not just part of our family; we grew out of you.

You changed me fundamentally for the better. For me, there is a before you and an after you. You were born lifeless, but the ways you have affected my life are profound and permanent. My whole world changed on December 23, 2013. Losing you stripped me emotionally to the bone. 

Before you, I spent way too much time in my own head regretting the past or worrying about the future. So much so that I missed out on years of living in the present. Unfortunately, nothing could have brought me more violently into the “now” than losing you.

So I have spent the better part of a decade “after you” trying to rebuild myself into a better person. That would not have happened if it weren’t for you. You forced a self-reckoning. 

There are so many ways that I can continue to grow personally, but today feels like a good day to acknowledge how far I’ve come. I hate that losing you had to be the reason for who I’ve become, but I am so grateful for it.

To Mila’s mama….

You are the love of my life and the most amazing mother in the world. I’ll never forget how you were with Mila that day. In the deepest throes of emotional and physical agony a woman can endure, you were above all else, Mila’s mama. I don’t know how you did it. And 10 years later, I am still marveling at you. You are the strongest person I have ever met.

Losing Mila could have easily broken us in ways that were impossible to repair. Instead, it deepened our love for each other. For a while there, it was just the two of us, wandering in the world lost and alone. But we had each other. And somehow we managed to put one foot in front of the other until we found joy in life again. Now I wake up everyday knowing that no matter what life throws at us, we will persevere together.

I also want to thank you for this blog. You have left our family and the world such a beautiful tribute to Mila and a vivid testimony of grief, anger, fear, hope, and rebirth. It is truly a gift.

I feel so much warmth reading your posts now–even through the sadness. My favorites: Mila’s Life, Mila’s Birth Story, your travelogs of our escaping the world in Japan, finding hope and happiness again at the end of the world in Chile and Argentina (and parts 2, 3, 4), physically and emotionally moving on from the west coast; and more recently, your eulogy for my Dad. 

I hope that one day when they are older, our children will read this blog and learn from it.

To the World….

Having a stillborn baby is excruciatingly isolating. People don’t know what to say. Let’s face it, no one likes talking about dead babies. So they say nothing. Or they ignore you. Or even worse, they say something like “don’t worry, you’ll have another”.

Mila’s mom has documented that isolation in this blog. It’s a tough read. But as rare as it is to hear a mother talk so honestly about having a stillborn child, it’s even rarer to hear a father do the same. Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to talk about what that’s like in more detail.

Every 16 seconds, a baby is stillborn. Today I think about the many parents around the world who will have to endure that isolation with little or no support network. Or even worse, be actively stigmatized by their community.

Which is why I am so grateful for our family and friends and the doctors, nurses, and support groups who helped us through those early years. Many friends were there for us 10 years ago and continue to be by our side today. Some of you didn’t know us then but have become the closest of friends. 

Two of the first people to rush to our side in San Francisco after we lost Mila are gone now too.

I miss them.

And so life goes on.

On Mila's 10th birthday.

Although I haven't written here regularly for a long time, this blog will always be special to me.

Today I don't find myself compelled to say much and that is because, for me, this blog serves its purpose. I have said what I had to say. I wrote this as a record of Mila's brief but beautiful life; and of all the experiences in the wake of her stillbirth that I couldn't allow to be forgotten, but that I also could not bear to carry myself. This was a place to set those things down for safekeeping. That brings me a lot of peace.

When I started this blog, I called it "After Mila" with the blind hope that someday, I would get to a place in my life that truly would feel like an "after." And I have. I'm here. I made it.

So today, all there is for me to say is:

Happy 10th birthday, my girl. Thank you for everything you have given me. I love you, endlessly. xo Mama

This body is not me; I am not caught in this body,

I am life without boundaries,
I have never been born and I have never died.
Over there the wide ocean and the sky with many galaxies
All manifests from the basis of consciousness.
Since beginningless time I have always been free.
Birth and death are only a door through which we go in and out.
Birth and death are only a game of hide-and-seek.
So smile to me and take my hand and wave good-bye.
Tomorrow we shall meet again or even before.
We shall always be meeting again at the true source,

Always meeting again on the myriad paths of life.

-- Thích Nhất Hạnh

Eight.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.

xo,
Mama

A letter to you on your 7th birthday.

Mila Nalin. Today you would have turned 7 years old.

Every day you remind me of what matters. You remind me to appreciate this moment, because the next is not promised; and so you remind me, don’t wait. You teach me empathy and you teach me strength. You show me what I am capable of, and also what I cannot control. You have always been and continue to be a blessing.

xo
Mama

Re: the photos. I don’t have any proper pictures of you. So these are some of the places where I have found you.

Dad.

Our family is grieving again, so here I am. Two Tuesdays ago, D’s dad passed in his sleep suddenly and unexpectedly. He’d been active, vibrant, and living his life up to the last. He would have been a young 74 next week.

In a strange coincidence, I had been thinking about Mila the night before. I think of her routinely, but am at a point now where it doesn’t usually upset me to think of her. But that night in the shower, I found myself remembering the emptiness of losing her. I remembered how after an initial period of shock and silence, how strong my urge had been to document everything I could about her. I remembered my horror at the realization that, since no one else had known her, it fell entirely to me to tell the stories of her life; and if I failed her in that duty, it would be as if she had never existed. This blog exists because I could not bear that she would leave no trace on the world. And at the memory of that feeling, I did break down, hard.

It had been an unremarkable day and I still wonder why that memory came to me that night, seemingly unbidden. I stood in the shower afterwards wondering, apropos of nothing, if it would be any easier to grieve someone who had lived a full life, full of family and friends who could help carry the weight of remembering all their stories. Then I went to bed and thought nothing more of it.

Now on the other side of that night, I can say, no, it’s not any easier. Different, but not easier. Everyone Dad touched in life has their own stories about him; those, I don’t have to carry. But I knew him as another dad to me and the grandfather of my kids; those are the stories I carry. Those are the stories that I have to put out into the universe. Here they are; let them be remembered, for ever and ever.

To the best Dad and Grampy our family could have been blessed with.

We still can’t believe you are not here. We keep waiting for you to walk through the door with your big smile, ready laugh, and a big hug for the kids.

You doted on Isla. She had a seat on your lap whenever she wanted it, and ready access to your iPad. She could always convince you to go swimming with her, no matter how much you protested. Like you, she loves planes, and her toy box is full of toy planes that you picked out for her. Every time one flew overhead, you could tell her what kind of plane it was and where it was going. She loves biking too, just like you, and you were so proud of her progress this year. I’m quite sure you spent hours researching the perfect new big-girl bike to get her for her 5th birthday next month.

You had a soft heart for Jake, too. When he was a wakeful young baby and we were staying at your house before we moved into our own, you let Jake sleep in your office. You would always clear out of there at 5:30pm, carrying your computer and all your papers, so that he could go down and D and I could get some sleep too. You did this for months. And when Jake was older, your office was like heaven to him. You let him press as many buttons, rifle through as many drawers, play with as many gadgets, and steal as many golf balls as he wished. Jake’s toy box is full of trucks you picked out for him, the newest ones from just this past week. When Isla got to sleep over at your house without Jakey, you sent a set of trucks for him with a note explaining that you didn’t want him to feel bad about being left out of the fun. What a sweet Grampy you were, to worry about that even though he was still too little to understand that he was missing out. I am so glad that I saved the note for him.

When Mila was stillborn, you showed up in San Francisco the very next day. You read all my most difficult blog posts about her in the very dark year that followed, and during a time when most people did not know what to say, you did. You always offered such loving reassurance and support. I will never forget that.

And Schmorgy, well, we all know Schmorgy hates pretty much everyone but he always, always loved you.

No matter where in the world we were living, whether it was Boston or San Francisco or Spain, you were always ready to jump on a plane to come see us and the kids. And it was always a fun adventure. When you visited us in Madrid, you talked up everyone in the neighborhood and made friends with everyone from the local bakery employees to the guy at the mobile phone shop down the street, and somehow seemed to know all about the neighborhood goings-on, even though you barely spoke any Spanish. I am so glad that we came home in time to give the kids the last couple of years together with you. I just wish that there had been more.

You and Mom raised two wonderful men. I see you in D every time he thinks through a strategic or logistical puzzle, and also when he drops everything to help a friend or family member and makes sure everyone is taken care of. I see you in the kids every time they get excited to see a plane flying overhead or are able to give us turn-by-turn directions from point A to point B. The two of you created a loving and welcoming home that is always at its best, loudest, and most fun when it is filled with grandkids, cousins, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, and a crazy dog or two. We lost you too soon. There is a hole in our hearts and we miss you incredibly.

Six.

Happy almost-6th birthday, baby girl. Six years ago tonight I was curled up at home with you, looking forward to the holidays, and unbeknown to me, sharing some of my last moments with you. Where would we be now, if you had stayed?

When we lost you, suddenly everything that really mattered to me was so clear. All the daily annoyances and insecurities fell away, for a time, and there was just that quiet knowledge. That was one of your greatest gifts to me. Nowadays, with the noise of everyday life, it's harder for me to access. My innermost thoughts are not as clear. But I'll keep working at it.

Schmorgy sniffed at your box of mementoes when I took it down from my closet this evening. His expression was curious and sensitive, all soft ears and knitted brows, and I think he knew it was something special. I think you would have loved him. Isla knows a bit about you, and she'll know more as she gets older. She is an imaginative, nurturing, artistic, particular, reserved, and defiant four years old. Your baby brother Jake is still too young to know about you, but he will too. He is still a little guy, 20 months old, and full of giggles and affection. He likes anything that "go-go's" and pretty much every dog he's ever seen.

We miss you, but we are so lucky. We are so lucky, but we miss you.

Love you always,

Mama

Fourth birthday.

Happy 4th birthday, sweetie. You would be such a big girl now!

I'm a day late in posting to the blog this year, since life's getting more hectic with a two-year-old in tow. We've driven down from Madrid to Andalucía to spend the holidays in a house in the countryside surrounded by orange trees, lavender, and artichokes. This year Mila's candle, instead of being a quiet zone, is surrounded by toddler chatter and toy cars. Isla is growing into a girl who is sweet, funny, empathetic, and button-pushing all at once. She seems so grown-up to me at two, chatting and flirting and sassing me in both English and Spanish; but I wonder sometimes how different our dynamic would be if Mila were here to be the big girl of the family. Maybe Isla would still seem to me like a baby in comparison. Maybe I'd coddle her more, and maybe she'd lean on her more experienced big sister. Maybe Isla would not be Isla. Maybe we would not have undertaken our Spanish adventure. I'll never know for sure.

Down the path our lives have actually taken, Isla will be the big sister of the family, because we're expecting her baby brother in April. We're firmly in alternate-universe territory now, because this third pregnancy is the one I would not have planned to have if Mila had survived. I'm happy that he and the pregnancy look healthy and normal so far, but it does feel a bit strange to me. I'm definitely feeling the wear and tear more this time. I'm five years older and despite lugging around a 25-pound kid every day, I wasn't nearly as fit when I started this pregnancy as when I got pregnant with Mila. My body's getting creakier and more fatigued by the week. I've had more than my fill of pregnancy and I'm looking forward to hopefully being finished with it for good. 

I also (based on no logic whatsoever, but nevertheless) never expected to have a boy, always having felt like more of a girl mom, especially after having had both Mila and Isla. But here we are! We'll give away our old pink onesies, stock up on more boy-friendly ones, and figure it out.