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Untold Stories
Mar 18, 2010
Untold Stories
I can’t remember how long it was after Lucy died. Not long. 3 or 4 months perhaps. I was meeting my friend, Karin, at Red Butte Café in Foothill Village. Karin and I became acquainted through our Bradley Method childbirth class. As we would meet in the small home in the avenues to learn lessons on breathing, husband coaching, transition, breastfeeding, and birth plans, I came to appreciate the infectious smile and warm personality that was Karin. Our little girls were born one month apart. Both with thick heads of curly hair. Lucy’s blonde, and Eliza’s dark brown.
Nervous to see her, knowing that her beautiful daughter Eliza would be with her, I parked my Subaru and took a deep breath before exiting the car. I wanted to see her. I needed and appreciated her support. But seeing her little Eliza, I knew, would break my heart.
After finding her seated in the corner of the restaurant and exchanging hugs and pleasantries, we sat down and “got to business.” Eliza drank her milk and I held back the tears. Then Karin looked me in the eyes and said so sweetly and sincerely, “Tell me a story about Lucy.”
I was breathless for a moment and then the floodgates opened. But simultaneously, I felt like I took a breath again, a real breath, for the first time since Lucy died. Why? She was the only person to ever ask me that question. Two years later, she is still the only person that has ever asked me that question. “Tell me a story about Lucy…”
And you know what? I don’t remember what story I told her. It was just such a relief to know that my daughter was not forgotten. I don’t want MY pain to take the place of HER life. I have so many stories to tell about her life. About all the little things she did and said. The things she learned, the laughs she created. Some of them have already been blogged about, and some of them are fuzzy memories of days spent together at the park, in the condo during the long Park City winters, or at Nana and Poppa’s.
Isn’t that what we do as parents? Tell the latest stories of our children? The hilarious things they say, the milestones they reach. They are part of our everyday evolving story and world. What hurts now is thinking of all the untold stories over the past two years that I cannot tell. Undoubtedly, we would be sharing tales of crawling out of bed in the middle of the night, funny phrases and silly dances, kisses with baby brother, and first soccer games. But these are stories I can only imagine.
I’m left with telling the same ones over and over again. And being asked to share them is like being told, “Your daughter’s life is still recognized, important, and special. She is not forgotten. Tell me all about her.” And that is what Karin did for me. She let me share a story of the past because I don’t have any of the present. She made me feel normal. She made me feel that Lucy was just as present as Eliza sipping on her milk.
Lucy will always be a living part of my life. I can tell new stories of my grief—the things I’m learning and the ever-evolving emotions that accompany this roller coaster of mortality. But Lucy, she only got so many pages dedicated to her life before the end was written. And oh, how I long to share those stories to anyone who will listen.
On a side note, Karin and I became pregnant one month apart a second time, both with boys. Her boy, Luke (which is the masculine of Lucy) was born on May 18, 2009--one year after the day Lucy choked.
Lucy and Eliza about one month before her accident. The hair!
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Comments
janet on 03/18/2010
I loved every bit of that. After reading it, I feel so blessed to NOT know the kind of pain you're going through and couldn't help but donate to your cause. What a difference Lucy's stories have made in my life as a mother. Thank you!
Jacquie on 03/18/2010
How interesting that I found this today. I too loosing my little one have a friend whose little boy was born at 26 weeks a day after my little 24 week son. He still is alive and growing and doing what babies do.
I am to meet my friend tomorrow. I faintly remember meeting with her after Kaden had passed...even holding him...but it hadn't really set in. It was too fresh to know the days without him.
Hopefully, and undoubtingly I am sure she will be sensitive. Like you I don't want MY pain to take the place of HER life.
Brook on 03/18/2010
I lost my baby boy in December, and I am always telling people that I like talking about it even if it is hard. Your story finally explained to me why I like talking about him. My little boy was only a few hours old when he died but I do have some stories I can tell. When you said "It was just such a relief to know that my daughter was not forgotten..." I realized that that is why it is so important for me. Thank you sooooo much!
Miggy on 03/19/2010
Even though we haven't lost our baby {and hopefully won't}, the new circumstances of her life have put all this in a new perspective. What people say or don't say can have a significant impact. I know I have to give some people lee way as they just don't know what to say, BUT I really have to say I don't understand people who know, yet don't acknowledge it at all. I'm scared that my baby's life--even if she's living!--won't be acknowledged properly because she's 'different.'
Once again good and timely post Molly.
Jennie on 03/19/2010
Molly...you just know exactly what you are doing. You have made me resolve to be a better mother and to love a little stronger. Thank you for your example of patiently enduring...even when it seems minute to minute. You are ALWAYS in my prayers.
Kelly on 03/20/2010
Molly, I think you've hit a very important point for those of us trying to support someone grieving a loss. My sister lost two premature babies and I work in the healthcare field where I deal with families grieving on a daily basis. Although we try to say something of comfort, there often is nothing, absolutely nothing you can say that helps. But listening to a person express their grief, shed some tears and share memories of their loved one can often be more help to the person than anything you could ever think of to say.
Megan on 03/21/2010
I'm sorry you have been having such a hard time. I'm sure my email for help an advice on the passing of my friends baby didn't help. You and all women who lose a child and just keep going are such an inspiration to me. Thank you for being you and sharing yourself and your story with so many.
Karin on 03/22/2010
Oh Molly...... I remember that day vividly. I remember how we both drank milk for our growing babies. :-) I remember worrying about the impact my having Eliza with me would have on you. And I remember worrying about and wanting to be what you needed in that moment. I am humbled and honored by what you wrote. And you and Lucy are a pretty amazing team - the impact you have on others transcends so much...even death. Loves to you Molly.
Kendra on 03/26/2010
I felt I wrote part of this. I tell my husband everyday to talk about my daughter. I need him to say her name. I need others to just say her name. Its like everyone doesnt want to hurt me so they dont mention her- when that actually hurts more. I fell everyone has forgotten her. Am I the only one who still dreams of her daily, wishes she was still here, runs to the bathroom every few hours to cry? I know others miss her, love her and think of her often. Thanks for sharing this with me. I hope you tell lots of stories of Lucy- you will keep her alive for forever. She is far to special to not be talked about all the time :) Your amazing. Your words are amazing.
Angenette on 03/26/2010
Once again Molly, you've expressed so beautifully how I feel. I am constantly shadowed by a need for Jacob to be remembered. I need people to know what a sweetheart he was. I need to know that his life touched others. Sometimes I need the assurance that he existed and he wasn't a dream. And most importantly, as you said, "I don't want MY pain to take the place of [HIS] life." He had a brief but wonderful life. Someone besides me remembering that helps me keep going. Thanks for sharing! Love you!
Jenn Clark on 05/05/2010
Molly, that was beautiful. It's interesting... I had an experience just this last week when someone asked, "tell me how you were before your disabilities." I started bawling because it was like someone remembered that there was a "normal" me before all the things I've been through. I couldn't stop crying and I loved telling a couple stories of how I used to be.
I do think about your little Lucy, separate from your pain. I never got to see her in person, but I've watched all the videos you've posted and looked at every picture. She is so beautiful and charming! Her laugh is absolutely gorgeous. I giggle along with her in the videos you post. I'm sorry that I never mentioned that before.
Love you guys-
Jenn
Shara on 03/18/2010
Beautiful, Molly! What a wise & thoughtful friend you have! Thank you for helping the rest of us know what kinds of things are the loveliest to say. I love Lucy stories, thank you for sharing your princess with all of us.