My beloved angel sister Amanda's birthday was on Friday, October 18th. She would have been 32. Her birthday has had a deep effect on me these last few years, and I think because having lost a pregnancy in 2011, in some small way I now have a new understanding for the immensity of the loss my parents endured with her passing. Of course, the experience is so different. We lost our baby at just 6.5 wks, whereas Amanda was born sleeping at full term. My parents had seen her heart beat and her ultrasound pictures, set up her nursery, celebrated her impending arrival with a baby shower, and given her a name: Amanda Lauren. They, like us, struggled with infertility: three miscarriages (including one at around 12 wks) and Amanda. They have suffered so much sadness and heartache. Knowing how deeply we grieved the loss of our little wee one that was so far from being born, I simply cannot fathom how they ever got through the loss of my sister, or how my mother endured giving birth to her daughter, knowing she was no longer living, that she would not be leaving the hospital with her beloved baby but rather planning her funeral. I think about that and I cry. While I am grateful that my parents can truly empathize with what we have gone through and know what it's like to want a child so badly, and while I am thankful that I've never had to try and explain my feelings and they have been such an incredible source of support for us, no one should suffer that kind of loss and yet so many do, and it breaks my heart that my parents know what it is to lose a child. The path of infertility is not for the faint of heart, that is for sure. I've come to realize that they, like us, wouldn't be who they are without having gone through what they have (what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, etc), but I still wish they hadn't had to go through that, that we didn't have to still be on this path, and that my family here on Earth included a sister and that my sister had a little niece or nephew to spoil rotten.
Time is a funny thing. It passes whether or not we're ready. The minutes tick on, the hours stumble forward, the days inevitably pass and sometimes we wish we could go back and relive something again because it was so amazing, sometimes we wish we could jump ahead, or freeze time, or re-do something we'd like to have another chance at doing differently. Sometimes we long to just BE in the moment, but our thoughts and fears and hang-ups get in the way. This year, on October 18, I was stopped in my tracks by this one thought: Amanda never got to do what I have done. Even in my darkest hours, when wrestling with some heavy, deep things, though all of the heartache and disappointments, all of the fear, and the pain of recovery, I was living. Amanda didn't get a chance to do any of the things I've done. Not one, solitary thing. Yes, she's been "spared" the unpleasantness life has a tendency to throw our way, but she's also never had the gift of living, of feeling joy, of feeling sorrow, of setting goals and realizing dreams, of laughing, crying from both exultation and deep sadness, loving, running, dancing, feeling the wind blow through her hair, glowing with pride or burning with shame. I have been blessed with a LIFE. Good, bad or indifferent, I have been gifted something truly special. I tend to lose sight of that because let's face it, life is hard and it's easy to just forget how fortunate we are to wake up and begin a new day. I know I am lucky to be here. {not once, not twice, but really three times things could have turned out quite differently: 1) my parents could have completely given up on having a biological child. Had they done so, I wouldn't even be here. A sobering thought to say the least. 2) Even after I was finally conceived, I was nearly strangled by my own umbilical cord (the same thing that happened to Amanda...) and was born via emergency c-section. Again, quite the sobering thought. 3) My heart could have given out or things could have gone horribly wrong during my open heart surgery. Sobering thought, indeed.} I know all of this and yet I'm human, I get caught up in the whirl-wind of life and forget my good fortunes. But Amanda helps me remember. Even though she's not here, she has taught me so much.
Time has a habit of continuing to pass, and even though I'm turning 30 and I'm still not a mother, even though I struggle to make sense of why that is, and even though I'm uncertain about our path to parenthood, the journey is part of my life story. I get to be here. And my goodness, I so wish she were here too -- that my parents had two living daughters instead of just one. But when I get scared or I hesitate to do something because I'm unsure of taking the risk or don't know if I'm good enough, I will try to remember that it is a blessing to be here: trying, experiencing, living. It's unrealistic to strive to be happy all of the time, I will complain, I will get upset and wish things were different, but perhaps a good goal would be to try to remember that even though today may be hard, tomorrow holds so much promise. Smile, laugh, take it all in. Live the life I envision and do so with gusto.There will be disappointments, true, but God willing, I will have tomorrow, and tomorrow is a gift denied to so many.
Thank you, Amanda, for reminding me of life's splendors. I hope you are proud of me and know how much you are loved and cherished. Happy 32nd birthday -- You may be gone from our sight, but you will never, ever be forgotten.
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