The First Birthday

It has taken me a few days to absorb what Sunday meant. I can give the rundown of the days leading up to Vivienne’s birthday, and even the events of the day, but I’m guessing when people ask “how was it?” they aren’t looking for the sequence of events. There are a lot of complicated emotions associated with her birthday, and I’m still learning about all of them.

It was a hard day, a peaceful day, a day of meaning, a day of sadness, a proud day, a disappointing day, a day of reflection, a day of avoidance, a day of love, a full day, and an empty day. It’s just easier to say it was, and still is, complicated.

The days leading up to her birthday were hard, among the hardest I’ve had since the weeks after we lost her. I cried A LOT, I felt really lost, and I had a few complete and total breakdowns. You are forced to remember everything that led you to this life-changing day. I felt like I hadn’t made any progress in my grief. I was right back in the worst of it.

The day of her birthday was, in some sense, easier than the days before. It helped to be surrounded by family and to know we had so much support out there – it’s like you could feel people praying for you and thinking about you. The biggest help was that we could focus on her. We get very few opportunities to be traditional parents and to do things for our daughter, but Sunday was a day we could do that. And it was also a day when everyone would say her name. I can’t tell you how much I love to hear someone say it. Then she is real to everyone else, not just to her Dad and me.

Her birthday started at church, where a new Christ candle (which is lit at baptisms and other special occasions) was dedicated in Vivienne’s name (generously purchased, without our knowledge, by our families). Yes, I cried, but I was also a pretty proud mother to have a permanent testament to the life of my daughter sitting in front of me. After church, our families came to our home for lunch, cake, and a balloon release.

We had an opportunity as a family to talk about Vivienne, which doesn’t happen very often. This was a time for everyone to say how much they missed her. There were many tears, which was hard. Seeing my Mom cry is something that will never be easy for me. And seeing my nieces cry is even harder. But, it was a necessary part of grieving Vivienne for all of us, and helped me realize that her Dad and I aren’t the only ones who are missing her terribly.

The balloon release was a hopeful moment. We each wrote messages to Vivienne on the balloons and sent them to her in heaven. Two of the balloons, one of which belonged to my niece, got stuck in a tree. She was visibly bothered at the thought that her balloon wouldn’t make it to her cousin, and fortunately, Vivienne sent some breezes that freed the balloon to continue on to her.

Probably the event most representative of her birthday was her birthday cake. First, it came with an indicator of how different Vivienne’s birthday was from most other first birthdays. Turns out, when you order a cake that says “happy 1^st birthday,” the bakery assumes you have a child celebrating and gives you an extra “smash” cake for free. This small cake sat on our counter constantly reminding us that it wasn’t a “normal” first birthday.  A nice gesture from the bakery, but a kick in the gut for us. And then there was the moment of lighting her birthday candle and singing to her. No one was sure if we should sing “Happy Birthday” but I started us along. And there we were, singing this happy celebratory song through tears. I think that best sums up our day.

After everyone left, Gordon and I settled in to read all of the thoughtful messages we received for her birthday. All of the photos of candles, meaningful images, and acts of kindness provided some healing for us that day. On Sunday, Vivienne’s life had meaning to people outside of our family. She mattered. That meant everything to us.

As the day wore on, I stared at the clock, waiting for the minute she was born. From 9:42 until 9:50, the span of her time here on earth, we sat in near silence.

As I’ve talked to people throughout this week, I keep getting asked if I feel any better now that we have passed her first birthday. I have to say, I just feel different – no better, no worse. A big thing that I’m recognizing right now is acceptance. I am finally accepting that this is not a bad dream that I will wake up from. This is my life. I know that must sound strange that it could take an entire year to finally accept that this is not a nightmare. All I can say is that it’s amazing how much the mind will cling to hope, but eventually, reality does take over. And this is my reality. There is a new sadness that comes with accepting that this can’t be undone, she’ll never be back with us, and we will always recognize her birthday without her.

And that is my daughter’s first birthday. A combination of celebrating her and what she has meant to us, sadness at missing her more (even though I thought that wasn’t possible), and finally coming to terms with the fact that I will not wake up from this nightmare. Complicated, very complicated.

Support

It sounds strange for me to write here that I feel like we’re lucky. We’ve had the worst thing I can imagine happen, so it’s hard to feel like we come out on the good side of the lucky equation, but in this way we do. Over the past 8 months, we’ve really seen what an amazing support system we have, and that makes us pretty lucky.

Let’s start with family. I’ve heard some pretty bad horror stories at how families have handled the loss of a baby. From parents who don’t count those lost children as part of their grandchildren (they say they have no grandchildren when they should say they have 1) to not recognizing important days throughout the year like holidays and their birthdays. We’ve had none of this. Vivienne has Grandparents who count her, who all have candles, photos, and a framed poem for her in their homes. On Christmas, she had a tree covered in ornaments given to her by relatives and stockings with her name on them. In my Mom’s frame of all of her grandchildren, there is a picture of Vivienne front and center. My Father in Law made a special frame for a poem that hangs in our house and theirs. And my nephew sent me a note once about how my great nieces talk about their cousin Vivienne who is an angel in heaven. She is a member of our family, and everybody sees that, which makes us pretty lucky.

Then there are our friends. Again, I’ve heard the horror stories of “friends” telling people who have lost a child that they should be over it, that their grieving is inappropriate or even gruesome, and friends who disappear because it’s just too sad, and they can’t handle it. We’ve had a little bit of that, but not very much. For the most part, people check in to see how we’re doing, tell us that they think of us and Vivienne, and that they are doing what they can to understand what we’re going through. No one has ever told me it’s time to move on or that they think how I’m managing through losing Vivienne is wrong (I’m sure there are some who think it, but they’re kind enough not to say anything). Again, that makes us pretty lucky.

And then there are the long lost friends we only see on Facebook or email. They don’t know much about our lives these days, but they still send us nice thoughts, and many have made generous donations to our March of Dimes Walk in Vivienne’s memory. It feels good to know that she’s touched the hearts of so many people.

And I can’t forget the people who came with “support” in their job description, all of the people in our support groups, both online and in person. They are the ones who understand, tell me what I’m feeling is normal, and give me hope that there are some good days ahead. When I am having a bad day (which happens more often than I like to admit), they are the ones I reach out to, and they are ALWAYS there to listen, send their good thoughts, and let me know I’m not alone. I’ve been lucky to find some really amazing women through these groups who have helped show me the way through the darkness.

But most of all, there’s my husband, who is my main source of support. You might be surprised to hear that I’ve heard horror stories about the husbands too. The ones who won’t talk about the baby or the loss, who don’t know what to do when we’re crying, or who just want to move on and leave the past in the past. Nothing could be further from the truth for us. I know he’d do anything to change what’s happened and fix my sadness, but he also respects that it can’t be fixed. He shows what an amazing Father he is everyday—protecting his daughter and her memory. He listens to me talk, holds me when I cry, listens when I get mad and vent, and understands more than anyone else can what it’s like to walk our path.

Losing Vivienne is without question the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, and I’ll continue to work my way through this for the rest of my life. But I am lucky that there are so many people around to support me in that journey. All of the kind, supportive words have meant more than I could possibly say and help me to get up every day, put one foot in front of the other, and try to move forward as best I can. And when I fall down, which I do, I know that one or more of these people will be there to help pick me back up.

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If you're interested in donating to the March of Dimes March for Babies in memory of Vivienne,  you can donate at www.marchforbabies.org/forvivienne