Butterfly Baby

Today marks 8 weeks since I delivered Molly.  Again, it feels like forever, and it feels like a single moment all at the same time.  My memories of September 9th are as vivid as ever, and yet, I can tell I'm beginning to heal.  My heart is slowly getting sewn back together.  But the seams from the break will always be there.  I will never quite look at life the way I did on September 7th.  I will never assume that pregnancies end happily.  I will never see a baby or child and think that she is anything less than an absolute miracle.  I will never let a day pass without telling Cole that I am so grateful that I get to be a part of his life.  And I will never have a day when I don't think of my beautiful Molly.

Grief is truly the strangest thing I have ever experienced.  There are so many levels to this pain and so much confusion.  On any given day, I feel happy, sad, guilty, grateful, joyful, depressed, anxious, and hopeful, just to name a few.  I laugh and cry every day.  I feel happy and sad at the same time, all the time.  Happy to be at a pumpkin patch with my family, and so sad that Molly isn't there with us.  Happy seeing Cole and Brendon play together every evening, and yearning for Molly to be on my lap while I watch them.  Happy to celebrate birthdays with my nieces and nephews, and devastated that I will never see Molly rub frosting in her hair on her first birthday.  And it isn't just now that time has passed that I feel these mixed emotions all the time.  I very clearly remember feeling happy after I delivered Molly.  I know some of it was the post-labor and delivery hormones, but I also genuinely felt happy just holding my girl.  As horrible as it was that she wasn't breathing and her heart wasn't beating, I was still so happy to see her face and hold her hands and touch her toes and kiss her perfect little lips.  I was finally holding the girl I had dreamt about for not only 9 months, but practically my whole life.  I couldn't help but be happy and sad in that moment.

 

Some people may look at my 39 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy and see it as a waste of time.  That if we didn't come out with a live baby, it wasn't worth it.  And I'll admit, this thought crossed my mind (followed by intense guilt.  Ah, guilt.  I could write an entire book on that.  So many people have told me to just "let the guilt go."  That's like telling someone to "just relax" if they can't sleep.  I can't "just let it go," but I can accept that I feel it and work towards believing that I couldn't have prevented what happened.  I'll get there).  Ultimately, despite the way my pregnancy ended, despite the fact that I had to let Molly go, I would never take any of it back.  I would never wish those 39 weeks and 6 days away.  I got to feel her kick and see her shake my belly with her movements.  She is one of two people that know what my heart sounds like from the inside.  I know that for her short life, she was comfy and warm inside of me.  And eventually, I got to see her and snuggle her and dress her and hold her hands.  Briefly, but I still was able to do these things, which I've sadly learned that many parents never get to do.  And I got to have these perfect, irreplaceable moments:

As short as our time with Molly was, she brought us so much love.  Love not only for her, but also for each other.  I never questioned that I married the right man, but through this experience, I've learned the strength of my marriage.  Brendon is truly the most patient, kind, and supportive man I've ever known.  Losing Molly could have ripped Brendon and I apart, but it did the opposite.  I can't speak for him, but I know I love him more now than I ever have.  Molly taught me never to take a day with Cole for granted.  I love his kindness and his humor, his laughter and his amazing memory, his obsession with cars, and his impressive vocabulary, which now includes Euoplocephalus and many other dinosaur names.  My heart is overflowing with love for both of my children.  The pain, sorrow, sadness, and grief I feel over losing Molly will never overshadow the joy I feel for getting to love her.  She will forever be my perfect girl.

Some people call babies who have died "Angel Babies".  I can't explain it, but that term just doesn't sit well with me.  However, butterflies are also a symbol for lost babies, and I absolutely love that image.  I recently read Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver, a novel about climate change with an underlying theme of loss and hope.  One of the characters in the book believes that butterflies are the souls of lost babies.  And even though I wouldn't go so far as to say Molly's soul is in a butterfly, I find deep comfort in images of butterflies.  Butterflies are beautiful and hopeful and complicated and evolving.  I didn't know how deeply I could love someone until I had to let Molly fly.  I am also reminded of a quote by Nathaniel Hawthorne: "Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."  Oh, how true.  When I search for Molly, she's beyond my reach, but she pops up when I least expect her and I feel her fluttering by.  Whispering in her brother's ear.  Sending her cousin Tess to give me a hug.  Loving me the way she can.  And I will love her right back, always.


"It's a happy life, but someone is missing.  It's a happy life, and someone is missing."
~An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken

The photos were taken by Amandalynn Jones.  She is a volunteer photographer for Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, a national organization that provides photographers to families who will not get to leave the hospital with their baby.  We could not be more grateful for these photos.  We will treasure them forever.
http://www.amandalynnjones.com/photography/
https://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/