Easier

It seems that when someone experiences loss, people feel the need to say something that equates that loss to something in their own life. "I know how you feel," or "When I lost my (fill in the blank)..." I've had conversations with some people discussing the loss of a baby versus the loss of a grown child. How maybe it was easier for us...or for those with an adult child. Which way is easier? To have only three days of memories, as we did? Or to have 21 years of memories, as my dear friend Kathy did? Which is easier...years of Christmases to remember and be haunted by - or no Christmas pictures, no presents unwrapped...no memories to haunt us?

This is, without a doubt, the stupidest conversation I've ever heard.

Even with only three days of memories, we are still haunted. We are haunted by the "what ifs" of our life...what if we'd waited one more month to get pregnant? What if we'd chosen more medical interventions? What if we'd brought her home? What if my sisters had come to town to meet her? What if she was still here? What costume would I have dressed her in for Halloween? Would she have understood Halloween and Christmas this year? What if she had lived?

And my friend, Kathy...whose 21-year old daughter died just eleven weeks after an unpredictable cancer diagnosis. What haunts her? The pictures on her wall? The memories in her heart? The Christmases to come that Allison will never have? The wedding that will never be?

Who's to say which of us suffers more? And frankly, why in the world does it matter? We both grieve...we both mourn...we both love our children...we both think of them daily...and we both find a way to move forward, to find the beauty around us, to keep living the life we were blessed with. We live with more questions than answers. We have days that are good and days that aren't. We have moments that feel amazingly light and blessed...and moments that feel as though our legs have been taken out from underneath us.

We are the same.

My loss is not greater than hers. Hers is not greater than mine. They are not the same, but if there is one thing I have learned it is that no one can, or should, compare loss. It cannot be compared. It is, after all...incomparable. I cannot know her grief...she cannot know mine. I cannot know her ghosts...she cannot know mine. And that is the way that it is.

When we begin to assume that one loss is greater than another, we minimize what it is to that person. No one else can know how it feels to bury their child...unless they have. Even then, everyone's exeriences are their own.

It is a fallacy to believe that one loss is easier than another, especially when those losses are that of a child. I didn't lose Faith...I know right where she is. It's not where I'd choose her to be right now, and it's not where I'd imagined she'd be...but I am at peace with knowing that she's okay and waiting for me and her dad to one day join her. And knowing that there is a lovely young woman named Allison whose mother walks with me on this Earth makes today just a little bit easier...

Erica

Cardinal Nation

In 1995, I moved to St. Charles, MO for college. It's a western suburb, about 25 miles west of downtown St. Louis and the famous Arch. We had spent the previous three years living in Cairo, Egypt. Before that, we lived outside of Denver, CO. I had no idea I had just moved to a whole new world...Cardinal Nation.

I grew up watching the Denver Broncos and John Elway in his heyday. I learned about football from my mother. Not my father...he could have cared less about any sports at all. To this day, he would rather do just about anything than watch a football or baseball game. So, as a kid in Denver, I learned about the quarterback, off-sides, touchdowns and the "hail Mary" pass from my mother. To this day, I still really love watching football. However, when we lived in Denver, there was no professional baseball team. We went to one baseball game in Colorado...for the Denver Zephyrs. I still have no idea what a Zephyr actually is. It was a minor league team and I have a vague memory of it.

So, when I moved to St. Charles for college, I knew all about football. Not a whole lot about baseball. But, I was quickly introduced to the game because, little did I realize, I'd moved to a city that has a love affair with their baseball team. No kidding.

The St. Louis Cardinals have been in St. Louis for I don't know how many years, dating all the way back to the years of being the St. Louis Browns. When I first began college here, I don't remember caring all that much about baseball. Then Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa had their famous Home Run Race, in which McGwire beat out the home run record long held by Roger Maris. I vividly remembe sitting in my dorm room with my roommate, watching the game where he hit number 62. And I, too, fell in love. That was probably the moment I really felt like a resident of Cardinal Nation.

That home run race revived baseball after a strike several years before. And it truly introduced me to the Cardinals and the fact that, as my mother says, "Baseball is genetic...not geographic." My mother, who lives in Cincinnati, still roots for the Cardinals. Her older brother, who has lived in Houston for probably the last 40 years, still roots for and goes to Cardinals' games. Even if the games are in Houston.

Being a Cardinals' fan is inevitable if you live in this town...once it's in your blood, it's there for a lifetime. St. Louis baseball fans are known amongst the sports world as being the best baseball fans around. We have a friendly rivalry with the Chicago Cubs...we'll heckle you in the stands and buy you a beer after the game. Mostly because we know the Cards are a better team. : ) Just kidding. Sortive.

My point is that tonight I'm sitting in my living room with a glass of wine...watching the final game of the regular season. Number 162. As is often par for the course, the Cardinals have kept us watching, kept us biting our nails until the very last moment. In order to make the playoffs, we MUST win this game tonight. And we had to win last night. Which we did...by a lot. 13 to 6. It was fabulous! And tonight, we are leading this game 6 to 0. It's looking good for the St. Louis Cardinals. The other night, I watched the game and listened to all of the chants and cheers of, "Let's go Cardinals!" The applause, the cheers, the hollering, rooting on our Redbirds. The funny thing is, the game was in Houston, not St. Louis. It made me smile as I rememberd that baseball is genetic...not geographic.

For it doesn't matter where you live...once a Cardinal fan, always a Cardinal fan. I love fall...changing colors, falling leaves, cool temperatures. And baseball at its best. And I know that no matter how many addresses I have in my lifetime, I will always count Cardinal Nation among them. Go Cards!

Lanterns

I can't believe I haven't written in over a month. What can I say...life got busy.

August 14th was Faith's birthday. She would have turned 2 years old...she would have been walking, talking, making messes, wreaking havoc, and probably getting into everything under the sun. Instead, our house remains the same. Quiet, free of kids' toys (for the most part), and the cabinet in our kitchen that I cleaned out over two years ago to make room for baby bottles and sippy cups...still sits with one lone bottle I got as a free sample. I'm not sure why I've never put things back in the cabinet. I guess we didn't miss the space, so why move everything around again?

Faith's room is as we set it up. There is still a crib, mostly unused, except by one very special little boy just last weekend. Sarah was so careful when I suggested using it to only use it if we were comfortable doing so. After all, it was supposed to be for Faith, and she didn't want to invade that space. I told her, "It's a piece of furniture." She asked again, "Are you sure?" I assured her we were. It felt a little strange...a little tug on my heart, but it is, after all...just a piece of furniture. Palmer peacefully (for awhile anyway) slept there and it was okay. If it couldn't be for Faith, then it seems appropriate Palmer get to use it first.

We remembered - and celebrated - Faith on her birthday. Jamie's parents, his sister and her family, and Marc, Sarah, and their boys joined us for a barbeque. We enjoyed each other's company and walked to the Catholic church across the street to launch some Chinese Wish Lanterns for Faith. That was definitely one of the coolest things I've done...they took off to the Heavens like nothing I've ever seen. We were all quite impressed, and I felt genuinely happy watching them until they disappeared in the sky. Check out the sidebar for a few pictures of our celebration.

Two years have gone by since my child died. Sometimes that phrase still sounds strange to my ears...like it's someone else saying it, living it. But, it's not. It's our life. I have learned how not to be so sad, so overwhelmed by it. I've learned to celebrate the small moments...the family gathered together, the cards we get in the mail, the phone calls, the texts, the flowers placed on her grave by someone other than us. The beautiful August day (not a phrase you often hear this time of year) made possible only by our little angel. So, the next time an August day tops out at 80 degrees with no humidity, and a cool breeze that makes it possible to want to be outside...say thank you to my daughter.

Erica

I'm Not Blind

Jamie said to me last night..."I'm not blind anymore."

He meant that we don't live in the world that we used to...we don't live blindly, assuming that nothing bad will happen. We live in a different world than many people...which a lot of people don't really understand. I will tell people, "I don't live in your world," and they often look at me like they don't know what I mean.

I mean, that nearly two years later, we miss our daughter every single day. We look at a room unused, a crib never slept in, a house empty of toys and sippy cups and bottles...eyes wide open. We spend time with friends - and their kids - often feeling as though we're left out of a club.

It's no one's fault...no one intentionally makes us feel left out. Our life makes us feel a bit left out. After all, how do you contribute to a conversation about when kids walked and talked, and who's potty trained, and what summer camps they're attending...when your child isn't there? It just becomes a painful reminder of all that you are missing out on. How do you contribute to a conversation about preschools and school shopping and day care costs when the only thing you can think of to say is, "I wish I had something to say...I wish I knew."

Sometimes, my frustrations are warranted and valid...like listening to a complaining parent who does so without gratitude for what they have been blessed with. Sometimes those frustrations are less rational - mind you, they don't feel less frustrating, but my brain knows that they aren't rational...they're just emotions, and emotions aren't always rational.

I certainly don't pretend parenting is easy, or that I understand the day-to-day grind of it, but I can't stand listening to parents who go on and on about how hard and how miserable things are...or listening to pregnant women that do nothing but complain about being pregnant. I often want to scream at them to count their blessings. And it's only the people who can't see the good through the bad that bother me the most. The average parent, who gets frustrated with their strong-willed 3-year old telling them "no" doesn't phase me, as long as what I see is a parent who loves their child and knows, "This too shall pass." Like Jamie has often pointed out, people just assume that you get pregnant, wait nine months, and get to bring a baby home. When your story doesn't work out like that, it changes everything about you...it cuts deep, it affects every part of your life.

People who know us will probably tell you, if you ask, "They're good...they're fine." And we are. We get up, live our lives, and go forward. We go to work, the bills are paid on time, the lawn gets mowed. We cook dinner, go on vacations, laugh at ridiculous things that happen and cherish our time with the people we love. But, below the surface sits something that isn't visible...something that other people don't see, but something that Jamie and I feel everyday.

So, while we're "fine" most days, there are still those moments that feel a lot harder than they should. Hearing the news of a pregnancy from an acquaintance...sometimes that hits hard, though it often depends on who it is. I don't wish anyone ill, but there is a part of me that so frequently wishes one thing...

I wish so much that someone would truly get this without ever having to truly experience it. I want people to know that while we're "fine," we're not the same. I just never, never, never want anyone we love to truly know what we feel every day of our lives. Because that would mean that they, too, buried their child. And no one should ever have to do that.

Though I wish for this, I have found some friends and family whose sensitivity and compassion has gone far beyond what I ever expected. The friends - a word that can't begin to describe this relationship - that show up for every walk, every anniverary, every remembrance, every event for Faith. Who bring us a plant on Mother's Day, call Jamie on Father's Day, and ask about Faith's birthday before I ever bring it up. Those people that aren't afraid to say her name in conversation, to tell me that they stopped at her grave...those are the people where we don't feel left out, where we feel included in every part of life, despite the fact that they are busy raising two boys. Because, there, with them...we feel like we aren't the only ones who aren't blind. These are the friends that walked our journey with Faith, side by side with us, who held us up in our darkest days.

For us, sometimes the greatest comfort comes in knowing that they, too, don't go through life blind. And as always, simply knowing you're not alone is the greatest comfort of all.

Erica

Butterflies and Fireworks

I'm sitting in my living room tonight, drinking the first glass of Chardonnay I've had in over a week. We spent the last week on vacation at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico. And, apparently, they don't have Chardonnay. In fact, when I asked for it, they kind of looked at me funny...alas, I survived the week on Corona and taste-testing a variety of other cocktails. Hard life, I know.

I was sitting here, enjoying that glass of wine, feeling very guilty and very unpatriotic...hence the guilt. It is July 4th, and I could honestly care less about watching the fireworks. Our neighbors will shoot off some later tonight (I'm already hearing some booms), but other than maybe peeking out at that, I don't know if I'll even care to do that. I am just fine sitting in my house, drinking my Chardonnay, catching up on recorded shows, and maybe doing a little reading.

I started doing some catch-up reading on some of the blogs that I read regularly, and one of the women was talking about her late son's upcoming birthday...and it crossed my mind that I don't think I care much about July 4th right now because in a way, it was the beginning of our journey with Faith. I remember being at my in-laws that year, enjoying the fireworks and the 4th of July...telling people we had a doctor's appointment on July 7th...expecting nothing more to really come of all the ultrasounds and tests and visits. And then, days later, being so completely wrong, and so utterly devastated. Since that year, this holiday just doesn't feel the same. I can't help that my thoughts go to those dates in my head that we are approaching. It just seems the beginning of a rough time of year for us, leading up to Faith's birthday and the day she left us...followed by her burial. July 7th, July 8th, July 10th, August 14th, August 17th, August 22nd. Forever, those dates are burned into my mind. I don't think I will ever look at those dates on the calendar in the same way...they will forever have those other events inked in. July 7th happens to be our wedding anniversary, and July 9th is my birthday, so there are good moments in there.

Almost as much as her birthday and those few days after, these days in July are difficult, too. I think about the fact that I should be chasing around a 2-year old, making play dates with friends and their kids. We went to Mexico for a week, and more than once while we were there, I thought about how different our life should be. Would we have gone to Mexico? Who would have watched Faith? So many questions...so many "what ifs?"

Part of this journey is learning that there are so often no simple answers. For many people I've met, butterflies have a special meaning to them in relation to the loss of their baby. There are some stories about the meanings that butterflies have, and that they carry a spirit with them. When we were in Mexico, there were butterflies everywhere. We drove down one road on our way to a snorkeling spot and there were hundreds of butterflies...I sat and thought about all of the babies that I know whose spirits might be on those wings. It made me feel a little better, thinking that a piece of Faith was with us there.

Now, we're back to reality. Life is still here in St. Louis...and July is still going to pass us by. Those dates will still be in my memory...that will never change. I guess that I'm still struggling with exactly how to weave those dates into a calendar that has other things penciled in.

Erica

Money Isn't Real

One of my favorite movies is "Blow." It's a true story of George Jung (played by the fabulous Johnny Depp), who became part of the Pablo Escobar drug cartels and was largely responsible for smuggling cocaine into the U.S. in the 60s and 70s. Now, obviously, this isn't a "feel-good" kind of movie...but it's intriguing and Johnny Depp is at his best.

My very favorite scene in the whole movie is in the opening few minutes when George, as a young boy, is talking to his father, played by the amazing Ray Liota. His father's self-made business has just gone under and they are in a precarious financial position, teetering on bankruptcy. George is expressing concern over the fact that they are out of money and how his prissy, high-maintenance mother will take this news. Without missing a beat, his father looks at him and says, "Money isn't real, George. It just seems like it is."

This has become my new favorite one liner..."Money isn't real." Because, it isn't.

Coincidentally, Jamie and I just recently watched the newly released HBO film, "Too Big to Fail," about the collapse of Lehman Brothers and the ensuing bailout of AIG by the federal government. It was fascinating how our government and our society placed so much blind faith in Wall Street. CEOs that were taking home millions of dollars in bonuses each year and even just the "peons" that were bringing home six figure salaries. Listening to the numbers they were throwing out was mind boggling...and frightening. As Jamie said, "There is no one on this planet, no job, that is worth tens of millions of dollars a year." Agreed. And how sad is it that our financial "gurus" make exponentially more than our congressmen, senators, and even our president? Or our soldiers? Or the police and firefighters that risk their lives to protect us? What is wrong with our society that this is how we prioritize? No matter what you think of the government, it says something about how we value these roles when the President of our country makes significantly less than the president of a bank.

Watching the movie, there was a human part of me that had a small amount of compassion for these people who were watching their entire lives crumble beneath them. But, the bigger part of me that looked at Jamie and said, "Money isn't real."

I watched the story of these CEOs and bank higher-ups whose lives collapsed under their feet, I kind of thought it was a good lesson. Their whole lives were built upon a falsehood that having millions of dollars, multiple homes, fancy cars, and expensive clothes bought them security and made them infallible...that they were better than the rest of us because they could buy things the rest of us can't even imagine being able to afford.

Now, I will readily admit that having money certainly makes life a little easier and less stressful. But, I can't even imagine what it would be like to be able to buy whatever we want whenever we want, without thinking about how we'll pay for it. And though I would love to win the lottery, I don't want to lose the values that we have now...the values that make us think about what we're purchasing, how we're going to pay for it, and where the money is coming from. Those values have taught us that we have to work for and earn the things we have...and that we aren't immune from the ups and downs of life. We save money so that we don't have to worry about "what if?" We've had times where we were more flush and had a lot more discretionary income, and we've had times where we're squeaking by, paycheck to paycheck. And guess what I've discovered?

Money isn't real...it just seems like it is.

Because no matter how much or how little money we've had in our lives - and even going back to my childhood - I don't think about the "richer" times as the "happier" times. The happiest times have been almost the opposite in a way...camping trips in the mountains as a kid, fishing trips as an adult with my husband. Sitting in a whirlpool tub in a cheap bed and breakfast, drinking a $10 bottle of wine, bike riding in our neighborhood parks, watching fireworks on the 4th of July at my in-laws, drinking cheap wine on the patio at Marc and Sarah's. None of this required a big house, or a big boat, or shoes that cost more than my house payment. Nor should they...what IS real are relationships and the values you carry in this life.

And none of the thing that matter can be bought...and none will collapse with the failure of Wall Street.

Erica

Last Day

So, we have finally finished another year of school. 12 years of "last days" are behind me...and a lot more are in front of me. I feel more like a veteran teacher than a young teacher, as I was so reminded tonight by a young man working at the restaurant where some teachers and I were enjoying happy hour.

"Hi, Miss Ezell. How are you?"

I turned my head, responding to my maiden name, to see a very nice looking young man in glasses. After what I hope was a discreet look at his nametag, I made the connection...he was a former student. And for the record, the second I knew his name, I knew him. Now, a high school graduate, getting ready to attend college in the fall and bussing table in the meantime. We chatted for a few minutes, and then I proceeded to walk back to the other end of our table and announce, "I feel old."

I remember this young man well. He was sweet, quiet, well behaved and hard working. On our fifth grade camp overnight that year, he was amongst a group of students who wandered away from their counselor and spent a few very scary minutes "lost" in the woods where we were camping. Upon being found and finally sitting to eat breakfast, he was one of the kids that sat at the breakfast table, relieved to be "found" - and promptly burst into tears. He had been terrified and it showed. I remember hugging him and trying to reassure him that he was okay. At 10 years old, he was very much a little boy that morning.

Today, it was not a little boy in front of me, but a young man who clearly stayed on the path he'd always been on - with a future in mind. It was a beautiful way to end this 12th year of teaching - to be reminded of the past. To have a student remember you and talk to you so many years later has a way of reminding you what you teach for. Some days we really need that reminder.

And so, another year is behind me. I remember a good friend years ago telling me that one of her favorite parts of teaching was knowing that, at the end of every year and the beginning of another, was a chance at a "do-over." In teaching, we have a unique opportunity to correct our mistakes and do a better job than we did before. Sometimes you feel like all you are doing is making mistakes, so seeing a student almost a decade later can serve as a great reminder that not everything is worthy of a do-over. Sometimes, just once in awhile, we get it right on the first try.

Erica