On Passover, April 02, 2007, we lost our first child. She was conceived during a full moon at Point Reyes National Seashore while we were alone at Wildcat Campground, a mile of beach, a thundering waterfall, and an infinite expanse of ocean all to ourselves. We first discovered we were pregnant on the vernal equinox, and Spring, with its promise of new life, seemed to take on a deeper meaning.
I was captivated by the changes occurring in my body - what an incredible feeling to know someone else was growing inside of me, her soul and mind different from my own, yet still linked. Could she hear my thoughts or feel my heart? What thoughts and memories were conveyed through my placenta - our link to one another? As her brain cells differentiated, was she capable of thinking? And what did she think of the confines and possibilities of my womb? Could she hear me talking to her and soothing myself to sleep with dreams of what our lives would be together? Could she feel Ted kiss my stomach or hear him serenading her with guitar songs designed only for her? Could she sense how much we wanted her to be a part of our lives - already adjusting to make way for a third person in our family?
Would she be an adventurer? A lover of the world? A philosopher? Quiet? Outgoing? What traits would she take from me - my blue eyes, my love of causes, my stubbornness, my passion for books? And what would she take from Ted - his natural athletic abilities, his love of nature, his strong jaw and nose? And how would our traits merge together with her own traits to create this new person? What moments would shape her life? What would be her loves? Her challenges? Her life events that would keep her awake at night? When she complained to friends about her parents, what would she say about us? When she wrote us letters, what would she write?
All of these questions and more lingered in my mind as I went to doctor's visit after doctor's visit, riding a roller coaster of false hopes and dashed dreams. I visualized myself six months pregnant at a BBQ, nine months pregnant at Thanksgiving, giving birth to the baby in a water tub at our house, trying to remain positive and entice her to stay. Despite our love and desire, we were helpless to keep her with us. I was completely unprepared for the depth of the sadness that followed her passing. She embodied our dreams for the future and the possibility of ourselves in a new form. To lose the baby was to lose much more than a clump of tissue and blood - it felt like losing a piece of our souls.
It is at times like these I am reminded of what it means to be human - to be helpless in the face of events that are outside of our control, to feel sadness and loss, but also to join together with family and friends in prayer, to merge closer together as a couple, to feel love so deeply that it breaks our hearts, and to be awakened to possibilities. When I was pregnant, we talked a lot about what we were most excited to teach the baby when she arrived, and I began to reflect on all the wonders of the world through a child's eyes again. How amazing to be able to taste an apple for the first time, to sit in the shade of a willow tree, to hear a bird's call, to play in dirt, to walk through a neighborhood alive to all the smells and wonders of the path! Being pregnant, even for a short time, was a blessing, and the baby, even though she was never born, changed my life.
At the base of a Giant Sequoia in Yosemite National Park. The oldest tree there is 2,700 years old! Sometimes it's good to be reminded of how small and fleeting we really are, and also that things that seem easily destructible (like trees) can thrive for thousands of years. We were especially amazed at how soft the trees were, how supple the bark and how ancient the wood!
