Month: May 2023

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Three – 2023 đź©·

We really haven’t had what anyone in MN would call “Spring” this year. In spite of that, my memories of the final weeks we had with Astrid have been running through my mind.

Last month I attended the funeral for a young woman I never met but had recently met her parents. In the eulogies prior to the funeral service, her youngest brother spoke about how during a period of time when the young woman was not around for family gatherings, he would do a head count, feel her missing presence, and recognize his family was “not complete.” These two words struck me at my heart – I feel them two ways. One, as the missing person and two, as the person missing someone else.

When you lose a child who no one ever had the chance to meet “in real life,” it makes for interesting introductions. When someone asks how many kids I have, I almost always say 4. It’s not that I’m ashamed or embarrassed that I have two others (one miscarried and one stillborn,) rather, those are sacred parts of my life that I reserve for people who have earned the right to know. But as I answer the question about kids, I feel the words “not complete” in my chest. It’s a heaviness that I doubt will ever go away.

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Mother’s Day 2023

5/14/23

Today is sandwiched between a day I remember as a painfully low day and one that brought immense joy. Three years ago on 5/13/20, we found out that Astrid had died. Tomorrow is her older brother’s birthday. And though it will get its own post, I will briefly mention that Astrid’s birth day is the next day, 5/16.

Next year it looks like I will be spared the aligning of her non-heartbeat day with Mother’s Day. I’m grateful for that. As the parent of a child who died before they “should” have, these Hallmark holidays can be especially difficult. It’s a fine line to walk being excited to have kids around and yet recognizing things are not complete. Someone is missing. (Two someones, actually.) And while I do want to be upbeat and cheery for my four Shecklets, my melancholic self tends to notice who is missing. And that makes me sad.

I can’t believe it has been three years since we lost Astrid. The times I imagine her as the age she “should” be are fewer than in the past, but I do tend to picture her as an almost three year old around this time of year. I see my four kids getting older, growing in independence, and I enjoy each one of the so much. And yet, when I stop and look, I realize my picture is not complete. Someone is missing.