5 years

 5 years

As I sit here with your baby sister, showing her photos of you and telling her you’d be 5 years old today, I feel an anxious and nagging sense that today should be harder. Today should be unimaginable, I should be on the floor crumbling, I should be locked in my dark bedroom hiding under the blankets of my bed. But instead, I have your babbling, bubbly sister in my lap, and there suddenly isn’t as much room for those feelings anymore. It’s as if I’ve had this open wound left to slowly bleed out for so many years, and all of the sudden, Mae came and a bandage was wrapped around it. It still hurts and will undoubtedly leave a scar for all my life, but it feels like it’s finally begun to heal. And it’s so strange, because as much as this healing brings a huge sigh of relief, it’s mixed yet again with feelings of guilt. I never expected grief to come so hand in hand with guilt, but the two have been intertwined every single day since I lost you. Sometimes it feels wrong to be so happy and fulfilled since having Mae, as if another little girl came to me and took your place. Those are the intrusive thoughts I fight every time I try to reconcile the joy of motherhood I am experiencing now with the heartbreak of motherhood I’ve experienced for years. I’m experiencing moments I’ve dreamed of for decades and then mourned for half a decade. But I truly feel like you had a hand in bringing your sister to me, and I feel like each moment I share with her is also somehow shared with you. The ones we didn’t get to have together. So instead of feeling like I need to try to force myself into sadness today in order to honor you, instead, I will love and kiss and play with and snuggle your sister and think of how much she reminds me of you. Sassy, strong, sweet, stubborn, and beautiful. I will love you forever. You will always be the girl who made me a mother. I can’t believe it’s been five years…. Happy birthday, Evelyn. Mommy loves and misses you 💕

2.3.24

 Dear Evelyn,

I usually sit and write you a letter the morning of your birthday, but this year, the emotions came early. My body knew what was coming before my brain could connect the dots, and I felt every ounce of emotional shield I usually carry fall away days before your birthday arrived. Everything has just been right at the surface. I think of the poem my mom sent me about grief being like waves in the ocean- some days they are small, and you don’t feel your boat rock at all, and other days, the waves are miles high and you feel like you are drowning. It’s funny how quickly your boat can drift from the calm waters to the stormy waves so quickly. It takes me by surprise every year how suddenly I can go from living my normal life to feeling like there’s no way I can make it to tomorrow. My counselor reminds me that it’s my brain’s way of protecting me, that the forgetting is a kindness. This year has been an especially confusing one to process… four years feels so far, but I also can’t remember quite where it all went. Each year, I think my mind will wonder how in the world that much time has passed, and it will sting just a little more each time that number creeps up. I’ve been filled with so much sadness this week, and more than any other year, it feels so unsettling. This pain is so strange, because there is truly nothing to be done about it. There’s no conversation to be had, no goal to meet, no relationship to mend. There’s just the feeling and the heaviness. It’s unsettling and uncomfortable to know all you can do is cry and survive through the month. I think what is unusually sad to me this year is the feeling that there is nothing left to be said. I tried my best to love and protect you while you grew inside me for six and a half months, I fell in love and worried about you for three weeks while you were out in the world, and now I’ve mourned you for four whole years. We had so little time. There are no new memories to be shared, there are no revelations to be had, there’s no new feelings to express. So, I just cry. And I lean on those who understand that there’s nothing to say, who understand that I just need someone to cry with. Those are the people who love me the most, and they are also the people who love you the most. I hope you feel their love. I hope you feel mine. So, I sat and cried thinking of you, and one thought wouldn’t leave my mind. You see, I picture you sometimes as you would be if you were with us. I try to picture little four year old you running around, making Benny play dress up, and having your dad wrapped around your finger. But when I try to picture your eyes, I realize I will never know what color they would be. I got stuck on this thought, so I wrote you a song. I want you to know that even though the world didn’t stop, and even though the ache has dulled over time, everything is still Evelyn. I love you baby girl. Happy birthday. 

Golden Birthday

Three years. How can that feel so far away, but also like no time has passed… if I’m being completely honest with myself, the first word that pops into my head is guilt. It’s something I’ve worked on a lot with my counselor. My dad’s mom lost her daughter to a brain aneurysm. My dad’s brother and sister-in-law lost their daughter due to preeclampsia. Their names were Linda and Lindsey. I spoke with my aunt and grandma this last year about losing daughters and the feeling that I can’t quite sort out how I’m meant to feel or go on. My aunt said that even now there are times where she is taken aback by the grief. She mentioned seeing a mom shopping with her daughter for a dress to wear to a dance and how even after decades had passed, it hurst so badly that she had to leave the store immediately. My grandma shared that even to this day, there will be times were the grief is overwhelming and feels unbearable. The truth is, it will never go away… but, they also shared with me that they have learned that you cannot hold yourself back from life or from other feelings because of guilt. That our daughters wouldn’t want us to be sitting in these feelings and not allowing ourselves to move forward. Not move on, but move forward. I’ve thought of this sentiment a lot over the last year. It’s still something I struggle with, because three years down the road, here I sit feeling guilty.

Evie, I feel guilty that I don’t sit in your room and think of you more often. I feel guilty that I don’t look at your pictures or videos more often. I feel guilty that I don’t post pictures of you or speak to moms in my loss groups more often. I feel guilty that I’m not devoting enough of my time, life, and love to you. The truth is, it still hurts too badly to do those things. When I allow myself those moments, I feel like I’m slipping right back into a dark, bottomless pit. There is still not clarity, reason, or hope down there. It hurts too much. So, I’m selfish, and I avoid. I still think of you everyday- you come and go in my mind and heart constantly, but I don’t allow myself to sit quietly and dive deeper into our memories. Not yet.

 

I’m surprised by the path of grief. I remember my first counselor saying, while everyone is different, grief takes around a year to go through. In some ways, I guess I was able to get back to a lot of aspects of my life after a year, but I don’t feel anywhere near the end of the grieving process. In my mind, I picture the end of the grieving process as a place where I can sit, look at pictures of you, remember our time together and feel a sense of peace and happiness. I want that so badly, and I’m scared I’ll never get it. It scares me because it makes me feel like I’m choosing you or feeling okay. Like I’m having to choose survival over honoring you, and I hate that feeling so much. I want both. I want to feel okay, and I want to be close to you always. This is my guilt.

 

All I can do is continue to walk this road and hope for brighter days where I might reach that sense of peace. I just hope that you know my guilt and my survival tactics are not a reflection of apathy, but rather a reflection of how powerful my love for you is. I love you so much that I still can’t bear to think too hard on how you are not here with me.

 

Today, I will let myself go to those uncomfortable places. Those scary memories, because there were a lot of them. A lot of those days I got to have with you were also filled with fear, and it is just the ugly truth about it. I was so scared. I remember sitting in the hospital with my mom eating lunch when the ultrasound tech came in. She was so quiet. It only took one second after the doctor came in to announce that you’d be coming that day, February 3rd. 13 weeks early. Too early. I hardly remember the rest of the day. I know all our family came in. I remember your aunt and uncle giving me the “E” necklace. I remember being wheeled into the operating room. I remember your one loud cry before you were whisked away from me. I remember the next 21 days so well. I remember the kindness of the nurses and RTs, I remember my own mom being by my side nearly every single day, I remember desperately wanting to be able to hold you, help you, anything. I remember when your dad and I came in 21 days later, shaken up, but telling each other we had to be positive for you. But before we could even walk down the hallway to your room, nurses came and took us aside. We knew then. We knew what they were and weren’t saying. There was so much fear, Evie, but I hope you felt all the love, too. You were loved by every single person that laid eyes on you, and hundreds more who didn’t get the chance to.

 

Sometimes when I’m thinking of you, I try to picture what you’d be like now. I picture little Izzy, one month older than you. I picture you being a bit shorter than her, blond hair. I imagine your little hand reaching out and holding mine and me looking down at your sweet face. I imagine how you’d have your dad wrapped around your finger and how spoiled by your grandparents, aunts, and uncles you’d be. The little girl in a big family of boys. I imagine dressing you in the girliest of outfits. I imagine you dancing around the living room. I imagine your laugh and your smile. It is such a strange feeling, but I feel like I miss that. Like it’s something I had and lost, instead of something I never got to see. I think I’ll spend my whole life missing you.

 

Somehow, one year turned into two, then into three. I honestly can’t believe it’s already been three years. The love I have for my family and friends has only grown stronger by their continued love and devotion to you, Evie. My deepest fear of being the only ones who remember you is long gone. You are still so loved and cherished by so many, and I’m so grateful for that, because you deserve it. You are the sweetest, strongest, most powerful girl I’ve ever met. You always will be. I love you more than life itself, Evelyn. Happy golden birthday, sweet girl.

Evelyn's 2nd Birthday

To you, sweet Evie,

We woke up at 10:00 a.m., because there really isn’t any reason to wake up early if not for work. Plus, your mom was up until 2 in the morning with that kind of anxiety that doesn’t fully show its face yet, but wants you to know its there. The rain is coming down in a way that isn’t fun or beautiful or light. The kind of rain that makes standing in it extremely uncomfortable. It’s not warm or cozy or anything outside. It truly feels just dreary. None of this, and when I say that, I mean none of this is what I imagined in my mind.

I imagine being woken up at some ungodly hour, because you would be that girl who makes sure to let the world know when you are up. I’d turn to Colin and when I would say, “I can’t believe it’s been 2 years”, it would mean something entirely different. It would feel entirely different. I imagine we’d both come in here to your room being obnoxiously adorable, making a big deal out of it being your day, even though you wouldn’t even get it. I know you’d be walking. I know you’d be talking, but sometimes I wonder where we would notice those 13 weeks come into play. 

I imagine the decorations pink, but then, I think of you, and more realistically, there would be something you were undeniably obsessed with that would probably be the obvious choice for theme. Would we have family over today or wait until Saturday to have a little party? If I’m being honest, it feels like such a fantasy world that in my mind, there is not covid. In my mind, we’d still have Benny, even though I know that isn’t possible. I imagine Benny being his normal self but for some reason with you, so gentle. I imagine him being completely ride or die for you, and you two being the best of friends. Your birthdays are only six days apart, and I imagine you growing up together, completely attached at the hip.

What presents would you have gotten? What type of cake would you have liked? What would your daily routine be? Why do other people get these answers, and we don’t?

I do know, that if you were here, I’d hold you so close to my chest that our hearts could listen to each other’s. I’d touch every finger and every toe of yours in absolute wonder. I’d brush my hands through your hair in awe of how much its grown. I’d pick your outfit out from the ridiculously stocked wardrobe your loved ones have showered us with. I’d marvel at how your eyes have changed. I’d admire how the strength of your body finally matches the strength of your soul. I’d wonder how in the world two years flew by, and how in the world will I ever get enough of these? 

I just wish I didn’t have to wonder, or imagine. I wish I wasn’t sitting here crying in your room that we set up on your due date and never had the heart to change. I wish I didn’t love the smell of it in here, untouched, because I wish more than anything, it was touched, used, loved. I wish it was full of you and not full of unfulfilled moments. I wish I was brave enough to even let the door stay open, instead of worrying that the smell would change or a pet would touch something. I wish it felt more like a bedroom than a shrine. I wish it didn’t hurt to turn the doorknob. I wish the basinet was being donated, because it is no longer needed, rather than sitting in the corner unopened. I wish the clothes in the drawers and the closet were too small for you now, rather than sitting here, forever too big. I wish the handmade stuffed animals were played with, and we were having to teach you how to be gentle with them so they would last. I wish the blanket with your name was so loved that we had to sneak it away to wash it, or you’d be upset. I wish the decorations were cute things we found at stores, instead of rainbows made by other angel moms. I hate the wishing.

I hate that I need to miss you to have you. I hate how unfair life is. I hate how the world kept moving, and two years later, I’m still here. Right where you left me. And, I wish I was better. For you, for my family, for your dad, for everyone, but I’m not.

I still think of all the things I could have done differently. I still play out every possible timeline in my head. I still know that not a single soul on earth can convince me that there wasn’t some set of scenarios that would lead to you still being here. I still feel like I could have saved you somehow. And, I know that everyone will say that I did everything I could, and that I was there for you, and that there wasn’t anything that can be done. And, I wish I could be believe them, really. 

I’m trying, baby girl, I am, but sometimes, the trying feels like saying goodbye to you all over again. Sometimes, I don’t know if I want to move on, because I don’t want to feel like I left you behind. Sometimes, I worry that I’ll live my whole life like this. If I’m being honest, I don’t have a clue what I wish for besides turning back time. I feel like I’m living in the past, afraid of the future, because you are only in one of those things, Evie. And you are my world. How can I move forward in a world without you? I don’t even know how I’ve made it this far. 

I love you, Evelyn, and I wish I was stronger on your second birthday, so that I could smile and sing and spread your name like you deserve. I will do the best I can today. I will try not to focus too much on the wishes. I will take pretty flowers and put them in pretty spots. I will look at the rain as a nourishment for the nature that I see you in, rather than dreary drops I saw when I opened my eyes. I will focus on feeling the coziness in the embraces with your father, rather than notice the lack of it in the darkness of the sky. I will let my pain be a reminder of how strong our love is, instead of letting it drive me under the covers. I will cry, but I will try my hardest to smile at least once for you. 

I want to end by saying a cheers not to the moments we didn’t get, but for those we did. Cheers to when I heard your single cry when you were born. Cheers to getting to go up and see you for the first time. Cheers to watching your open your eyes for the first time and feeling like you really knew me. Cheers to your strong little grip on my finger. Cheers to your soft, fuzzy head under my hand. Cheers to your sassiness and side eye to your nurses and RT. Cheers to your grandparents, aunt and uncle getting to see your beauty in person. Cheers to feeding you the milk I made you. Cheers to your little kicks. Cheers to your belly that somehow seemed chunky, even though you were just over a pound. Cheers to getting to hold you against my skin, even if just for moments. Cheers to having known you, every second of your life. Cheers to you, sweet girl. I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved before, and I miss you just as much. Happy birthday.

Love, Mama

Open Letter

Dear Evie,

I have not forgotten you. I promise that is something I will never do. It's just that mommy has had to build a wall for herself to keep her from falling apart. My world without you is too dark sometimes. Since you left, I have tried. I swear I tried really hard. I felt like I was doing a good job for awhile. I brought your name into the world, I shared your story. I thought of you each day, and honored you by seeing all the beauty around me.  I spoke with other angel mothers, and I thought of you all playing together in the clouds. I wrote you letters, I smiled at the thought of you. I really thought I had figured it out. I don't know where I lost it, baby girl. I'm so sorry. The new dawn that felt like it was rising set too quickly. The shadows crept in, and I don't know exactly when or how, but my world turned black. I was suffocating. I was dying. And now, I can't see the beauty. I feel like a shade has been drawn over my eyes, and I can't see past the darkness. Everything is jaded. How can I bring your name into a world so dark? How can I think of you and continue to breath? I can't. I'm so sorry. I needed a shield, a mask, anything. So, I took it. I turn the volume up, I fill my vision, I drown my thoughts. I erase my memories. I block out any feeling. Right now, all I do is survive. And cry. Survive and cry, repeat. I wish I could think of you. I wish I could talk about you. In my heart, I know I'm failing. I know I'm being a terrible mother. I know you deserve better. I know I'm letting you down. I'm so sorry. The only thing I can hold on to is that someday, maybe, I'll be better. I'll feel better. I'll feel strong. I'll sing your name from mountaintops. I'll carry your photo with me. I'll laugh at the memory of your sassy side eye. I'll smile at butterflies that carry your soul. I really hope that will happen. I don't know when or where I lost it. I wish I was a better mom. I wish I was better at everything. I wish I wasn't myself. I wish I was a better version of myself. I'm sorry you are not being honored the way you deserve. Please know you deserve better, please know that I wish I could give that to you. I feel so guilty all of the time. I love you so much. The world is just so hard without you. I dream of an alternate world where you are here and everything is wonderful. Why couldn't we have had that? Why do I have to wait so long to be with you again? What is the point of all of this? I don't know what else to say, sweetie, except that I'm so sorry. You are my world. I love you so much. Please, please know that I haven't forgotten about you. I love you.

Mommy

Evelyn's Reach

 It is hard to put into words the impact all of you had on Colin and I over the last couple of days, but I didn’t want to wait in thanking you for what you did. 

The biggest fear that accompanies losing someone whose time here on earth was so short is the fear that the memory of them will also be short lived. Colin and I count each and every second, moment and memory with Evelyn, and still feel so robbed of getting to know her. We spent every single minute she was with us by her side, and it will never feel like enough. The days were so overwhelming that the memories become fuzzy, and it is such a scary realization to know that not every single second we cling onto will remain as clear as it once was in our minds. We beat ourselves up over the edges of memories fading, desperately trying to undo what time inevitably does. 

But, what always remains, is the core of those memories. The true emotion connected to them. The feeling of those moments. Those never dim. When we think on these feelings left behind by these memories, it brings us peace. It is in those feelings that we remember and honor Evelyn, because those feelings that she caused to last in us forever, as fresh as they day they were born, are who Evelyn was. 

Colin and I are in constant awe of how many of you hold this piece of Evelyn in your hearts and lives. The feeling she stirs in each and every one of you, is her. You may never have met here, or even seen her. You may not have known of her before she burst into this world, as feisty as anyone we’ve ever met. However, we feel so grateful to know that through this feeling she has invoked in you, that you all do, in fact, know our baby girl. 

That is who she was. Joy. Love. Warmth. Strength. Beauty. 

So, thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for helping cast our biggest fear aside. Thank you for knowing our little, amazing Evelyn. Thank you for keeping her beside you as you continue walking your path. Thank you for reminding us that she is still here, spreading her reach further than we could have ever imagined. Thank you to you all of you, and thank you to Evelyn. 

Evelyn, you will never stop amazes us. 

First Birthday

Happy first birthday, my love. I wish more than anything it wasn’t your “heavenly” birthday. I wish I could walk into your pretty room and pick you up from your crib. I would marvel at the fact that you are already one year old, and I would think about how fast time goes by when you really just want it to stop. I’d think about how tiny you were on this day one year ago, and how strong you were right from the start. I think about these “should haves” a lot. How it should be, what we should be doing, what we should be thinking about, what we should be feeling. It feels like an alternate universe that I so desperately want to be a part of, but I’m stuck here, only catching glimpses of the other side. Sometimes, I feel swallowed up by these should haves, because, truly, it should’ve been different. You deserved more, you deserved better. 

Yesterday, I kept thinking back to the day before you were born. Your grandma, grandpa, and uncle came and sat by my side all day. We watched the super bowl, and I remember thinking how loved you were already. That my dad would come and sit in a crappy hospital chair during the super bowl just to be close to you and me. He stayed after everyone left, and we talked about you. About my fears and about love. I remember us both being so sure that although this was scary, it would end up just fine. Everyone was so sure. I was so sure. Your dad was so sure. We thought that love was powerful enough to change the course. My deepest sadness to this day is that it was not.

If love could have saved you, Evie, you’d be invincible. I am in awe of how many lives you touched while you were with us, and even more in awe of the lives you’ve touched since you left us. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and light and love seemed to just radiate off that tiny little body of yours. I can still feel your strong grip around my finger. Your tiny little hand and even tinier little fingers. That feeling is still the best one I’ve ever felt, and I still dream about it all of the time. It is the one memory that doesn’t seem to fade around the edges at all- that feeling of you holding on to me so tight. I still remember laughing with the NICU nurses and RTs about how much sass you could give, even though you couldn’t cry or make noise. You were so alive. That is what hurts so bad. You were here, Evie. You had strength, you had a personality. You were here. 

On this day, one year ago, I sat with your grandma, thinking it would be another boring day to fill in the hospital. I had an ultrasound scheduled, which always brought both waves of excitement and anxiety. The ultrasound tech didn’t say much, and my anxious brain began jumping to conclusions. When she called in the doctor, it took him no time at all to nonchalantly say that you would be coming today. The rest of the day is a bit of a haze. I remember asking the nurse to please go get my husband from his floor. I remember feeling like 8 hours until surgery was both far too soon and an eternity away. I remember family coming in and out, and how excited everyone was. I remember Lauren and Trevor giving me the “E” necklace that I would then wear every single day afterwards. I remember going over all of the NICU information we’d been given prior to then and again on that day. Girls did better than boys. At 26 weeks, there was a 90% survival rate. We would have to keep an eye on her heart and lungs. There may be long lasting effects to keep in mind. So many thoughts kept racing through my head, and I couldn’t quite stay fixed on one emotion for long. The should haves came creeping in. This should be months from now. I should be so ready and excited. Colin should be nervously pacing around. We should be able to hold her after she is born. Instead, all I could do was put every ounce of faith I had into the hospital staff that they would get my baby out and give her everything she needed to be okay. And they did. You left my body and let out a little cry. I was only allowed a glimpse of you, before you were taken away. Your dad left with you, as I stayed to get sewed back up. I listened to the nurses and anesthesiologist small talk and joke around. I imagined your little body, your one little cry. I had no idea that would be the only time I ever heard you. Your dad was left with such a tough job, standing outside your NICU door, watching you have a million little things done to you. He was so strong and brave, just like you. The entire thing felt like some weird dream. I was brought back to my room and shown pictures of your little foot and your face, but it didn’t feel real. I hadn’t had the time to register that I had become a mom months before I was ready. I wanted to see you, hold you, check on you, kiss you. I never really got to do those things, but the first 24 hours, when I wasn’t even allowed to come see you, were the hardest hours I’d experienced up to that point. I felt like a piece of me was missing, and I wasn’t allowed to go put it back. I wasn’t even allowed to go see it. It should have been different.

Evelyn, darling, it all should have been different. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have kept you safe inside me longer. I wish I had known the right questions to ask and the right decisions to make. I wish I had ignored the recommendations for keeping you the least stimulated as possible, because all I wish is that I had touched you more. Talked to you more. Sang to you. All the things I wish I could be doing right now. I wish I could go back and soak up every little second and inch of you. I wish I could have somehow made love powerful enough to save you. I tried, baby girl. I did, but sometimes, I wonder if I did it wrong. If I’d done something different, maybe you’d somehow be here. The should haves and maybes can be so powerful. 

I wish I could write you a happy letter, Evelyn. I wish I wasn’t crying while thinking of you. I wish I was holding you, singing happy birthday and spoiling you with gifts and treats. I wish I could lay you on one of those blankets with a ring around “12 months”. I wish all of those clothes in your closet had been worn, and all the stuffed animals in your bed had been snuggled. I wish your blanket was worn down from washing it so many times. I wish you could have your whole own cake that you could make a mess of. I wish that your family could call you and sing to you. I wish we could reminisce and think about how far you’d come. I wish I could change everything. 

This feeling doesn’t seem to get any better. This pain of not having you here. It is indescribable. My entire gut, my chest, my whole body aches and yearns. I feel like I can’t enough air, or that my entire body is clenched and can’t release itself. I feel so powerless, because there is nothing I can do to change it, fix it, make it better. Nothing. This is not a problem that can be fixed. Hard work or passion won’t change anything. There are no lessons learned. There is only darkness and aching and anger. The strongest feelings I’ve ever felt.

There is a reason they are so strong, though, Evelyn. It is because of love. It is because of how much I loved, love, and will love you forever. It is because you were the best thing that has ever happened to me, the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. You were my heart outside of my body, you were everything I’d ever dreamed of. My love for you is so powerful that the pain of not having you feels just as powerful. I love you so much, sweet girl. I want more than anything in this life to be with you right now. Today, I will take rocks painted with your name to all the beautiful places I can find. I will place tokens of love made by people you’ve met and ones you never had the chance to meet- all of whom love you. I will find spots that the sun shines on, the wind brushes, and where flowers grow. The beautiful bits of nature that remind me of the beautiful little girl you were. I will cry with your dad today, I will listen to music that makes me think of you, and I will try not to focus on the should haves. 

Happy birthday, Evelyn Elizabeth Zink. Mommy loves you.