Thursday, March 26, 2009

Not a baby anymore

Shiloh baby-

In our attempt to heal ‘better’ (I suppose), daddy and I have been doing craniosacral therapy with Rita through Santa Barbara Hospice. I can’t say that I really believed in these alternative healing therapies before, but now that I have tried it, I find it amazing. Even if I don’t exactly feel the redistribution or equalization of energy in my body, I am always relaxed, sometimes so much so that I fall asleep. To feel relaxed nowadays is not something so easily accomplished for me, and so I grasp at any offer of peaceful moments. But today was even more special for me because I had the chance to see you, through daddy, as an older child. I’ve heard many times that babies grow up faster in heaven then they do here on earth- this was my proof. The first thing I asked, when he told me he got to see you today in his session, was if you were happy. He said that you had a big smile on your face. I will take this as a yes, and for this, I am so thankful. Here is what he told me:

You were about 9 years old. You were wearing a little dress, had your blonde/brown, long hair in a ponytail, and you had a tooth missing in the front because he could see the gap when you smiled. You looked a lot like me, but had a bit harsher features, still feminine, but more a mixture of daddy’s and mine. You were skipping in a field where one would normally find wild horses. He said that you went to a chopped down, hollowed out tree where water was collected and washed your hands in it. He said that he knew you could feel us there because I was the wind, playing with your hair, and daddy’s reflection was in the water in which you washed your hands. And… there was an older man sitting on the porch of an old farmhouse in the field, watching over you.

Daddy said he couldn’t see clearly who this was, but I already know. This was grandpa, my daddy. I’m so happy that you’ve found each other and are looking after each other. My heart is so filled with sorrow that I do not have you both here with me on earth, but knowing that you are together makes my pain just a little more tolerable. I will love you until the end of time Shiloh; heavenly or earthly, you are forever my first child.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

The Well of Grief

(Grief by Gene Gould)

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief

turning down to its black water
to the place that we can not breathe

will never know
the source from which we drink
the secret water cold and clear

nor find in the darkness
the small gold coins
thrown by those who wished for something else

- David Whyte

Friday, March 6, 2009

The Umbilical Cord

If the umbilical cord is your only line to life
The last thing it should do is to cause you strife.
You would think that G-d perfected this vital organ by now
Thus death to unborn children he would not allow.
But sadly even he cannot prevent tragedies such as this
If not G-d, if not woman, than who is remiss?
I suppose I realize now to place blame is so slight
Because in the end it will not bring my sweet baby back to life.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

On Sorrow

(Sorrow by Jacob Kleyn)

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,”
    And others say, “Sorrow is the greater.”
But I say to you,
    They are inseparable…
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being
    The more joy you can contain.

- Kahlil Gibran

Tuesday, March 3, 2009


I came across this photo on a hospice website and started to write about how grief is like water. But, while searching the web, I found a blog on the exact wavelength written by a woman that just lost her brother-in-law. She says it much better than I ever could have. Here is what she writes:

Grief is like water.

It comes in waves, like you've always heard, crashing and receding and pounding out of your control. Sit on the edge of the water on the beach and see if the waves stop lapping and splashing at your feet. They don't. Ever.

But grief is also like water in that sometimes you move past it, you go on with life and you think you're okay until you realize that your mascara is running down your face and the book you're holding is drenched. Then you notice the ultra fine mist that is falling on you. It's the slightest twinge of pain, now that you've noticed it, constant but undemanding.

Grief is like a shallow pool, deceptively calm, with jagged rocks just below the surface. Step in just the wrong way, at the wrong speed or without proper protection and you'll find yourself nursing an open wound again. Under some circumstances, it's possible to drown in a few inches of water.

Grief is the deep sea, without a floor or anything solid within reach, pressure mounting on all sides without the luxury of a moment to examine, consider, take a breath. It stretches out as far as the eye can see, sounds of an ear-bursting roar and fills the nose when all you want to do is breathe in air. It overwhelms you when you're in it, but to those on the safety of land or in a boat, the danger seems minimal.

Grief, like water, can cleanse, it can purge, or a person can drown in it.

- Reese (

Monday, March 2, 2009

Grandpa and Shiloh, together

Sweet baby Shiloh,

Yesterday, March 1st, you met your grandpa, my dad, for the very first time. He passed away after a 5 month fight against pancreatic cancer. I miss him so much, but I know that our loss is your gain. He was the kindest, most influential, most loving, most trustworthy man in my life for the last 28 years, and now he is all yours. You couldn’t wish for a better grandpa. Knowing that he is finally able to hold you in his arms fills, just a smidgen, that bottomless crevasse in my heart that formed when I lost you 17 weeks ago. Maybe he will even get to watch you grow up into that beautiful woman I always dream you to be.

I love you Dad

In memory of my dad, Lou, who passed away yesterday, March 1st at 3 pm, after a valiant fight against pancreatic cancer. I miss him so, so much, but know that he will be with his granddaughter, Shiloh, and his parents, Bea and Sam, in heaven.