~ ~ Six years ago tomorrow (Dec 6th), in the wee hours of the morning, I held a very hungry Hannah to my breast for the last time. I haven't "publicly" remembered her in this way since that first anniversary. But I found myself staring into the calendar repeatedly today, and realized that my heart wanted to speak up, again.
~ ~ With the recent, shocking, loss of a CHERISHED "second Dad", followed quickly by the shocking loss of a cherished first chicken----not to mention the vast quantities of hormones currently coursing through my system, or the impending life change they represent----I suppose it's only natural that I'd be a bit nostalgic this season.
~ ~ Historically, the anniversary of the day I lost Hannah has never been as emotional for me as the anniversary of her birth. I guess that's because in her death, there was nothing but loss, pain, and darkness. From then on, when her name came to mind it was always followed by a huge period. The story of her life is over, nothing waits on the other side of that punctuation mark. Nothing. And on one level or another, I've had to face that "nothing" every day, since. But her birthday was another matter entirely. On that day, each time I whispered her name it was like the beginning of a story, full of "what ifs" and "I can't wait to find outs". It was about limitless possibilities, LONG futures, and generations of stories to follow. It was everything. And emotions, experiences, that powerful (and transforming) have a way of permanently imprinting themselves on a place, a date. You can't enter into the memory of a child's birth without confronting all that happiness again. All of that joy, that certainty of a future together, that boundless optimism, remains unchanged by the harsh reality that followed. On Hannah's birthday, my mind can't help but look at her the way I did six years ago---as a mother filled with hope for all the things my daughter will one day see and do. It's actually the only day of the year that I've ever been able to mentally escape the reality of losing her. But that escape lasts moments, at best, and the return trip is a devastating one.
~ ~ Historically, the anniversary of the day I lost Hannah has never been as emotional for me as the anniversary of her birth. I guess that's because in her death, there was nothing but loss, pain, and darkness. From then on, when her name came to mind it was always followed by a huge period. The story of her life is over, nothing waits on the other side of that punctuation mark. Nothing. And on one level or another, I've had to face that "nothing" every day, since. But her birthday was another matter entirely. On that day, each time I whispered her name it was like the beginning of a story, full of "what ifs" and "I can't wait to find outs". It was about limitless possibilities, LONG futures, and generations of stories to follow. It was everything. And emotions, experiences, that powerful (and transforming) have a way of permanently imprinting themselves on a place, a date. You can't enter into the memory of a child's birth without confronting all that happiness again. All of that joy, that certainty of a future together, that boundless optimism, remains unchanged by the harsh reality that followed. On Hannah's birthday, my mind can't help but look at her the way I did six years ago---as a mother filled with hope for all the things my daughter will one day see and do. It's actually the only day of the year that I've ever been able to mentally escape the reality of losing her. But that escape lasts moments, at best, and the return trip is a devastating one.
~ ~ I don't know if any of my thoughts, here, are translating very well onto paper. I guess a much more simplified explanation would be this: October 17th is about Hannah being right here in my arms, alive and well. But December 6th is about her being in the arms of the Father----never again within my reach. I may weep for December, but I long for October. And therein lies the difference.
~ ~ I'm not even sure why I feel the need to write all of this tonight. I mean, it isn't exactly a proper "memorial" to her, is it?! I should have been taking the time to write about all of the things I loved about her, and the little things that I'll miss the most. (You know, like I did with Miss Scarlett!) But with Hannah, there were only seven short weeks to draw from. And the truth is, what I loved about her was........everything. She was an infant, after all! When our children are still so young, we mothers simply love every inch of them, every breath they take, don't we? We're so immersed in that new love that it's almost impossible to separate one aspect from the rest and say, "That's what I really love about her....." And when the child is just a few weeks old, our affection isn't about their individuality, yet----not their personalities, their quirks........It's about their existence, their presence, their very lives. So what do I miss most about Hannah Carolyn Perry? I miss that she was HERE. I miss watching her, hearing her, smelling her and touching her. That's all. For the most part, everything else that Hannah was, and is, is now defined by the process of losing her. What she meant to me, means to me, is completely intertwined with the fact that I am ever-changing because she once lived, and because she lives no more.
~ ~ Our children teach us so much about ourselves, don't they? They show us the good we have inside---good we never saw before. (And then, of course, they show us the ugliness that we swore we never would see......) Will has done that for me. But Hannah.......my sweet baby Hannah........she did something entirely different. She didn't reveal me, she changed me. If not for her, I would not be the person I am today. Her life has not impacted mine-----it has permanently ALTERED it! And, in fact, those alterations continue to this day. I only hope that when we meet again, she'll be pleased with the final results of her influence.
~ ~ Well, it's extremely late now (I've been working on this entry for a while, with many "Will breaks" along the way!). And although Will, himself, clearly intends to stay going strong well into the wee hours of the night, I'm going to retreat to my own bed in the mean time! Love you all--S
