“Where are you going?” Jeremiah asked through groggy tones at 3am. He knew the answer. We had this conversation nearly every night just after Emma died and was born.
But he asked anyway, I rushed to the base of the bed mumbling, “The baby, she’s crying. She needs to be fed.”
Even as I heard his sigh as he leaned back into the pillow, I arrived to an empty bassinet.
Where is she?
Her high pitched cry still ringing in my ears, panic struck, and beads of sweat instantly appeared on my forehead as I searched the room. In a swift reversal, panic was replaced by a memory of delivering a still baby. Oh God! She is gone. My baby died.
“Come back to bed,” said my husband, completing our evening ritual, “come back to bed.”
I acquiesced, only to wake again – not to the shrill noise of a hungry infant, but to music. The song played again and again in my head. Each time I woke, the words became louder, more clear, forging her connection to the world, to me: “I hope you never lose your sense of wonder…Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance…”
Rolling over, I willed myself back into a fitful sleep. My dreams filled with visions of babies. Again, I woke to the song. The lyrics picking up exactly where they left off: ”And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance… I Hope You Dance.”
* * *
Opening my mind and heart to the possibility that my heavenly daughter was communicating with me only days after her death and birth, was overwhelming. It challenged every foundational principal I employed to live in this world. It eradicated all measures of logic.
It challenged me to believe without seeing.
The door opens of its own accord, “Emma’s here” we say, sharing a long smile. She lives in the wind, in the air. A rainbow appears on the morning of her birthday. Tears slide down our cheeks as we feel her presence. We plant trees and bushes in memory of our child. They bloom, and we track their growth – just like we would have her height on a wooden panel. We see and feel our child embodied in the world, in objects, through emotions, in tangible visions. Others doubt. It does nothing to deter me. I know. My healing heart, knows.
Years later, 3 am found me approaching the same light oak crib. As I closed the last few feet, slides of the past interchanged with my current reality:
“Where are you going?”
“The baby, she’s crying.”
Please God, don’t let it be empty.
For just a moment I stood, watching my little girl writhe and scream to be fed. I listened to her cry, savoring it like a beautiful piece of music. When I reached in and lifted her, a contented gurgle escaped her lips.
Moments later, satisfied silence filled the room as Emma’s little sister suckled at my breast. While I gazed down into her chubby face, still amazed that she was here, perfection in my arms – the air in the room shifted. Without reason, I drew in a sharp breath, and looked up. Instinctively I tensed, only realizing my body’s reaction as my baby detached, her mouth gumming the air looking for my nipple. I re-attached her while scanning the dark room, looking for something.
Truly, I don’t know what I expected to see. But seeing is our mechanism, isn’t it? We think in pictures, we visualize our perfect life before it arrives, we even dream in pictures. So to counteract the feeling permeating the room, I looked for a tangible explanation.
Instead, a formless density filled the doorway.
Emma? Is that you? Are you here?
I exhaled, attempting to reconcile duel emotions – fear that I might really see her, and pure joy that my baby had come to be with us. But a second glance at the doorway revealed an empty and stagnant space.
Emma – come back! Please don’t go. I need you.
A solitary tear slid down my cheek as I mourned the lost opportunity. And then, the feeling shifted again – like a warm blanket, a connected peace wrapped around us. My rocking chair began to move on its own. Tears slid freely in celebration of heaven meeting earth.
Thank you Emma Grace. My first born had come to see her sister.
After we lose a child, our hearts open a bit wider, our eyes see slight movement that we would typically explain away with a shrug – no second thoughts, no what ifs. Now, we stop and look, staring at an empty space for minutes. For some, this overlap in space and time exists from the second their baby dies. For others, this new perspective takes time, and occasionally, something drastic to bring it into focus – to make it real.
Ironically, the world affirmed this without intention. They doused us with loving thoughts like “Oh honey, she’ll always be with you,” or “she will forever be watching you from above,” and “Now you have a personal guardian angel.”
Yes, each of those statements is absolute fact, yet these people used them as kind words meant to help us assimilate back into the world, to deflect the memories. They had no way of knowing that what they said was the reason we pushed on through that murky, grief filled time.
We continued to exist because our child did too.
I couldn’t hold her in the night. I couldn’t sing sweet lullabies and rock her as she slept. I couldn’t put her to my breast and fill her with life. But I have seen a shadow dance across my wall in the pitch black of night. I have felt a presence that simultaneously filled me with fear and joy. I have been visited by signs and symbols of my Emma’s spirit, embodied in music, animals, and plants.
This is my gift; the ability to believe without pictures or proof. Bonding love is my proof. No one can ever take this from me, regardless of my age or afflictions. My child can hear me, see me – and communication between our worlds is possible.