Fifth Birthday
As I sat down to initially write this in a coffee shop, I looked at the label on my iced tea and saw the date, 17-Jun-2022, the fifth anniversary of Isabella’s funeral. Not a single day has gone by I have not thought of Isabella, ached to hold her, watch her grow, or kept an unconscious eye out for children of similar age. I’ve felt her absence every one of the 1,847 days since she was born and whisked to the NICU.
The ache has morphed over the years. Without a doubt, her first birthday was the most crushing anniversary. Our lives and home have never felt as horribly quiet and empty. By her second birthday, our son was born and my arms held him a bit tighter that day. Her third birthday was fairly early in the pandemic and I know we would not have had a party. I doubt we would have chosen virtual preschool that crazy fall, but we never had to wrestle with the choice. On her fourth birthday, we had a newborn and a two-year-old, yet neither baby in arms filled the gap she left. This year, we were on a California beach and I was so busy with two little kids (my husband was in meetings all day) that, while I thought of her turning five before I even got out of bed, I did not have the time or space to reflect like I did on her first birthday.
These days, I wonder what she would look like. Our son has large brown eyes and dimples as deep as his father’s that make me grin back, whether ruefully at his antics or in pleasure as he explores the world. Our youngest daughter has blue-green eyes, one smaller dimple, eight little teeth, and a delightful sense of wonder and humor. All three children share medium brown hair. Would Isabella have dimples? Light or dark eyes? Would she share her brother’s love of books and stories?
I know that I parent my youngest two differently having buried our firstborn. The occasional nights that one of them awakes up, I often remind myself that it is incredibly sweet to hear a child crying because it means that they are alive and healthy. And I just want them to go back to sleep. At times I hold my children closer and don’t want them to take physical risks, knowing the helplessness of watching a child in a hospital room. Other times I just bite my lip and watch my son climb the taller ladder at the playground, knowing that God is the only one who can truly protect them and He numbers their days, not me.
Our children are also changed because of Isabella’s death. Our son is being raised as the eldest child, rather than the middle child. He had no competition for our attention until our youngest was born and that influences his development. Now that his youngest sister is more mobile and grabby, he’s learning patience and sharing in a way that he would have already experienced to some degree if his older sister was still here. Our youngest daughter will also be impacted by being the youngest of two in the home, rather than three.
Sometimes I find myself wondering, at a logistics level, what changes would we have had to make if Isabella was here? Our three-bedroom house already feels tight with two kids at home; would we have looked for a larger house or would the children share rooms? Both of our cars fit two car seats, but three car seats would necessitate at least one three-row car; what cars would we drive daily? Isabella would be starting kindergarten in less than two months and I doubt we would send her to our neighborhood elementary; where would she start in the fall? Before she was born, we were seriously considering an overseas move for work. After she died, we decided to stay with the same medical providers for a subsequent pregnancy and delivery because we could not imagine walking through it with anyone else. Would we even be living in the same city or country if she had lived?
The ramifications of her death on our daily routines are too complex to truly imagine. Even pondering the little changes I can think of, I can never know what life would be like with her here. I do know that when we sang “happy birthday” for her on the beach at sunset this year, we would have finished the song with, “and many more.”
The ache has morphed over the years. Without a doubt, her first birthday was the most crushing anniversary. Our lives and home have never felt as horribly quiet and empty. By her second birthday, our son was born and my arms held him a bit tighter that day. Her third birthday was fairly early in the pandemic and I know we would not have had a party. I doubt we would have chosen virtual preschool that crazy fall, but we never had to wrestle with the choice. On her fourth birthday, we had a newborn and a two-year-old, yet neither baby in arms filled the gap she left. This year, we were on a California beach and I was so busy with two little kids (my husband was in meetings all day) that, while I thought of her turning five before I even got out of bed, I did not have the time or space to reflect like I did on her first birthday.
These days, I wonder what she would look like. Our son has large brown eyes and dimples as deep as his father’s that make me grin back, whether ruefully at his antics or in pleasure as he explores the world. Our youngest daughter has blue-green eyes, one smaller dimple, eight little teeth, and a delightful sense of wonder and humor. All three children share medium brown hair. Would Isabella have dimples? Light or dark eyes? Would she share her brother’s love of books and stories?
I know that I parent my youngest two differently having buried our firstborn. The occasional nights that one of them awakes up, I often remind myself that it is incredibly sweet to hear a child crying because it means that they are alive and healthy. And I just want them to go back to sleep. At times I hold my children closer and don’t want them to take physical risks, knowing the helplessness of watching a child in a hospital room. Other times I just bite my lip and watch my son climb the taller ladder at the playground, knowing that God is the only one who can truly protect them and He numbers their days, not me.
Our children are also changed because of Isabella’s death. Our son is being raised as the eldest child, rather than the middle child. He had no competition for our attention until our youngest was born and that influences his development. Now that his youngest sister is more mobile and grabby, he’s learning patience and sharing in a way that he would have already experienced to some degree if his older sister was still here. Our youngest daughter will also be impacted by being the youngest of two in the home, rather than three.
Sometimes I find myself wondering, at a logistics level, what changes would we have had to make if Isabella was here? Our three-bedroom house already feels tight with two kids at home; would we have looked for a larger house or would the children share rooms? Both of our cars fit two car seats, but three car seats would necessitate at least one three-row car; what cars would we drive daily? Isabella would be starting kindergarten in less than two months and I doubt we would send her to our neighborhood elementary; where would she start in the fall? Before she was born, we were seriously considering an overseas move for work. After she died, we decided to stay with the same medical providers for a subsequent pregnancy and delivery because we could not imagine walking through it with anyone else. Would we even be living in the same city or country if she had lived?
The ramifications of her death on our daily routines are too complex to truly imagine. Even pondering the little changes I can think of, I can never know what life would be like with her here. I do know that when we sang “happy birthday” for her on the beach at sunset this year, we would have finished the song with, “and many more.”
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Comments
Thank you for this insightful and heartfelt meditation on Isabella, your love for her, and the lasting impact of her and of her loss on you and your family. She also has had a lasting impact on me--intensifying both a sense of vulnerability of those I care about and a sense of caring and the preciousness of you all. Thank you Isabella. You will be forever in my heart.