In the Garden

Last night was the annual butterfly release, honoring babies gone too soon. I've attended the event for many years, gathering with other parents who have experienced pregnancy loss. Many of the women are my friends, bonded by our shared grief. Our babies' names are read aloud, and then we watch butterflies released into the sky.

This year was different. As we walked up to the garden, I really wanted just to go home. I was afraid I would face people who didn't know that I have a brain tumor. And they would say something like, "Hey, Anna, how are you?" And I'd have to reply, "Well, I have a brain tumor. How are you?" Or just plaster a smile on my face and pretend everything was fine. And I knew I couldn't do that. So I didn't want to face people. I wanted to be home, curled up in my bed.

But I also couldn't fathom missing the event. I thought to myself, "This is what parents do." They show up for their kids. Even when they'd rather be somewhere else. Even when they're carrying their own weight.

There are only a few times per year that I get to show up for Nelle and Iris, and the butterfly release is one of those times.

People came up to me and hugged me. And I cried. I've cried in past years also; cried because I missed my babies. This year, I cried because I thought, "I might not be the same person next year." As my friends came up to me I thought, "This might be the last time I see them like I am right now."

I sat on the ground. At the event, there's no shortage of tissues. So I dabbed my eyes every few minutes.

Some people told me I was strong for coming to the event. I replied, "I wouldn't miss it." One friend pointedly said, "This fucking sucks for you." And I agree. It fucking sucks.

When I got home, though, I was simply exhausted. A heavy, heavy level of exhaustion. Something I haven't felt since I got the diagnosis in the ER a few weeks ago and didn't get home until 4:30 a.m.

All I wanted to do was tuck Autumn in for bed. My little girl, my rainbow baby. But I just couldn't. I was so tired. I had to put myself first and admit that I couldn't tuck her in.

So I sang her the song we sing every night — Robert Munsch's "Love You Forever" – and told her I'd see her in the morning.