Lucy's Garden

Our daughter died. She was stillborn.

I've said those words to myself over and over again. Sometimes to convince myself that this really happened, sometimes to break the news to others. Surprisingly, they're not that hard to say. We lost our Lucy before she was born. I was 8 months pregnant, in labor and delivery, hooked up to monitors, watching her heart beat. Then it stopped. Seven minutes and an emergency c-section later, she was born--not breathing with no pulse. And now she is gone. It is that simple.

Yesterday, she would have been one month old. Today is her due date. And so, we have begun our year of "firsts" without Lucy and a lifetime of "what ifs," "should haves," and "might have beens." Today's post, Peaches readers, is the first since our Lucy died and is dedicated to her. I wish more than anything that I was posting about bringing home our baby, but I am instead posting about planting a tree in her honor.

Since Lucy died, the kindness and generosity of friends, family, and our community have been overwhelming. We haven't had to cook supper, not even once, since we returned home from the hospital almost one month ago. We've received over 100 cards, 30+ flower deliveries, and countless emails and phone calls. People are so good, and I've never been more convinced of that since this happened to our family.

It is surprising, when you lose a child, what you learn about yourself and about others in your life. You find you are stronger than you thought...and weaker. The same is true for your relationships. Many people open up and share their losses with you--some you never even knew had experienced such losses. You feel bad that you never knew, that you didn't even ask. If you did know, you feel bad you didn't do more or that you didn't understand. People you barely know--or don't know at all--come running with food and a shoulder to cry on. And yes, unfortunately, some of the people you are closest to, the kind of people who call every day when you bring home a live baby, are painfully silent. It is impossible to reach out when you are in this situation, to tell those people that you need them. So you instead focus on those that are there, who have reached out to you. And you hope the others will eventually find the words.

When we returned from the hospital, the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming, and Lucy's due date loomed large even when it was weeks away. We couldn't save her, but we wanted to do SOMETHING for her. We knew this day would be a tough one for us, so--almost a month ago--we decided we would celebrate by planting a tree in her honor. We received several beautiful potted plants and flowers and several generous gift certificates to local nurseries from friends. So what began as just a tree turned into much more.

We began last weekend by planting eight holly bushes in the front of our house. Beautiful little shrubs with pretty red berries and glossy leaves that will stay green all year long. We received three yellow mums in the week after Lucy died, so we planted those along the south side of the front porch. Although one has already gone dormant, I am hopeful they will all three come back next year. And when they bloom, in the fall, they will remind us of our sweet autumn baby. The rose bush that was sent to her funeral was planted out back. It also has gone dormant, but we will see what spring brings.

Joe and Max begin digging for the holly bushes.

Max finds a new friend--a HUGE earthworm!

Then we set out to find a tree for our Lucy. We wanted something beautiful, and decided a dogwood would be perfect. We looked for a pink one, but quickly found out that most nurseries only carry pink dogwoods in the spring. Many places had white, but for some reason that didn't seem right. Then we found it--a beautiful red dogwood at Family Tree Nursery in Liberty. Already over 6 feet tall with gorgeous buds just begging to bloom this spring. After we purchased it and got back into the car, I said to Joe, "The red dogwood is the right one. I think our Lucy would have been more of a red kind of girl than pink anyway." He smiled and nodded.

We have spent this week debating where the tree should go. The "perfect" spot, in my opinion, was on an incline right under a power line that runs about 15 feet above the ground. Both of these things (the incline and the power line) made Joe nervous, so we settled on a compromise--still on the incline but just to the side of the power line. We've never planted a tree before, but the very nice gentleman at the nursery assured us we couldn't go wrong if we followed his instructions:

just dig a wide hole (but not too deep)

put the tree in (after covering the root ball with some stuff called "Myke's")

backfill with compost and soil

and top with mulch.

So that's what we did. Fingers crossed that the tree takes root and in the spring and summer--when our little girl would have been sitting up, learning to crawl, and even starting to babble ma-ma and da-da--we'll be reminded of her beauty with green leaves and big purplish-red dogwood blooms. To watch over the tree, we placed a statue of an angel, another gift from very kind friends.

We also purchased two globe blue spruce shrubs and planted them on either side of the front steps. And a very kind friend brought another gorgeous rose bush to us this week to add to Lucy's garden, so we planted that on the south side of the house today, too.

Now that it is all said and done, here is an updated "after" shot of our house from the front and northeast corner (note that, since our last post, Joe got lattice put up around our front porch...he did a great job).

The shrubs and trees looked so big at the nursery,

but look so tiny against the house. It will be fun

to watch them grow.

Although we will never be able to take care of our little girl or watch her grow up, we will be able to care for these plants and watch them grow and change. It may seem small, but planting this garden has allowed us to DO something for our daughter. And there is great comfort in that.

I want to close this post with the assurance that our blog isn't going to turn into a sad one about our lost daughter. Future posts will continue to highlight our adventures restoring and repairing this house. Occasionally, wistfully, we may mention Lucy and--if we do--we hope you aren't uncomfortable or scared. Or that you think we're not coping well because we are talking about her or because we feel sad or angry that she is gone. She is a part of us and our family and our story now. She has changed us, and this experience is now part of the very fabric of who we are. But it does not define us, and we will forge ahead. It is what she would have wanted.

For those who have experienced a loss or who know someone who has, or are just trying to understand what we are going through, I recently ran across this beautiful and brutally honest letter written by a mother who lost a child during pregnancy. It is posted many places and describes "what we wish you knew about pregnancy loss." Unfortunately, I cannot find out who is the original author so that she can be given credit. Although much of it is specific to losing a child during a pregnancy (specifically miscarriage), I think much of it speaks to the feelings of loss in general, and I thought it was worth sharing.

Our daughter died.

Surprisingly, those words aren't that hard to say. I need to say them, in fact. I need to talk about her, to talk about what happened. To be reminded of her every day. It means she existed, that others know she existed. That she mattered and continues to matter. Thank you, Peaches readers, for letting us share Lucy's story. Or for at least reading to the end of this very long post.

And to our angel--we miss you. Always will.