I’ve had today circled on my calendar for a couple months. I woke up this morning so excited. I was going to see my baby, and tell everyone that we were expecting again.

But there was no heartbeat. The growth stopped a week and a half ago.

I don’t feel anything. I thought writing it out would help.

But I don’t feel anything.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When we moved into our house, we got a new land line that I jokingly refer to as the Kathy Line, because Mike’s mom is the only person who ever calls on it. Everyone else calls us directly on our cell phones. This means that whenever our land line rings, Mike answers it, since it’s always for him.

Yesterday our phone rang nine times, and it was only Mike’s mom four times. Just kidding! She actually called twice. Seven calls, all asking for Eric. The first time, Mike told the caller that she had the wrong number. The phone rang immediately after he hung up, and when he answered it the caller “made an angry noise” and hung up.

Me: What’s an angry noise?
Mike: Like a deep sigh, like a HMMPH.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Mike answered, and another woman asked for Eric.

Mike: There’s no Eric here. What number are you trying to reach?
Caller: [our number] Why you playing, Eric? I know it’s you.
Mike: Um…I’m Mike. There’s no Eric here, sorry ma’am.
Caller: Liar!

A few calls like this later and we were both going nuts. When the phone rang for the sixth time, Mike and I looked at each other.

Mike: You get it.
Me: No way!

Annie: HELLO! HELLO PHONE! IT’S GRAMMA! ANNIE SAY HI!

He finally picked up the phone.

Mike: Hi, this is Eric.
Me: !!!!!!!!
Caller: Hey Eric, I had SUCH a good time with you this weekend! Why didn’t you call me?
Mike: OH NO! I was just kidding, I’m not Eric, we’ve just been getting a lot of calls for him and I thought it would be funny to answer as him and you know what, I’m sorry. I’m not Eric.
Caller: Um, what?

Then he hung up.

Me: I can’t believe you did that! What were you thinking?
Mike: I clearly wasn’t.

The phone rang again.

Annie: GRAMMA!
Mike: Heather! You have to answer it!
Me: Dammit Mike!

If there is one thing I really dislike, it’s talking on the phone.

Me: Hello?
Caller: WHAT THE HELL! Where is Eric?!
Me: I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Caller: I don’t think so! How do you know Eric?
Me: Um…I think that some guy is giving out our number to a bunch of women. But have a nice day!

After that, we unplugged our phone…which is probably why Mike’s mom only called twice.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

I had a lovely Mother’s Day.

Mike and Annie brought me presents, my family came over, we had a yummy meal, we went for a walk. I heard, “I love you, Mama” lots.

But I was sad. I was sad and I couldn’t shake it. Earlier I’d looked at Facebook and Instagram, and I’d seen dozens of pictures of gifts my friends had received from their children. Presents their kids had picked out themselves, or even better, crafted and created. And I was so jealous.

Annie is too young to do that stuff. But Maddie wouldn’t have been. She’d be four and a half, plenty old enough to string together a beaded bracelet, or to draw a picture of the two of us, or to paste something together with a glue stick and glitter.

Most days I have no problem looking at what other people have – it almost always makes me smile. But on the harder days, like Mother’s Day, it’s just salt in the wound. I should know better than to look. I shouldn’t ask. But then there’s the other part of me that can’t resist, so I can imagine what I could be experiencing, too. I can’t help myself.

I know next year Annie will start putting together special things for me. I honestly can’t wait. I can’t imagine a better present than something made just for me, by my daughter. Each crayon stroke and glitter speck will be a little window into the way her mind works.

I really did have a lovely Mother’s Day. I feel guilty for feeling so sad. My happiness with Annie is so completely separate from my sadness and longing for Madeline. One cannot touch the other. But still, I feel guilty. And I’m just…glad it’s over.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

I couldn’t let Mike’s post stand. I called up a friend and arranged a trip to Dodger Stadium. Annie hadn’t been to a game since she was a few months old, and since she is less than six years away from her big decision, I can’t ever let up. I pulled out the big guns…clothes.

Yep, I bought her branded gear she could twirl in…and she loved it.

When we arrived at the stadium I took a picture with my girl right outside my old office.

We got there with plenty of time before the game, so we watched batting practice. Annie was totally into it – she couldn’t stop staring at the players.

She had plenty of snacks, and then it was time for the game to start. We had great seats (thank you, Dave!)

Annie is so hilarious – instead of being frightened by the loud crowd, she feeds off of it. When the crowd would groan, she would too. When they cheered, she would high-five.

She was really loving the Dodgers, but I had to make sure the good will lasted…somehow this adorable “Baby Dodger Bear,” found its way into Annie’s hands.

I am not above bribery!

It clearly worked:

She also thought the beach balls that went around the stands were the coolest things ever. I am FIRMLY anti-beach ball. If you want to play with a beach ball, go to the beach! But Annie thought it was so fun, and wanted to catch it. The girls a few rows back actually caught it once and handed it to her. The look of happiness on her face, while adorable, did nothing to change my anti-beach ball position. Especially when she got very, very upset when the ball didn’t come back her way.

I might have also bought her a zip-up hoodie, shush.

Luckily, Gramma distracted her with a glasses case, and all was right in her world again.

Honestly though, the best part was when she looked over at me and said, “Mama, I luff baseball.”

Mike and I both agree that more than anything, we hope she enjoys the sport that her daddy and I love so much. As long as she likes baseball, who cares which team she chooses?

(I care. I care a lot. So much that next time, I’m gonna arrange for her to meet a player and run on the field. Sorry you didn’t used to work for the Giants, Mike.)

(I WILL WIN THIS!)

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

The first night I was in Miami I jokingly said to my roommate Amber that I was going to get up early to take a picture of the sunrise. As much as I wanted to see the sun come up, I was never going to actually set my alarm to wake up at the west coast equivalent of 3:30 am, especially the night after a redeye. I slept right through that sunrise.

The following morning, however, my well-documented insomnia kept me up for most of the night. I eventually gave up trying to sleep and headed down to the beach.

I sat on the sand, and as the waves lapped the shore I finally had my April Emotional Breakdown. April is such a crappy month, but for most of it, I felt extremely numb. As much as I hate April, I didn’t want it to end.

At the beginning of February, Jackie! found out that her tumor was growing again. She was on her “worst case scenario” treatment, and it had stopped working. Her doctor gave her three to four months.

She enrolled in a phase one clinical trial that proved to be incredibly brutal, and she withdrew after two rounds. She’s now on another drug, and every night I squeeze my eyes closed and wish with all my might that it will slow the growth and give Jackie! more time.

But I am realistic. And powerless.

She’s made it to the three month mark that her doctor first presented. I’m scared and I wish I could slow down time so she can continue to enjoy this patch of relative goodness she’s been experiencing. I wish I could speed up the time of everyone around her, so she can witness everything she’s supposed to see and do everything she dreamed of doing. I wish I could go back in time and go to med school and figure out a way to fix her.

But I am still powerless.

I sat on the sand and watched the sun light up the sky and my face. Later that day I got on a plane and I followed that sun to San Francisco.

I landed after it set.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

My friend Laura asked to write a piece about black clothing to read at the conference I attended last week, Mom 2.0. Originally the plan was for me to read it on Friday Night at a “coffee-house” party, but since I had to leave early I read it before the general session of four hundred people. Laura informed me of this about two hours before I was supposed to read. Thank you Laura for the opportunity – and the minor heart attack.

I used to love wearing black clothing. It always went with whatever hair color I was sporting. It made me look thinner on my bloated days, and I could dress it up or down depending on the occasion. I was sexy, I was fun, I was emo, black was whatever I wanted to be. I wore black almost every day.

And then my daughter died.

Black is the color associated with grief and mourning. When my grandmother lost her son to Leukemia in the 1950s, she and my great-grandmother wore black for an entire year. I remember her telling me that she would get stared at when she went out in public. The looks she got at the grocery store, or at church, or even walking her children to school, were looks of sadness, curiosity, and pity. As a child, I remember being horrified. As an adult suddenly in the same position, I was terrified.

I did NOT want to be the young grieving mom. I didn’t want to enshroud myself in black material, broadcasting my sadness and loss. It seemed so terribly invasive, and even though the custom of mourning clothes has fallen away, I knew that wearing black was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.

I asked everyone to wear purple to my daughter’s funeral. I packed away my black clothing. I desperately wanted to appear normal, wrapping myself in bright colors and textures. On the inside, I was black and broken, but on the outside I did everything I could to look like a normal 29-year-old woman. I couldn’t handle the thought of a stranger looking at me with pity.

I think we all know that no stranger was ever going to look at me and know I was “in mourning.” (And really, that term is so inaccurate, because mourning isn’t a period of life that begins and ends – it clings to you, wrapping around your soul, for the rest of your life.) But at that point, I wasn’t rational, and banishing black gave me a small sense of control during the most uncontrollable time in my life.

My grandmother predeceased my daughter by six years, but I had never missed her as much as I did in the immediate aftermath of Madeline’s death. My Aunt Kathy, my mother’s oldest sibling, was the only one of my Grandmother’s children old enough to remember their “mourning period.” I would have long talks with her about what she remembered from that time. I was desperate to know how my grandmother had survived losing a child, and my aunt would answer every question I had to the best of her ability.

At one point, I brought up the mourning clothes, and how I’d banished black from my wardrobe. She remembered the time, but not with the same painful clarity my grandmother had once described. I commented that I couldn’t remember EVER seeing my grandma wear black. My aunt agreed, took a long pause, and then said:

“I hope you wear black again, Heather. You really wear the shit out of black.”

A few months later, when my aunt passed away suddenly, I wore a black dress to her memorial service. I wore the shit out of it.

I am now three years past the intense, immediate shock of my daughter’s death. Wearing black is no longer something I avoid – in fact, I’ve started adding black pieces to my wardrobe again. I am back to defining what I want my black clothes to mean to ME, and not what I think black clothes may mean to those around me. I can be confident, or sassy, or even sad when I wear black. I define the clothes, the clothes do not define me.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

I took a red-eye flight to Miami on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning. I’m here for just a quick trip – I’m participating in a conference – and will leave early, on Friday night, to fly directly to San Francisco. Jackie!’s annual brain tumor walk is Saturday morning and I wouldn’t miss it. It’s a lot of travel but I’m glad I will be able to make it all work.

Before I left on Tuesday night, Annie was in rare form. She insisted I brush her hair while I sang “Pwincess songs.” Since she normally screams and fights me the entire time I try to comb her hair, I jumped at the rare opportunity to brush her hair in a calm environment.  She then noticed the dress I was wearing and asked to change into one. Then, she asked me to twirl with her. It was all very girlie and cute.

As I was leaving, I gave her a kiss and a hug and said, “Bye Annie, I love you.” “PWINCESS Annie,” she corrected me.

“Have fun playing dress up with Pwincess Annie,” I said to Mike. “Oh, I will,” he replied.

A few hours ago I got an email from Mike with the subject line, “Playing Dress Up With Pwincess Annie.” I was not expecting the pictures that were attached.

His email said: Annie found my laundry and brought this shirt out to me saying, ‘Annie wear it?! Puh-lease?’ How could I resist her wanting to look like her Daddy? We played “Office” and she fired lots of people. She’s brutal.

I laughed and wrote back: And the tie?

The tie completes the outfit Heather, come on.

Mike doesn’t realize that Annie is still being quite fashion-forward with her shirt dress. He got off easy in this round of dress up – it’s only a matter of time before she puh-leases him into wearing a dress himself.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

People ask about my tattoo sometimes. My answer depends on who is asking and what kind of mood I’m in. I can simply say, “I like music” when I don’t want to get into it all, or I can go into the whole story. Most of the time I keep it to myself. Usually the people who ask have no idea that I lost a child, and sometimes I prefer to keep it that way. Sometimes it’s nice to not be treated like a sad, pitiable grieving mother.

Annie has noticed my tattoo plenty of times in the past, but recently she asked, “What’s this?” while looking at it. I tried to keep my answer as simple as possible and told her it’s my Maddie mark, and that I like to touch it and think about Maddie. Often, Annie will ask to kiss it, then bend forward and carefully put her lips on my wrist. That’s not something I’ve ever done – Annie did it entirely on her own.

Annie’s interest in my Maddie mark has only grown as she has gotten a better understanding of Maddie. She loves to watch videos of her sister and is enthralled by the photos of Maddie in our hallway, so much so that she often kisses them as I carry her past.

A few days ago Annie was once again examining my Maddie mark when she surprised me by asking, “Where’s my Maddie?”

At first I told her she didn’t have one, only Mommy did, but as the day went on she kept asking about it.

“Annie want a Maddie?” she begged. “Please?”

After the fifth or sixth time of her asking this I looked down at  her little face which was so hopeful. After a moment of thought I relented, grabbed a pen, and drew on her wrist.

When I finished Annie stared at her Maddie mark a long moment, then lifted it to her face and kissed her wrist.

She’s been showing her wrist to everyone she encounters. It’s washed off a few times and she’s flipped out, so I’ve drawn it back on again. I’ve watched her playing by herself, and she’ll even show it to her dolls.

I hope drawing the design on her wrist was the right thing to do. Right now she’s too little to understand what happened to her family before she was born. The significance of my tattoo is lost on her right now. I just hope this will be one of the little things that helps her feel like she’s always known and understood Maddie’s story, and not something that will confuse her. It’s a difficult thing for anyone to understand, and even though I know I’m doing the best I can, I still worry constantly that it’s not good enough.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Annie always notices when I get a manicure or pedicure. She usually drops to her knees and yells, “ooooh, princess toes!” I’ve painted my fingernails at home lately, and Annie sits there next to me and stares and asks questions. “Gonna color your fingers, Mama? Get princess fingers?” I don’t really get the whole princess connection other than Annie dubs anything pretty, “princess.” The other day, Mike made her some beautiful princess toast.

It was only a matter of time before she started asking me to paint her nails. I kept putting her off, because I didn’t have any polish that was safe for her. Yesterday I was heading out to run errands and before I left Annie grabbed my hand and said, “Mama? Today Annie gets princess fingers? Please?” How could I say no to that? I was princess toast.

I found her some polish at Toys R Us. When I got home, the first thing she said to me was, “Princess fingers, mama?” The kid forgets nothing. I sat her down in her folding chair and she was so ridiculously excited.

She kept saying, “Look Dada! Princess toes! LOOK! LOOK!”

When she wasn’t smiling for Mike, she was very serious.

Making sure I don’t mess up

I told her she had to be very careful because her fingers and toes were wet, and she didn’t want to ruin them. It was probably the longest she’s ever sat still.

Having me inspect her nails

Blowing on her nails to dry them

The polish was cheap (like $1.19), and it barely left any color on her fingers. But she doesn’t care – she thinks her fingers and toes are the coolest things EVER.

Showing Mike our princess fingers.

For the rest of the day, I caught her looking at her fingers and toes a dozen times. At one point we video chatted with my parents and she told them all about how “Annie has princess fingers like Mama!” It’s so obvious, but it never occurred to me that she wanted her nails painted because mine were – I just thought she liked the sparkle. And even though it’s frivolous, it makes me happy.

(She spent the rest of the night chasing Mike around, trying to convince him he needed princess fingers and toes, too.)

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Having lived in apartment complexes for the last fifteen or so years, Mike and I are still not used to someone being able to just ring our doorbell. In fact, it usually scares the crap out of us. When the bell rings, Ribgy (who is also not used to it) goes berserk, and Annie starts shrieking. She thinks every time the doorbell rings, Gramma is here…and then she gets upset when it isn’t Gramma.

Nine times out of ten, the person ringing the bell is trying to sell us solar panels. I take a pamphlet from each of them. At first I was doing it to be polite, but now I do it to keep track of how many solar panel sales people have come by. To date? 13. And they are all working with one of my neighbors! They exclusively work in the area! They just need 90 to 120 minutes of my time! When it isn’t solar panel people, it’s someone trying to convert us to their religion, or a real estate agent giving us comps in the area. Yay, our house has decreased in value.

But then, one glorious day, The Girl Scouts came to our door, and Mike was so happy he was practically jumping up and down with excitement. The two little girls in their Brownie uniforms were adorable, and they hit the jackpot with Mike. He bought five boxes – each. “I couldn’t play favorites!” he said when I gave him the side-eye. I braced myself for the onslaught of Girl Scouts once they heard about the mark in the yellow house.

A wild Girl Scout in her natural cookie-selling habitat - in front of a grocery store.

Mike proceeded to talk about his cookie order every day. I was mildly annoyed, because a) those damn cookies are like crack, and b) I already had a crack cookie supplier in my friend Tara’s daughter, Reilly. He waxed poetic about the cookies, getting Annie all worked up – when the doorbell rang, Annie and Mike would yell, “COOKIES!” when it was *surprise* another solar panel salesman.

After a few weeks, the cookies I ordered from Reilly arrived. Mike’s excitement hit epic levels. “Any day now, Annie! Our cookies are almost here!” It was like the cookies I’d ordered from Reilly weren’t good enough (more for me). But then a few more days went by…and a few more. Mike asked me “when do you think they’ll come? Can you ask Tara?”

I was hanging out with Tara a few days later and asked her in passing if the Girl Scouts were still getting in their cookies, and she told me that it was long over. I knew what had happened.

I came home from and found him peeking through the blinds on our front windows. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “School is out! They might come by on their way home!” He said back excitedly. I sat Mike down and told him the cookies weren’t coming. “Maybe their shipment was delayed!” No, Mike. “Maybe they’re both sick!” No, Mike. “MAYBE YOU’RE JUST WRONG AND THEY ARE STILL COMING!” I calmly explained that he was the victim of a cookie practical joke. “You don’t know that! I think they’re still coming, they were so adorable and sweet!”

Over a month has passed. Yesterday Mike said to me, “they’re not coming with the cookies, are they, Heddy.” It was more of a statement than a question.

The Girl Scouts may not have taken any money from us (you pay upon delivery of the cookies), but they did steal Mike’s innocence.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.