The days after
“Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,
Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.
Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives,
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of color.
…
Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was alive, awake, complete.
…
Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.
When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.
May you continue to inspire us:
To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.”
– Words by John O’Donohue, “On the Death of the Beloved”
Those words were read as we celebrated the life of our sweet girl. Daphne Jean, our ducky.
Saturday felt impossible. And yet, the love that surrounded our sweet family was humbling. As Connor and I walked into the sanctuary with our own parents, the room was filled with hundreds of friends, family and loved ones who showed up for us and for Daphne. And hundreds more online. Daphne left such a mark on so many in her short time on earth. And what a force she continues to be.
Before the service I went into the sanctuary. On the altar were the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. Whimsical wildflowers – poppies and all. All for our girl.
Our Poppy
Poppy became Daphne’s first nickname. Getting that first positive pregnancy test, she was the size of a poppyseed. And week after week, month after month, we watched our little poppy bloom into the beautiful brown-haired, blue-eyed girl we finally got to bring home on a warm October day.
We found out our little Poppy was a girl after our 12-week genetic testing came back, and we spent weeks picking out her name. In a way, she chose her name. The night before our 18-week anatomy scan, Connor and I decided we’d seriously consider the name Daphne. When the doctor asked if our little girl had a name after she read our scan and saw some concerning defects, we both looked at each other and said, “Daphne.” Our girl. Daphne.
Her nursery was inspired by wildflowers. Hundreds of hand-painted wildflowers adorn her nursery walls. A banner of the alphabet made up of wildflowers hangs above her changing pad on top of her dresser, her dresser drawers with floral hardware. The rug in the center of the room has roses, and a handmade floral mobile hangs above her crib.
She was the sweetest little wildflower that we were honored to watch bloom for three months. And the flowers in her service reflected the joy, vibrancy and free-spirit of Daphne.
A club we never wanted to be part of
It’s such an unfair goodbye. No parent should ever have to bury their child.
Never in a million years could I have imagined this would be our journey – our story. That the child that seemed to complete so much of us would take her place in the stars far too soon.
Even with Daphne’s CHD diagnosis, we never felt like we would have to say goodbye. And certainly never so unexpectedly. Her critical CHD, while it would have been fatal if left untreated, was repairable and she would get to go on and live a relatively “normal” life. And even though we put her in the hands of a team we had such confidence in, it just feels like we all got really, really unlucky that day. Her surgery didn’t go as planned, and the complications of her surgery took things down the darkest path.
Life can be incredibly unfair in the cruelest of ways. And man, am I feeling that so deeply right now.
She was everything Connor and I ever dreamed of and she made us feel so complete. Navigating life without her has been the most painful thing we’ve had to do. And also, her celebration of life – while it felt impossible – was full of so much joy.
Joy in seeing all the people she brought together. Joy in feeling the love that so vastly surrounds us. Joy in hearing people say her name.
Home feels different
Our living room is now adorned with the most special pieces to remember Daphne by. A shelf with a cut-out heart in the center was given to us by my parents, and is now home to and surrounded by photos of our daughter. The name sign her great-grandpa – my grandpa – made her sits in front of the last photo we took of her. Her biggest, gummiest ear-to-ear grin; the brightest light in her eyes.
Her favorite ring sling hangs from the shelf, along with a little yellow duck she was given after her CT scan, and a sweater with her name embroidered – a gift that was sent before her surgery but showed up shortly after her death and was a heartbreakingly sweet package to receive. The faux poppy arrangement my sister gave me for Mother’s Day 2024 after announcing our pregnancy rests on the table below the shelf.
The house feels so empty without her here. We miss her coos, her cries, her smiles, her squeals, her. We miss changing her diapers, giving her a bath, holding her for every nap. We miss packing a diaper bag and putting her in her carseat.
I miss waking up throughout the night to nurse her and holding her hand as she fell asleep in her bassinet next to me. I miss hearing her little grunts as she woke up every morning, a crabby little face before giving me the biggest smile to say, “good morning, mama.” I miss the sounds of her nursing. I miss her sweaty little head lifting from my chest after waking up from a two hour contact nap. I miss everything about her.
Learning how to live this life without her is grueling. And also, I know we’ll be okay. This is going to be the longest journey. The grief won’t go away, but I have hope that we’ll learn how to carry it.
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.
