Hi Dear Reader,
I don’t post here that often. So for those of you that find your way here, I’m grateful for your time and energy shared with me and my stories.
Today is the 9th death anniversary of my firstborn daughter, Acacia. Nine years ago she was born on the night of September 25th at 10:38 pm. Two and half days later (and yes, a half day matters, because when your baby dies, every moment you had with them is precious, and never ever enough), on September 28th at 3:30 pm she died in my arms, with her daddy by my side, grandparents in the room, an aunt, uncle, cousin and two of our closest friends.
This year I’m choosing to share a journal entry my dad wrote about his experience with Acacia. It’s poignant for me to share his thoughts, as he died earlier this year in April, unexpectedly and peacefully in his sleep. Tomorrow, the 29th, will mark five months since he died. Life is so unexpected and unpredictable. As much as we like to believe we have some things figured out, and perhaps some sort of plan for ourselves and our loved ones, we absolutely just never quite know. So my dad and my daughter – sometimes I imagine them – I see them filled with love and joy, spending time together in the spirit world. I miss them here though.
Dear Acacia – I miss you. Nine years later is very different than the day I held you in my arms and felt death, and the deepest depths of grief and loss for the first time in my life. Sometimes it’s “still” hard for me to understand that the most devastating experiences (such as your birth and death) of our lifetimes, can also be the ones filled with the most love. I’m slowly coming to know that it is less about understanding these things, and more about feeling them, letting them be, and knowing that such deep experiences cannot be fully captured by thoughts and words. They are held closely and deeply in our hearts and souls. You, my dear daughter, are of me and with me. As I am of you and with you. I love you so very, very much. Beyond words. – Love, Mom
As I remember my daughter – my thoughts are drawn to all of the clients I have worked with over the years, the ones I continue to work with, and those I have yet to meet. You have opened your hearts and minds to me/with me, you have shared your precious child or children that died with me. And I am deeply honored to be a small part of your family. I am so privileged to do the work I do.
And now for my dad’s reflection:
Journal on Acacia Sierra King’s passing September 28, 2009 by Jesse Glick
I was in a temple, a sacred space today, not the stained glass type, but nevertheless where people spoke in hushed tones, the kind when meeting someone very special.
There I was touched by and touched an angel, the tiniest little human being I had ever held.
Five colorful sentinels stood guard in that temple. A white, a black, a green, a blue, and a yellow sentinel. In hospital jargon—monitors. With their red and green lights blinking,
And dozens of tubes and cords, all centered on and connected to the tiny angel
with a beautiful round head with dark fuzz, long slender arms and the finest tiny fingers, on a 4 lb. body.
The sacred space was filled with amazing love, brimming full and overflowing.
The sacred space was full of a presence that would not, could not be disconnected when tubes—breathing and feeding tubes were pulled away.
(pause)
A presence now on a whole different life support system. One that goes on and on, never to be pulled away, never to give out, never to fail.
I cringe when I hear, “she is now in a better place.”
Shelly and Matthew had a beautiful nursery awaiting her.
Are loving, wonderful parents
As a bonus, Acacia had well prepared parents as evidenced by a stack of books, long conversations with midwives, counselors, and moms.
Many wonderful plans for Acacia Sierra, and places around the world to visit. She will soon be part of these places. But sadly not in the manner first envisioned.
Yes, the tubes have been disconnected.
Yet my life, our lives, remain alive with a presence that can never be disconnected.
