Secure yourself to heaven

“Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.” -- Joan Didion

Or maybe not dinner. Maybe you're driving to a friend's house on an ordinary Thursday night, and you're going to hang out and watch Lifetime movies and order Indian food, and suddenly you receive a phone call that sends your stomach plummeting to the floor of the car. Or worse, maybe you're at work, and the phone rings, and suddenly you're struggling to throw a bag together with the understanding that you have to be at the hospital within the hour and you don't quite know why or for how long or what you'll need or what will happen.

Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant.

On Friday evening, September 14th, 2012, my brother and sister-in-law became parents to a beautiful little girl named Bailey Rae, and I became an auntie. She had her mama's nose and her daddy's chin.

What is heart-stoppingly unfair about this is that this beautiful child did not survive delivery. She was perfect in every single way; she was just too tiny, and HELLP syndrome is merciless in its attacks. We are lucky we still have Bailey's mother with us; I am furious that we were not allowed to keep Bailey as well.

There was no almost about her and my sister-in-law and brother are not someday parents -- Bailey was, and is, very much their daughter. She made Morgan a mama, she made Aaron a daddy. They were so gracious to share her with me, and they are so strong in their love for her. I wish I could summon the words to describe what it was like to be in their presence. I cried more tears this weekend than I thought my body could produce, but somehow, when my brother placed my tiny niece in my arms, I felt unspeakable joy and, somehow, something like peace. This couldn't have possibly come from me since I am a little too broken, as we all are; I'd say it's all God, but I'm a little too angry at Him right now to ask.

She was just over a pound, but she also felt so solid, somehow. Her cheeks were adorably round; even her tummy was round. I kissed those cheeks, those eyelids, that soft little belly. She had ten tiny fingernails and tiny tiny toenails. Sweet little hands, kissable feet, round little knees. Her skin was soft. So soft. She had eyelashes and the most perfectly-shaped little lips. I just smile every time I think about what it was like to hold her; what makes me cry, still, is the memory of what it felt like to let her go, knowing I would not pick her up again.

Bailey was a playful spirit in her mother's womb, and somehow this came through in her face. Aaron and I, remembering our Grandpa Charlie (who is undoubtedly being given a run for his money by his great-granddaughter in heaven) are quite sure that we will encounter moments of hilarity for the rest of our lives, moments of total whimsy, in which we will know that she's somehow there. That's Bailey for sure, we will say.

There have been times in the last week when I've felt guilty for hurting like this -- what right do I have? When it's not my baby? But grief is messy, a trickster that doesn't respect boundaries, and what would be the alternative? How could I not grieve this child who was already so deeply loved by so many people? I saw my grief mirrored in my daughter's face, my own little girl who was so excited to meet her cousin. Suzannah crawled into my lap and sobbed when I told her that Bailey was too tiny to stay on this earth. When she cried, "Why?" I had no answer. Because there is no acceptable why.

Bailey broke my heart, but only to fit herself inside. When this happens too early it's not a gentle process, and it hurts. God. It's almost too much to bear. But our hearts are bigger now, and they're going to be completely new shapes when they heal around the cracks.