elaineluo

[elaineluo]

all that remains

Two years later, I find that both tears and words have run dry. 

Recently, the questions have started anew with my increasingly obvious and visible pregnancy. When faced with their tentative enquiry as they look at me holding Elsie’s hand, “You’re expecting your second?”, replying with “Yes” has become the path of least resistance. 

Even as I continue imagine what life might've been like with him—yes, him—silence has become the easiest recourse. For how do I begin to explain that we now remember Anastasius, not Anastasia? So like a jealously guarded secret, I hold him close to my heart, as life passes on by.  

Grief lingers as a dull lethargy, but it has long lost its bitter sting. I may only know in part now, but then I shall know fully; and so faith, hope and love—two years on, it is these three that remain.  

[elaineluo]

one year

The azaleas are in full bloom on our balcony again. I distinctly remember this time last year—weighed down with grief, lying limp and listless in bed—when their explosion of cheerful beauty seemed to mock me in my grief, their bright colour a stark counterpoint to the overwhelming darkness within. 

A few weeks after Anastasia died, Josh tried to tell me about what psychologists have discovered about emotional homeostasis: people who won the lottery experienced a huge spike in their perceived happiness levels, but a short few months later, they perceived themselves to be just as happy as before they had won the lottery. People who had experienced loss… I cut him off before he could finish his (in retrospect, endearing) take on “This too shall pass” to try and comfort me. Sorry, no, not helpful. Can you leave me alone for a while? 

But as always, he was right. 

A year on, memories of the days and weeks following Anastasia’s death are now indistinct, blurred by the fog of time. Reading what I had written during that time, the grief it describes seems foreign and distant; what was once acute and all-consuming, has now faded into a dull ache of hope and longing. Where the mere thought or mention of Anastasia used to trigger uncontrollable waterworks, the moments when she’s remembered now are like a candle flame. It still burns if held too closely, for too long; but carefully, tenderly cradled, there’s warmth and light in the darkness. 

Surprisingly, it is Elsie who has been instrumental in holding onto her as a part of our family. Where Josh and I are wary of inviting grief into our conversations, she is buoyed by a child’s carefree innocence to speak what adults find taboo.

“Mummy, why did Anastasia have to die? I wish she was still here.” 

“Can I go to heaven to visit Anastasia? Is heaven very far? Maybe we can go on an aeroplane to visit her!” 

It is Elsie, who gives voice to the unspoken hopes and longings of my soul; who comforts me and makes me both laugh and cry like no one else can. 

“Mummy, can you give me a real baby? A real baby who will grow bigger and bigger and who I can play with and help look after?” 

“It’s okay mummy. Your Anastasia died, but when I grow up I’ll have a baby and call her Anastasia and give her to you.” 

It is Elsie, who acknowledges and remembers her as a real and tangible member of our family. 

“I’m a big sister too! Anastasia’s my younger sister, even though she died. Maybe after I turn 100, I can go to heaven to see her!” 

“When I grow up, I want to have two babies. Two baby girls. Just like you mummy, you have two precious daughters, me and Anastasia.” 

In the past week, Elsie has been counting down to Anastasia’s birth day.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, then it’s Anastasia’s birthday! Mummy, will you buy a cake for Anastasia? Can I help her eat her cake?” 

She’s been reminding us every day, gravely concerned that she will miss an opportunity to eat cake. Her concerns might be entirely misplaced—there will definitely be cake tomorrow—but I am glad for how she has normalised a day I had been dreading. 

A year ago, Anastasia died. A year on, as I gaze at the blooming azaleas, I no longer resent their joy and beauty. I am glad that they will always remind me of Anastasia, of the fleeting joy and beauty she brought into our lives, before her earthly body withered away. It has already been a year—a lifetime—but soon, soon, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet, the dead will be raised imperishable, and I shall hold her in my arms again.

[elaineluo]

cake for Anastasia

Earlier this week, L dropped by with a candle for Anastasia that we could light in memory of her on International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. And so yesterday as night fell, we gathered around the dining table—Josh, Elsie and I—and together we lit the candle and watched it flickering in the darkness, as songs I had chosen for Anastasia’s funeral played softly in the background.

“Mummy?” Elsie wriggles in my lap as the strains of a new song start up. “What’s this song called? Is it also an ‘Anastasia’ song?” 

“Yes it is; these are all the songs that remind mummy of Anastasia.” I softly answer. Her reply is full of grievance. “Anastasia has so many songs. Why doesn’t Elsie have any songs?” 

“You have songs too! Don’t you sing so many songs every day? All of them are ‘Elsie’ songs: when I hear you singing, I’m reminded of you. But Anastasia isn’t here with us and we can’t hear her sing, so we can only play these songs when we miss her.” 

We sit for a while longer in the darkness lit only by the warm glow of the candle flame. When the song comes to an end, Josh prays for us as a family, and Elsie helps to blow out the candle. As the wisps of smoke rise up from the candle, she excitedly asks, “Can we eat it now?” 

It dawns on me that this is why she has been so patiently sitting with us the entire time: in her mind, she saw a cake with a candle on top. So while she wasn’t quite sure what the ritual and ceremony was for, she’d waited with long-sufferance to get through it all so that she could eat cake. I am laughing so hard it takes a while before I can catch my breath to answer her. 

“Darling, this isn’t cake. It’s a candle; you can’t eat it!” Seeing her face fall in disappointment, I console her. “It’s going to be your birthday soon, and we’ll buy Elsie a cake, a real cake—we’ll also light and blow out candles, and then you can eat it!” She concurs, “Yes, buy a very big cake for me, and I’ll eat all of it!” Appeased by the idea, she slides off my lap ready to run off, but then a new thought occurs to her. 

“When will it be Anastasia’s birthday? Will there be real cake for Anastasia’s birthday too?” I’m acutely aware of the sudden lump in my throat, and my voice is tight and strained when I finally say, “Yes darling, there will. It’s still quite a long time away, but next year when it’s Anastasia’s birthday, let’s buy a cake for Anastasia.”

Dearest Anastasia, I think you would share Elsie’s sentiments. A candle, instead of cake?! How could we wrong you so? Aren’t you glad that you have your big sister as your advocate, so that even though you are not here with us, she reminds your sometimes clueless parents of what might’ve been your priorities and what you would’ve cared about. And so please rest assured that next year, and for every year thereafter, there will be cake on your birthday as we remember you. 

[elaineluo]

a metaphor for grief

Josh and I watched “The Elephant Queen” together last night, a documentary film that follows the journey of an elephant herd during a dry season that turns into a long drought. In the opening scenes of the film, we are introduced to Mimi, a newly born and youngest member of the herd. However, we soon learn that she is struggling to survive: she is much smaller and weaker than a baby elephant her age should be, the narrator explains, because her mother’s milk is drying up prematurely. 

A sense of foreboding starts to rise from the pit of my stomach, as I watch the scenes unfold of Mimi bravely continuing to press on. Clearly exhausted, still she trudges on with the herd as they journey in their search for water. I feel sick with dread—it is an uncanny parallel to our own experience with Anastasia—but I can’t stop watching. Grasping at straws, I think, surely, the film is only focusing so much on her struggles now so that it can better celebrate the miracle of her triumphant survival. I nearly manage to convince myself that there will be a happy ending, before my hopes are dashed by the sight of Mimi collapsing in the barren landscape of the African desert, never to rise again. I feel Josh tense beside me, and in an instant, fresh waves of grief overwhelm me like the bursting of a dam. Enfolded in his tight embrace, I cry, and cry, and cry. 

The past few weeks have been a blur of busy activity with preparations to return to school after an extended lockdown, compounded by Elsie finally starting to drop her afternoon nap. In the face of so many competing interests for my time and attention, my grief had given way and retreated from the centre of my consciousness. All that remained was a niggling sense of unease and restlessness, in the rare moments when I’d paused long enough to notice the edges of the empty hollowness that still gaped inside. But I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell; each time I’d quickly turned my thoughts away from the precipice, terrified that I would once again be swallowed by the unfathomable depths of loss.

Yet now I wonder what I was so afraid of, as I think back again to last night. If truth be told, it was a relief to be able to cry, to give shape and voice to the sorrow that still weighs on us, and to again acknowledge the trauma of all that we have been through with the loss of Anastasia. For a while now I’ve imagined my grief to be a yawning chasm, where a single misstep will see me slipping and tumbling down into its depths. I was wrong. Waking up this morning, I’d braced myself for the onslaught of emotions that I thought would surely carry over from the night before. Yet in the light of day, I was surprised to find that the grief I had expected to overwhelm me anew, had instead retreated again into the background.

So perhaps it is not a chasm, but more aptly described as a maze. Initially trapped deep in its centre, lost and confused with no way of escaping, I abruptly realise that I’ve somehow found my way to its exit, and am now free to walk out from under its shadow. Many things remind me of this maze of mine and transport me involuntarily back to its entrance, but its domineering façade no longer scares me. As I gaze upon it now—knowing that it will forever remain a prominent feature in the landscape of my life experiences—I realise that if anything, it is a testament to how much I’ve lost, and a monument of how deeply I’ve loved.

The tears flow anew, but it is okay. I’m crying, because I love and miss Anastasia so very much, and it is okay. This grief no longer entraps me; I will walk away soon when I am ready, I know. So I linger just a moment longer, and contemplate just how profoundly the surrounding landscape has been shaped and transformed by this maze of mine. Truly, it is because I love, that I grieve. And so it is okay. I am okay.

[elaineluo]

shaping us

I sit at the piano for the first time in weeks, with freshly printed sheet music set before me. These are the songs that I had chosen for Anastasia’s funeral. As my fingers slowly pick out the right notes across the keys, I think back to the last time I had played. 

It was the day we had gone to see my obstetrician after my waters had broken. I had played with tears running down my cheeks, knowing that it was likely the last time that I would be able to play with, and to, Anastasia. Some of my favourite memories with Elsie as a newborn were of me playing the piano with her snugly wrapped against my front; I had been so sad when she inevitably grew too big for my arms to reach the keys around her. And so when I found out we were finally pregnant again, it was one of the first things I had thought. I’ll get to play piano with the beautiful, comforting weight of our new baby resting on my chest again. My face had crumpled into ugly sobs, as my heart broke under the weight of the knowledge that no, it was no longer something I would ever get to do with Anastasia. 

Tears well up in my eyes, as again I think of all the hopes and dreams that have been lost with the loss of Anastasia. But before they have time to spill over, I hear the sound of Elsie’s running footsteps. “Mummy, what song are you playing?” she asks as she reaches out and tries to climb on to my lap. I pick her up, and after a moment’s thought, softly answer, “It’s a song that reminds me of Anastasia.” Elsie is not impressed by my response, and demands, “Mummy don’t play a song about Anastasia, I want mummy to play a song about Elsie instead!” Her childish jealousy makes me chuckle, and I cuddle her as I explain, “I’ll play your favourite songs for you later. But mummy really misses Anastasia right now and I want to play this song instead. Do you want to sit here and listen?” My fingers start moving across the keys again, and Elsie is quiet now as the rich harmonies resound within our living room once more. 

Dearest Anastasia, I’ve said many times that along with Elsie, you’re the best thing that ever happened to your dad and I. But know this too, that I think you would’ve also been the best thing that could’ve happened to Elsie, if only you were still here with us today. It was during your time with us that Elsie first realised she wouldn’t always be at the centre of our attention and affection, and even now your absence continues to shape her to grow in patience and selflessness. I desperately wish that you were still here, but you live on within us: your existence shaped us into a family of four, and you will forever continue to shape us.

[elaineluo]

torn

I’ve been sorting through Elsie’s old clothes this past week. Initially on my list of things to do in order to prepare for Anastasia’s arrival, now, I’m sorting through them to pass on to K’s and C’s babies. Even as I know that it is the rational, helpful thing to do—we simply don’t have the space to hoard bags upon bags of unused baby clothes—I can’t stop the tears that well up and spill over as I sit amongst the piles of clothes that would’ve been for Anastasia. Josh appears in the doorway at the sound of my sobs, takes one look at the mess that surrounds me, and quickly steps in to wrap me tightly in his arms. In his eyes I see a mirror of my own anguish, at yet another heartbreaking reminder of the future that will never be. 

Hours later, when I again start folding the clothes to be packed into neat bundles labelled with size and season, there is a growing sense of unease. To be able to so quickly give away her clothes after we have lost Anastasia feels callous and heartless; does it mean that I don’t nearly love her as much as I think I do, or as much as I should? 

As I sit here writing this now, it dawns on me that in some ways, it’s an unexpected metaphor for how I’ve been so quick—almost eager—to pick through the mess and chaos that life has been after losing Anastasia, and reinstate a sense of order and normality. I tell myself that I am pressing on for the sake of Josh and Elsie, but it also feels like a betrayal. Torn between continuing to dwell in overwhelming feelings of sorrow and grief, and trying to pick myself up out of the darkness, I thought I had made what was the courageous choice. Yet now I wonder if in actuality it was cowardice. Cowardice, in the face of overwhelming emotions that scare me in how much they make me lose control. Cowardice, at the thought of disappointing and not living up to the expectations that friends and family have of me. 

It’s a question that’s still too painful to examine in detail; a question still too hard to answer. But I suddenly realise that in the midst of my inner turmoil, one truth now shines through clearer than before. Dearest Anastasia, the only reason I feel so incredibly torn, is because I truly love you so.

[elaineluo]

perspective

After we found out at the 20 week scan that Anastasia was most likely not going to make it, advice flooded in about what the right course of action to take should be. Everyone had a different opinion on what would be most rational and practical, and what would best “balance” the interests of all parties. Usually plagued by indecision, even in the midst of all the emotional turmoil, for once I knew with perfect clarity and certainty that I only needed to consider the answer to one question: What would be best for Anastasia? Everything else paled in significance when I was faced with the reality that—barring a miracle—I would not have much time left with my daughter. Once I was convinced I knew the right answer, I didn’t feel the need to justify my choice, or seek the approval and agreement of others. Together with Josh, I made the decision to continue with the pregnancy until the moment Anastasia’s heart stopped beating. It was my decision to make, and my decision to own; my decision that I would bear the consequences of, and live with for the rest of my life. 

Now, I wonder why it was any different when it came to deciding between returning to work and staying at home to look after Elsie. Granted, there were more parties directly affected by the decision, and it carried the weight of far-reaching implications that will continue to play out for many years to come. Accordingly, the answer was not as clear cut—even before taking into account genuine differences of opinion and schools of thought—when we tried to figure out what would be best for Elsie. But once Josh and I had come to a consensus, was it not exactly the same? It was our decision to make and own, and our decision that we would bear the consequences of and have to live with for the rest of our lives. If we had decided that time with Elsie was limited and precious, and that above all relationship is what we value, why did we still feel the pressure to defend our choice to others, or convince them that we had indeed made the right decision? Why did I feel constantly preoccupied with what others would think, and how it might affect their opinion of me? 

But Anastasia’s time with us has put things into perspective. On one level, it is incomprehensible and inexplicable even to myself that I can so deeply love a child whom I never truly met. Yet it is a powerful, immutable truth which resonates deep within my heart and mind: she never took a single breath, but still I knew her, loved her, and am profoundly grateful for every moment that we had with her. And knowing this, I know with renewed confidence that we are making the right decisions with Elsie. Who cares about what others may say or think? I press on with a clear conscience, a light heart, and no regrets.

[elaineluo]

changed for good

After I gave birth to Elsie, for months I struggled under the fog of post-natal depression. While Josh tried his best to be supportive, I don’t think he ever really understood, or was able to accept the reality of what I was going through. For years, it’s been a rift buried deep and unspoken of: that in those dark moments, he could not see or know me. Now, he weeps alongside me. He cradles and rocks me as I fall apart, arms firm around me until my breathing slows from hysterical gasps to quiet sobs. He reassures me that it’s okay, even if I’ll never be okay again; he will always be here with me. Now, in the darkest of moments, he sees me and knows me. And what was broken long ago, almost forgotten, slowly starts to heal.

---

A friend recently asked me if I felt prepared to go through with another pregnancy after what had happened. I surprised myself with how instantaneously I knew the answer. Yes. Yes, even after being confronted with the tangible reality of loss. Yes, even with the heightened stress and anxiety that will inevitably accompany every moment. Yes, even as I know that the innocent joy and hope that comes with awaiting the gift of new life is forever lost to me. Yet, it shouldn’t be surprising, because the response is the same to a question that is much simpler to answer: if I had known how it would end, yes, I would still go through it all over again. All the needles and twice weekly blood tests, the nausea and side effects from the medication, the bleeding, fatigue and bed rest; all of it was worth it, because it meant that for five precious months, Anastasia was here. Another child will never replace her, but another child will be a gift to be equally treasured and loved—so how could I possibly say no?

It strikes me again that if we had Anastasia here with us today, the sad irony is that I would not have nearly appreciated her and Elsie quite as much. Now, I hold Elsie tight for just that little bit longer, whenever she asks to be picked up. I put down my phone and give Elsie my full attention as she chatters to me about her day. I savour and cherish each and every moment with my child, and I am a better mother for it.

---

Dearest Anastasia, do you see, do you begin to understand, just how much of a difference you have made? You may no longer be here, but you have changed us for good. Some may read what I have written and exclaim, “Look, in His grace and mercy, God has brought good even out of this evil.” But they’ve missed the question that haunts me in my anguish: if this was the good that you could bring about with your absence, just how much more—inconceivably, unthinkably more—have we lost without your presence?

[elaineluo]

longing

Dearest Anastasia,

I miss you so, so much. You might think that in the two weeks since we went home without you, I would start to miss you less, that the pain of saying goodbye to you would fade and relent… but that’s only because you don’t understand just how much you I love you. 

It was Father’s Day yesterday. Two years ago, on his first Father’s Day after your big sister Elsie was born, I’d presented your dad with a sketchbook. “Memories of Fatherhood”, I’d titled it. I’d filled the first few pages with photos of him together with Elsie, and a letter I’d written on her behalf, thanking him for all the moments that he had shared with her. I’d resolved that it was going to be the start of a new family tradition: every year for Father’s Day the book would be updated with new photos and memories, to be looked back on and cherished in the years to come. You joined us this year, and you were included. You will always be remembered as a part of our family. But do you know how much it breaks my heart that I do not have a photo of your dad holding you, or of your bright smiles together, but only of him standing before you at your funeral? Did you see how we cried last night, knowing that there will never be any more photos of you together with your dad, for the Father’s Days to come? 

I asked for an extension on submitting my Year 12 reports today; they’re due in two days. I don’t think I’ve ever asked for an extension on any assignment or task in my whole life, but things have changed now. I lost you. I’ve had so much time to write these reports, and still have so much time to write them. But each time I sit down in a quiet place and try to start, you fill my thoughts. You are all I can think about; you are all I want to think about. I may not be able to hold you anymore, but I only have to close my eyes and there in my mind I see and remember you.

Family and friends tell your dad and I that we’re doing so well, that we’re being so strong. But please know, dearest Anastasia, that it is not because we have forgotten you, or that our longing for you has waned. They don’t see our grief when we are alone, and all the tears we cry for you in their absence. They don’t know that I collapsed into bed this afternoon, exhausted after another sleepless night of missing you. They would be shocked if I told them that there I lay—numb and unmoving for hours—even as night fell, even as your dad beseeched me to have some dinner, long after Elsie had already gone to bed. They cannot understand that even as I hold fast to the hope that we have in Christ, even as I rejoice in and am thankful for reminders of God’s unfailing love and kindness, there is still a despair within me that is vast beyond measure.

I wish I could be more like your dad, Anastasia. He loves you just as much, and misses you just as much, but out of selfless, sacrificial love for our family, he bravely presses on each day. I wish you could have known him, grown up with him as your father. With him as your role model, I have no doubt that you would have blossomed into a young lady who is thoughtful and responsible, compassionate and selfless. But today, in the here and now, I can only hold fast to the knowledge that you are with our perfect, heavenly Father, in a place that is untainted and unmarred by sin and its brokenness. It is a far better place to be, and you have no reason to miss us. But I miss you, Anastasia. I miss you so, so much.

[elaineluo]

the first day of spring

It was the first day of spring. The skies were blue, the sunshine golden and brilliant, in stark contrast to the cold numbness that filled me as we drove to Macquarie Park Cemetery and Crematorium. After an impossibly long, dark night of overwhelming anxiety and dread at the incomprehensible idea of having to attend the funeral of a baby—our baby—I now felt only quiet resignation at the day that was before us.

I remember sitting on a stone bench outside the chapel, trembling uncontrollably despite the warmth of the sunshine on my back, Josh’s hand firmly enclosing mine as he prayed for us before the service started.

I remember the moment when I first saw Anastasia’s coffin sitting in the chapel. It was beautiful, covered with an overflowing spray of white flowers and foliage, nestled in tulle and baby’s breath. Yet all I felt was horror and anguish as I fell apart with gasping, ugly sobs. It was so, so small. Incomprehensibly, cruelly small. 

I remember Josh standing before Anastasia, reading out his letter to her. He was so broken, yet for our daughter he was being so strong, as he poured out his hopes, dreams and longing for her. I have never loved him more.

I remember when it was my turn to read out my letter. I don’t know how I managed to get through it, when all I wanted to do was to collapse in a heap and cry. Cry, for all the pain and suffering that we had been through. Cry, for the future that had been snatched away from us. Cry, to and at God, why, Lord, oh why, am I standing here before you in this place, at this time? Yet to the unchangeable, enduring truth of His unfailing love and salvation I clung, as through the waves of tears I haltingly, waveringly read to Anastasia. I needed to tell her just how much she was loved by us, and by her Heavenly Father. I needed to let her know that we would not forget, that we would not lose hope but hold fast, that we looked forward to the glorious day where we would once again be reunited. 

I remember the bible reading from 1 Corinthians 15:51-58. Powerfully, warmly read by our pastor Kenny, it honoured Anastasia and her name. Our labour will not be in vain, death will not have the last say. We shall rise, glorious in our victory. 

I remember seeing Anastasia for the final time, as I placed my letter into her coffin. It was a decision that I had agonised over: I was terrified that I would be forever haunted by the image of her lying lifeless within the coffin, but I was also so, so scared that I would forever regret not seeing her for one last time. I already had so little to remember her by, could I really afford to not see her again? In the end, sheer, desperate longing for her won out. But the awful, brutal truth was that it was no longer her. Features no longer distinct, she looked nothing like I had remembered, irreconcilable with the images of her that were so firmly ingrained in my mind. This was not our baby; it was a broken, decaying body. Josh and I clung to each other in anguish, as waves of devastation washed over us at the sight. How cruel it was that even this we were denied, of being granted one final image of our daughter lying peacefully at rest to hold on to. Yet it also brought the most unlikely and unexpected comfort. I knew then, as I know now, that no, it cannot ever haunt me; it was confirmation that Anastasia had truly left and gone to a better place. 

I remember the flickering flames through the viewing window, as we watched the body of our baby turned back into ashes. Both Josh and I were silent and dry-eyed as we stood there for long minutes. Deep within our souls rested the knowledge that the Anastasia we dearly loved, was no longer lying dead in that coffin. 

It was the first day of spring. The skies were blue, the sunshine golden and brilliant, as we drove home, our hearts laden with grief and longing, but also filled with an inexplicable peace. Our beloved daughter Anastasia had gone before us, and she was already home at our true and eternal dwelling.

[elaineluo]

a strange harmony

This morning, Elsie patters into our bedroom while I am still in bed. Josh has already gotten her up and dressed, and she offers to me the matching hair ties and clips that she has painstakingly picked out, tightly clutched in her pudgy hands. “Mummy help brush Elsie’s hair, so Elsie can look pretty,” she entreats. As I tie her hair into little pigtails, I wonder if Elsie would’ve enjoyed picking out pretty bows and hairbands for Anastasia. Elsie and Anastasia, together in matching outfits, smiling in gleeful delight at each other. Hair done, Elsie runs off to get her baby doll, before coming back to climb into bed with me. I hold her closely to me, and watch as she cradles and caresses her doll, tenderly kissing it on its forehead. Elsie holds Anastasia as we’re all snuggled together in bed, her eyes alight with love and joy. I can’t stop the tears that well up in my eyes, as I mourn for the reality that will never be, for the baby sister that Elsie will never know or have.

Elsie looks up suddenly, before I can rearrange my face. “Mummy is sad,” she solemnly states, then asks, “Does mummy want Elsie to go get a tissue?” I smile softly at her and shake my head, before hugging her close again and telling her, “I’m okay. I love you so, so much Elsie.” Her little voice pipes up again, “Mummy is sad, because baby sister has gone to heaven?” My breath hitches, but then she continues, “What colour is heaven? Is it red?” I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s all the colours of the rainbow. It’s a place that’s bright and golden and filled with light.” She contemplates the idea for a few seconds. “Heaven is very beautiful, isn’t it?” I agree, “Yes, heaven is the most beautiful place, and that’s where your baby sister is.”

The morning of the day that we were going to be discharged, a social worker from the hospital came to talk to and counsel us. Upon learning that we had a precocious toddler waiting for us at home, her relief was palpable as she comforted us, “It will be so hard, but she’ll be your reason to get up each morning and face each day. It’s good that you have her at least, it’ll make things easier as you slowly heal from this.” At the time, I had felt slightly insulted by her suggestion that I was so far gone that I wouldn’t even be able to drag myself out of bed each day, and also hurt that she seemed to believe that already having a child meant that the loss of Anastasia would hurt less. But as it always is with these things, it turns out that she was not entirely wrong. 

Never in my wildest imagination could I have conceived of the avalanche of grief that would bury me in the days that followed our return home, and in the darkest of moments, Elsie has been the single lifeline from whom I have drawn the strength and will to continue on. But even as I am thankful with my whole being for the precious blessing Elsie is to us, she is also a constant reminder of everything that I will never get to experience with Anastasia, and everything that could’ve been but won’t ever be. With each day that passes, I realise more and more that no, the pain of losing Anastasia cannot ever be “made better”. But while it was initially a deafening, discordant chorus that drowned out everything else, with each passing day more notes of brightness are added to the clamour and compete for my attention. The pain does not relent, but it now forms an unlikely, strange harmony, where grief and joy co-exist in this ever unfolding concert of life.

[elaineluo]

truly here, truly counted

The first time we thought we had lost Anastasia was when I was just 5 weeks pregnant. I had only just seen my obstetrician two days before, to commence progesterone treatment and blood testing twice a week. With a wavering voice, I left a message with his receptionist that I had just experienced heavy bleeding. A few hours later, he called back. “I’m so sorry, but it seems like it just didn’t work out this time. Make an appointment to come in some time next week, just so we can check you over, okay?”

Imagine our astonishment then, when he was checking to see that all the pregnancy tissue had passed, that what we saw on screen instead was a fluttering heartbeat. Our baby was somehow, miraculously alive. In the following weeks and months, there were countless more occasions when we thought that Anastasia was gone, and she stubbornly proved us wrong. Looking back now, it is all a blur of ongoing spotting and bleeding, internal haemotomas, and two terrifying instances of sudden, violent haemorrhaging. Through it all, Anastasia was our little miracle, and we were convinced that it was a part of God’s wonderful and glorious plan for Him to sustain her, until she was delivered safe and sound into our arms. 

The past few days, I haven’t been able to stop asking why. Why, Lord, why did you keep her alive for that long, only to then take her away from us? You sustained her for so many months, why couldn’t you have sustained her long enough so that she could have lived? I know you perfectly love me, Josh, and Elsie; you know how much joy and brightness she would’ve brought us if she was here… why, oh why, would you deny us that delight? I am not sure I’ll ever get a complete answer on this side of eternity, but as I’ve cried and raged against the seeming cruelty of it all, I’ve stumbled upon glimpses of His grace.

In NSW, the legal definition of a stillborn baby is one that has reached 20 weeks gestation, or weighs at least 400g at birth if gestational age is unknown or unclear. It is legally mandated that their birth is registered, and a legislative requirement that a funeral service be held for them where they are buried or cremated. Anastasia was born at 22 weeks and 4 days gestation, weighing a meagre 165g. In the days leading up to her delivery, we’d been questioned multiple times by medical professionals on how certain we were of her gestational age, because she was measuring so small. I cannot help but wonder if she had been born just a bit earlier, a bit closer to the arbitrary line of 20 weeks, that in light of her tiny birth weight the doctors would’ve declared that the estimated gestational age was wrong, and so stripped her of all human rights.

Maybe, just maybe, God kept Anastasia alive for just long enough, that she would be undeniably conferred human dignity in the eyes of the law. Dearly beloved to us she would have been regardless, but she survived long enough to not be dismissed as medical waste by others. She survived long enough so that she was carefully carried away, to be gently wrapped in soft blankets. She survived long enough so that the midwives made prints of her tiny feet, and dressed her in a beautiful silk gown before taking photos of her that we could remember her by.

Until the day I meet God face to face, I will never be able to comprehend why Anastasia’s time was cut short with us. But in the here and now, I cling on to the knowledge that in His loving kindness, God sustained Anastasia, so she survived long enough to be issued with a birth certificate, declaring that she was truly here, that she truly counted.

[elaineluo]

the best thing

My pastor and his wife have nine children. As much as I have always marvelled at and admired them for it, and in spite of hearing their constant refrain, “Children are a precious blessing from God”, I could never comprehend why anyone would want quite so many of them. Only now, when I find myself willing to give—or go through—absolutely anything and everything to have Anastasia with us again, that I think I start to understand. 

Life is often filled with cruel ironies, and the cruellest of them all might be this: that it has taken us losing Anastasia, for me to come to the realisation that her and Elsie are, without a doubt, the best things that have ever happened to Josh and I.

[elaineluo]

at night

I have come to dread the night. During the day, I have learnt to live with this sorrow. It never disappears completely, but is kept at bay by the hustle and bustle of life, tempered by the thankfulness for all that God has blessed us with. But when daylight fades and night falls, like the inexorable advance of the tides, so too do the waves of grief come crashing in. A dreadful and hopeless sense of longing permeates and overwhelms my entire being, as I yearn for my baby who is no longer here with me. Josh tries so hard to comfort me, but in his exhaustion he eventually falls asleep, and I am left alone in the dark and interminable night. As I desperately try to seek the sleep that evades me, the enormity and depth of my sorrow scares me; before losing Anastasia, I could not even begin to imagine or comprehend that I would be capable of feeling such crippling grief.

After Anastasia was brought into the world, unbreathing and lifeless, I had naively thought that surely, the worst of it was over. I was so foolish. For nothing—absolutely nothing—compares to this. Not finding out at the 20 week scan that she would most likely not make it. Not continuing to carry her in me each day, burdened with the knowledge that she was struggling to survive because my body was failing to provide her with the nutrients she needed. Not when my waters suddenly broke, completely shattering our hopes that she might somehow, miraculously survive. Not the seemingly endless days as we waited for the inevitable; nor hearing the final, dreadful confirmation, “I’m so sorry. Her heart has stopped beating.” Not even the pain of labour, knowing its certain futility, compares to this sorrow I am drowning in now. For how could it? Even as she slowly weakened and wasted away, still I could feel her moving in me each day; even in those darkest of moments, at least I still had Anastasia with me. 

It was only when I left the hospital without her, that I truly lost her in every way. And so at night, every night, I grieve and long for her. 

[elaineluo]

one small comfort

The last time we saw our obstetrician in his practice was two days after my waters had broken. For minutes that seemed like an eternity, we looked at the image of Anastasia on the screen, her heart alternately beating frantically, and then suddenly slowing to a shuddering stutter. We were there in that silent, dark room for far longer than was probably necessary, but as we walked back out into our obstetrician’s office, and I saw the look of compassion and understanding in his eyes, I realised that this was yet another act of loving kindness. He knew that this was almost certainly the last time we’d see Anastasia alive. 

After that appointment, both Josh and I broke down when we got back into the car. Hands tightly gripped and sobbing uncontrollably, we didn’t need to speak to know what we were both thinking. Is Anastasia suffering? Is she in pain? Does she know that she is wasting away? Does she feel distressed? Questions that we will never have an answer to; questions that will forever haunt us. But today, these haunting questions are ironically ones that bring me comfort in my grief. For I know definitively that now, she is no longer suffering, nor in pain. She is not wasting away, but perfect and glorious in the presence of our Heavenly Father. So although my whole being aches for her, and my heart bleeds that she is not here with us, it is well with my soul to know that she is somewhere far better.

[elaineluo]

three truths

When the darkness closes in, desperately I cling on to these three truths to stay afloat amidst the crushing waves of grief:

One. God loves me perfectly, and is in absolute control. Two. Anastasia is with God. Though I desperately long for her to be here, she is far better off there. Three. When Jesus returns, I shall see and hold her again.

[elaineluo]

precious photos

When our midwife first placed Anastasia in my arms to say goodbye, I couldn’t help but look away. The sight of her lifeless body was just too confronting, too overwhelming for me to process. It took long minutes before I could fix my gaze on her for more than a few seconds, and even longer before I convinced myself to take some photos of her. I’d promised myself beforehand that I would, but now that I was here in this moment of time, it seemed like a terrible idea. Our midwife had already promised that she’d take photos of Anastasia for us; why would I want such awful and morbid images on my phone? 

Yet now, in the dead of night, I am so incredibly grateful I took those photos after all. I cradle my phone as I stare at her: the deep lines of her closed eyes, her delicate button nose; her fingers each formed in perfect detail, down to the tiny slivers of fingernails at their tips… There’s a gaping void in my heart that desperately misses her, and so I try to imprint the image of each precious photo in my mind so that they will never fade, so that I will never forget.