Anniversary

We had an anniversary this week. There were no flowers. No gifts. No champagne. No celebration. We didn’t even acknowledge that there was an anniversary. But we knew. We looked at each other and we both knew. It hung in the air. It clung to our souls. Yes, there was an anniversary this week.

I thought that time would make it easier. You know, that as the years passed, the sting and grief would gradually subside. And in reality, it has. A lot. But the memories are still there, and when I see December 16 on the calendar, they come flooding back no matter how hard I try to keep them at bay. I remember what I was wearing. I remember what the doctor was wearing. I remember thinking that he should be more compassionate, but then being thankful that he was so clinical and professional. I remember the social worker and her colorful lanyard chain. I remember meeting doctor after doctor after doctor. Neurosurgeon. Developmental pediatrician. Urologist. Orthopedic surgeon. Physiatrist. I remember sitting in a chair in a small room and feeling my baby kick my ribs. And I remember what it felt like to realize that the baby wasn’t actually doing it. That her spinal cord was outside of her body and there was a very real possibility that she didn’t know that she was kicking at all. I remember holding it together long enough to make it to the car. I remember kneeling on the cold cement in the parking garage of Children’s Hospital begging God to let me walk out of there in a few weeks with my baby.

This week we had an anniversary that I never want to have again. But it will come. Just a week or so before Christmas. And three weeks before her birthday. Every year. And while the grief and anxiety of that day are being numbed by years and happier memories, there will always be an anniversary that we don’t commemorate in any way. A day that is difficult. A day that I am a touch cranky. A day that I hug my daughter a few extra times. A day that I thank God for answering my plea. That her myelomeningocele repair went well. And her brain surgery to place the VP shunt was uneventful. That of all of those worst-case scenarios all those doctors told us about, we’ve only experienced a few. That after a few weeks and a couple of surgeries, I walked out of that hospital with my baby in my arms.

And I’m thankful for the three years that have passed. For the realization that she is the only person with whom my son has been able to form a positive attachment. That she crawls around the house with shoes on her hands singing songs from High School Musical. That when it rains, she looks like a rolling umbrella. That she asks to walk. That without her I wouldn’t know Kate and Katie. That she is sassy. And persnickety. And sweet. That she has her daddy wrapped around her ring finger. And her brothers wrapped around the others. She is kind of hard to discipline because she can negotiate her way out of a time out. She is already reading. She loves to wear dresses. She hates to go to the doctor. She is shy—until she gets to know you. And she’ll remember you long after you’re gone.

I’m thankful that nothing is ever as you expect it to be. And anniversaries are good days to remember that.