One year. It is hard to fathom that an entire year has passed since Maddie was taken from us, but it has. It has been a year of intense pain and misery, and at times I didn’t know if I would even make it this far. But I did. One of the benefits of making it to this day is that I now know the answers to some of the questions I had in the immediate aftermath of Maddie’s death. Questions like: “Would it get better?” “Would I be happy again?” “Would I ever forget the way life felt with Maddie in it?”

The answer to the first question, sadly, is no. It doesn’t get any better. Even after a year I miss Maddie so much I can’t stop the tears from running down my face at the most inopportune times. The only thing that did get better, is the ability to hide my pain. I’ve gotten so good at it that I even recently had someone who doesn’t know about Maddie tell me she thought I was an incredibly happy person. I just smiled when she said this.  All she was seeing was the facade. It’s like the Smokey Robinson song: “People say I’m the life of the party because I tell a joke or two…”

As for the question of whether I could ever be happy again, the answer is yes – but only to a degree. The best analogy I can think of is to compare my life to a day at the ballpark to see my favorite baseball team play. I settle into my seat, and for the first couple innings my team is tied with its opponent. Things are good. I enjoy myself. There is hope my team will win. But then, suddenly and without warning, the other team scores eleven runs in the third inning. Now the chances of my team winning are all but infinitesimal. What can I do? The day is all but ruined. If I don’t choose to leave, can enjoyment still be had over the next six innings? I could have a hot dog, I suppose. That might be okay. And I could hope the guys score a run or two, or that someone makes a great play, but that’s it. The bar for what enjoyment can be had now is set way, way lower than it was before that awful inning.

One thing that has shown me happiness is Annabel. She is a beautiful, wonderful baby, but if I am being totally truthful I must admit that I haven’t been able to enjoy her the way I would if her sister was here. Everything is muted. I hope that isn’t always the case, but it is for now.

Where Heather and I are right now is a really weird place. Being at home with a newborn baby, just as we were at this time in 2008, is hard. It makes it feel like the preceding two years were erased. Like they never happened, or don’t count. And when I feel that way, I can’t help but crash. Especially when, after a year without my little girl, I am heartbroken to say I can’t remember things about our life together as clearly as I did on April 8th of last year. The feeling of her in my arms, the softness of her cheeks, these things I can summon, but not as brightly as before. Little memories from our day to day life have slipped away. I look at videos of us together and it almost feels like another life, like watching some other father and daughter deeply in love with each other.

Thankfully, there is one thing I can take solace in on the first anniversary of Maddie’s death. It’s that the feeling of love I have for Maddie, the feeling I felt when I was with her, when I kissed and comforted her, when she looked into my eyes and smiled. That feeling is just as strong as it ever was. Many years in the future, when every memory of our daily life together is finally washed from my memory, I know that I will still be able to close my eyes and bask in the warmth of the love we had. That is the one thing that keeps me going, and I will lean on it today more than ever.

Wherever you are little girl, your daddy loves you so, so, so very much.

I bring all this up because I was thinking today just how amazing Heather has been with her blog. Starting with a post discussing her apprehension about speaking at Maddie’s memorial service, Heather has blogged five days a week non-stop following Maddie’s passing. She has documented her feelings even on days that were unfathomably hard. One involved bringing Maddie home in an urn, another involved living through what would have been our daughter’s second birthday. Other days were even bleaker. Days where it seemed like this horrible experience might finally break us. Still…Heather blogged. What is left behind is truly an amazing document, one that details just what it is to live through something like this. It has done a lot of good too – not just for Heather, but for readers who have gone through – or are going through – something similar. The communal healing and sharing of grief has been wonderful, and it is the kind of thing I wish critics of social media were more aware of.

Heather isn’t the first person to blog through grief. She was inspired to write about our loss by Tanis from The Redneck Mommy, who was one of the original grief bloggers. Tanis writes about her son and her feelings in a truly meaningful way – she has brought Heather and me the kind of comfort that I hope Heather’s blog can continue to give to others.

I am so, so proud of Heather. I am biased, of course, but to me there is no better example of what it is to blog through grief. The “guy” in me may not like it, but I hope to become more like her as we continue down this terrible road.

Introducing Annabel Violet Spohr
Born: 1/22/10
Weight: 6 lbs 1/2 oz
Length: 19 1/2 inches

If you can’t see the player above click here to hear the song

Annabel’s Song

The mountains were on fire
Not a note was heard from a single choir
In the middle of the day
The sunlight went away

And grown men had to turn their heads
Lest it be seen that they were crying

It was a long dark spell
Until Annabel

Sweet Annabel
I hope this world treats you well

My Annabel
Sweet Annabel

On the day that you were born
A healing rain drenched the desert plain
And on the driest patch of dirt
A single flower grew

And grown men had to turn their heads
Lest it be seen that they were crying

It was a long dry spell
Until Annabel

Sweet Annabel
I hope this world treats you well

My Annabel
Sweet Annabel

My Annabel
Sweet Annabel

Now before you assume I am a life long bowling fanatic or the like you should know that’s not the case. Yes, I have my own ball, and okay, maybe I also have my own bowling shoes, but that’s only because they came with the ball. Before Maddie passed away bowling was just an activity I did with my friends every couple months, and eating, drinking, and chatting always took precedence over trying to notch a high score. These lazy afternoons were just about fun…fun that Maddie even took part in one great day when she giggled at all of the alley’s sights and sounds, and prematurely started the biological clocks of the teenage girls on the lane next to us.

So if bowling was just a casual thing done for fun, you may ask, why would I want to make it my first step in putting the pieces of my life back together? I wasn’t sure myself, but I wasn’t going to question it. I just went to the alley and started throwing balls down the lane. My score at the end of my first game wasn’t the greatest, but I kept at it, and, after making a few adjustments, scored a few more pins in the next game.

I quickly became very serious about bowling and, in the weeks to come, went bowling many times a week. Eventually, it occurred to me why. In a time when everything in my life seemed so uncertain, bowling was quantifiable. My score – how I was doing – was tallied and posted on a screen in front of me with each toss. At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would cling to those numbers.

“My life my be a mess right now,” I thought, “but I did improve my bowling game by five pins this week.”

As trivial as it may sound, bowling gave me evidence that – even in some small way – I was better than I was the day before; that I was moving back up that mountain.

Today I can see more substantial evidence of my progress back up the mountain than bowling scores. Nevertheless, bowling is still a significant part of my new life. I’ve even joined a bowling team with a bunch of teammates who don’t know my story or about Maddie. They just know I’m a guy who, like them, likes to bowl. Recently I got my highest score ever:

A 255 is a far higher score than I ever dreamt I would achieve when something told me to go bowling eight or so months ago, but I will keep trying to do even better. I will keep trying.

If you can’t see the player above click here to hear the song.

My Life For You

I used to have in me a selfish side
Sometimes I’d only think about myself
Part of me was still a kid
Dreaming of the things I did

So when your Mom said you were on your way
I must admit I felt scared inside
I didn’t know if I could find the strength to be someone’s Dad
But on the night you came

I looked into your eyes and I said
I’m gonna live my life for you
I looked into your eyes and I said
I’m gonna live my life for you

And so we set out into this world
It wasn’t always easy taking care of you
But just one smile from your sweet face
Told me deep inside how to be your Dad

I held you in my arms and I said
I’m gonna live my life for you
I held you in my arms and I said
I’m gonna live my life for you

My life for you…

What else could I do
When I felt the love flowing in my heart
What else could I do
When you were my friend right from the start

But then it all came crashing down on us
On that unholy day they took you from this world
I was so lost, I was so broken
I almost went and threw it all away

Until one night I went out for a walk
I heard a voice, you were talking to me
And then I knew just what to do
It was clear and now it’s so

Even though you’re gone
I’m still gonna live my life for you
Even though you’re gone
I’m still gonna life my life for you

My life for you…

2009 was the last year Maddie was alive on this earth. As awful as 2009 was, it contained Maddie’s sweet head on my shoulder and soft kisses on her cheek. It included glimpses of the little girl she was to become when she said her first words and starting eating table food. No matter what positive things the new year may hold, it won’t hold any of them with Maddie.

2009 also included the final moments of my life when I can say I was truly carefree. For some of 2009 I only knew, like most people, what it was like to look into the abyss and wonder with dread. For the entirety of 2010 and beyond, however, I will be forever trying to climb my way out.

There’s nothing I can do to change any of that though, so I will look to 2010. Hopefully it will be a good year, but there are no guarantees, not even for those who have gone through a year like we have. Sometimes, as Bob Dylan sang, “When you think you’ve lost everything, you find out you can lose a little more.’” I hope that’s not the case for us, but it would be foolish not to acknowledge the possibility. That’s why when the clock strikes midnight tomorrow I will not make grandiose plans or unrealistic resolutions. Instead, I will take 2010 for what it is as it unfolds, and never take for granted the good things that come.

Today is not a day to fill with distractions
Or to spend pretending all is okay
It is not a day for jealousy
Of fathers and daughters laughing in the sun

Today is to celebrate you
My sweet, perfect, wonderful Moo

Your head on my shoulder

Your beautiful smile

The good in your heart

The pride in mine

The love we share

Deeper than any distance

Happy Birthday, Maddie.

November 11^th will always be a happy day because it was the day you came to me.

A few years later the sister of one of my junior high classmates died in a car crash. When my classmate returned to school I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. Sometimes I would end up behind her in the lunch line and we’d chat a little.  As we exchanged pleasantries, however, I couldn’t stop thinking about how she had lost her sister. I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I remember a rowdy assembly where a number of kids addressed the school, and each had to speak over muffled heckles and scattered chatter…that is until the girl whose sister died stepped to the microphone. Then there was perfect silence. When she finished and started off the stage, the chatter and heckling returned. As with my aunt, things with this girl were now different.

Until the events of April I still couldn’t imagine what people like my aunt and former classmate went through. Not anymore. Now I am the person that causes a hush to fall when I enter a room, now I am the one who is the recipient of sad smiles and forced gaiety, and when there is a mention of parenting or a child who passed away, I can feel the tension fall over those around me.

It’s okay though. I understand it and don’t expect anyone to act any differently. I acted the same way, and really, there is no other way for anyone to act. Things are different. I am different. My life is different.

Flowers and Candles

Flowers and candles on the side of the road
Flowers and candles on the side of the road
I used to drive right on by
But now they make me cry
Because I’ve got flowers and candles in my heart

Flowers and candles fill a child’s empty room
Flowers and candles for one taken too soon
I never knew what this world could do
But after all it has put me through
I have got flowers and candles in my heart

In my heart, in my heart, in heart for you

Flowers and candles to the end of my days
Flowers and candles to remember and praise
I never knew what this world could do
But after all it has put me through
I have got flowers and candles in my heart

And they’re always growing
And they’re always burning
To show my love for you

They’ll be always growing
They’ll be always burning
to show my love for you
My love for you

In my heart, in my heart, in heart for you

It has been a few weeks since I last posted because I’ve been in the doldrums, even more so than usual. A large reason for this is that grieving is just so exhausting. It never stops. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day…the pain is always there. If for just five minutes I could walk around without the knowledge of what happened to Maddie weighing down upon me I think I could deal with everything a bit better, but I can’t.

Yesterday I watched a documentary on HBO called “Boy Interrupted,” which was made by the parents of a fifteen-year-old boy who commited suicide by leaping out of his bedroom in their New York apartment. The film is very interesting because the boy was bipolar, and the parents, despite being able to afford the best psychiatrists and special schools, couldn’t save him. Adding another complexity to the situation is the fact the boy’s uncle committed suicide when he was twenty-one, so the boy’s mental illness may have been genetic. While you don’t have to have lost a child to appreciate the documentary, it doesn’t hurt.

I particularly related to a couple statements in the documentary. The first was made by the boy’s paternal grandmother who lost her son, then, thirty years later, her grandson. She said, when asked to describe what it is to lose a child:

“I can’t tell you. Words don’t exist to tell another person how destroyed part of you has been…they just don’t exist. I can’t tell you, but I’ll tell you this – it is something you never recover from. Life goes on but not the way you wanted it to and not the way you planned for it to, but you don’t recover, I don’t think.”

Later her daughter-in-law, when discussing the loss of her son, said:

“The thing I think about the most is…I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m sitting here. I can’t believe I gave birth to this boy, raised him…buried him. I can’t believe it. It’s just a sense of disbelief. I don’t know if I ‘ll ever really understand that it’s true that this really happened. I can’t believe it really happened. Tell me it’s a dream. I can’t believe it, and I can’t believe that the days continue to go by and that the world could choose to rotate without him.”

They say when you lose a child you become a member of a club no one wants to join. That much is true, and the words spoken above capture a truth the members all know well.

Interestingly, in reading about the film online some reviewers wondered how anyone could document the death of a child on film. Those same people, I’d imagine, would question how anyone could write a blog after losing a child. The reason we do this, I think, is because those of us in this horrible club have an intense desire for people to understand what we are going through, to give them some glimpse into the reality of what our lives have become.  

Otherwise it is too lonely carrying around all this grief all day, every day.