Ailsa has reverted to using a sippy cup. Dora dances on the outside. So cheerful company how can that compare to a plain colored cup? The added benefit is it can go anywhere and inevitably it gets left out, hidden in some place only a four year old would place it. When she was two they would be abandoned in plain sight. Now they find their ways into secret hiding spots—and in time become sour surprises for me, the dishwasher on duty. When they are temporarily left out a loud cry occurs when Ailsa sips—she in her innocence to milk’s temperamental nature doesn’t sniff first, perhaps a tentative taste—she gulps—“Mommy, my milk is yucky!” My favorite is when she not only shows me the offending cup but gives me the accompanying face, as though I cannot understand the scream of explanation. Yet the pattern continues. As once again I poured nearly full cup of offending (and may I add organic thus overpriced, yet yummy) milk down the drain—the irony of time struck me. I am told time heals. I wonder does time always heal? Milk sours quickly left out on a hot summer day, yet the same milk stays cool and refreshing in a different environment. Does one always lead to two? Does time always turn to the sour or bitter? Must I be bitter? Honey found in Egyptian tombs is still sweet, still good. Some seasonings lose flavor, others become more intense.
I am given a lot of advice, some I laugh at, some I try to laugh at and others I smile at their ignorance. Funny how those who have not followed our story, not been here to be apart of it, or have never lost a child-- now feel free to tell me how I should feel about the events. I am often told to be happy. What? How many grieving moms have you seen laugh as much as I? I am told how lucky I am to not have to be doing the whole baby thing again? Really, I would be more than happy to be doing the baby thing, changing diapers, even potty training (which is a bane to motherhood in my opinion) because with all the sleepless nights, the patience trying—comes the slobbery smiles I never got to see… and the list goes on. But why list them... why torment myself at what her body could not do? I had the blessing of the time we had. I can remember her eyes, her hand holding my finger. There were hard times, yes, but sacred times I cherish, I hold…they are all a part of my Katelynn. They who don’t know tell me in time I will forget the pain. Really? Do you forget? The time we have done without Katelynn is longer than the time we had her—she would turn six months today. I look at other babies; I am surrounded by them. At times I feel like a sippy cup of bitter milk left out, and other times I feel like honey, time sweetening what I had. And as the milk is found tucked away in secret hiding places by Ailsa, I too try to tuck my sadness in a creative place. Remember, the same milk can stay refreshing in a different environment. When pain grips me, I just have to get out of the heat, pour what doesn’t work down the drain and put myself in a place of peace, love, and friendship. The quickest route to this is through prayer. So to those you who may be standing near when someone tells me to cheer up when I am laughing, or you hear them tell me how lucky I am… Don’t be surprised if while laughing I smack them and walk away for a better environment, you are welcome to come join me—just be prepared to laugh with me.
Time can be our enemy or our friend depending on the environment we place ourselves. I am a mom and to me that means bitterness is not an option. How could I bring that example around ANY of my children? Don’t they all deserve the best of me for the time we have?

Today walking back from picking up Ailsa at her pre-school the kids raced ahead on their scooters totally concentrated in their enthusiasm of kicking their leg back to pick up speed—so perfect. Today I silently mourn a mile marker, yet today, in the simplicity of their childhood, is just another day. I am so happy that they don’t share the concerns I have now. The concerns I had of my childhood would be alien to them. I brushed my hand over the tall grasses, theses same grasses I hunted out to hide me. I used to imagine building a life among them, to hide, to disappear. They see those grasses as something to wack. The idea of hiding from life, even with all that has happened, is foreign to them—I marvel at their resilience. I recognized that it has been some time since one of my children has cried themselves to sleep—tears, yes, but the despair has passed. We each mark today in a different way. I am glad they race ahead, kicking their feet up with excitement. I note to myself, I am walking, they can run. Katelynn may not be awaiting her heart surgery, as we hoped, and as much as I hurt from missing her—all is as it should be, and we are okay. We are so very blessed.

To say I feel sick today earache, throat, cold…would be an understatement—the irony of that has not escaped me—September 10th, the day that in my mind-- my life, my health, my mobility-- it all changed. It was when I figured out that the next few months of pregnancy were going to be very hard, very long—I had to change the activity of my life drastically and I had to pick a winning attitude—because I told myself, “little girl you have a long fight..” I thought then of the physical that I would have to endure the coming months loomed large—I had no idea the strength required to pull me, us through what was to come. I have since come to see the hand of mercy in it being so hard – we all pulled together as a family in such a way, each of us straining to do more than the normal, more than the expected, more than— each of us and I don’t refer to just Nathan and myself. Nathaniel and Ailsa, too, were magnified. We were being prepared to greet Katelynn, to embrace her for not only what she was to be, but for what time we had—no asking why, no anger, no regret—just an eternal perspective.
So to be sick today is ironic and brings with it the perspective gained by not only surviving, enduring well and above all gratitude. God carried me through months of physical pain I still can’t wrap my mind around, and carried us through the greatest challenge of my mortal life—loosing time now, here with my child. I am amazed we survived; I am amazed by Katelynn-- her strength, her presence. I am filled with gratitude to God, beyond gratitude I have ever felt. I wish I could find the words, as I look back—the pain of it so intense, I have not yet found time to dull the hurt of not having Katelynn. In some ways the intensity of it grows—but that said; for all the hurt I feel, the missing her, the aching I am grateful. Grateful for the strength God gave me, to live her life with no regret. To be honored to have time with her, it is funny how I both resent times passage and want it to be slower. I am grateful to know God’s strength, comfort and promises really are enough to calm the worst pain—pain that when I would think of my child dying, to think of my child suffering, the human mind just stops. It can’t imagine it, can’t cope—God really does hold us, and sooths. He isn’t fooling us, He means what He says—I don’t just believe Him now—I know it. And I am grateful for that.
So a year ago today, I thought I had it rough, sick, hurting and months of pain before me—little did I know I was being worked over to hold an angel. I am walking now, have been for over a week without a cane—it feels good very good. If the price of being Katelynn’s mom were that the cane and I were always a pair—it would be worth it to know Katelynn and taste of the goodness, the strength of God. So in perspective, I have an earache, sore throat and a cold—I have endured worse--and as I say that I laugh a little laugh of irony… isn’t that funny? Why am I the only one laughing?

Sacrifice

For years I have said,
“Sacrifice, putting yourself in
a better position to be blessed.”
Now with empty arms…

Hurts depth surprising
Ripping me from joy—
Why all prior pains,
Dim when compared?

Sacrifice—what beforehand
Had I given up, left at His feet..
Each soon showed the wisdom
Of the offerings, adjustment made…

None touch the loss now extracted
My arms now ache for what
They once held so tenderly—
My child, my girl—Katelynn.

My smile betrays my hidden pain.
Faith, promises and covenants
All will be right all made possible
By He who knows our anguish.

Think of there, she remembers us
We hold the honor of her—so the
Sacrifice is one of time, now missing.
Waiting for eternity, enduring time.

By Leta Greene

Happy 37th Birthday to Nathan-- Nathaniel, Ailsa and Katelynn's wonderful daddy and my amazing, strong and caring husband.

Last night was grief group. We talked about the idea of fairness. How some seem to have a perfect life. Why is that? Why do others get a better ride in life? Is it that we just don’t see their real life, yes that is true. We really don’t know what happens in the lives of others, we can only know what we see of them out of their homes, but even then, we don’t know their hearts. Yes, yes, I hear all that. If life is a ride, imagine some kind of rollercoaster; an easy thing for me to envision, that is what life has been for the Greene’s! Life has never been easy; personally I don’t expect it to be. Does that sound bitter? I don’t say that with bitterness, I just think that life is life and heaven is the destination I imagine will provide rest from the drama of life.

As I see it, there are two kinds of drama - the self inflicted kind and the kind that just happens—like UTA bus drivers that think they will “probably clear the cyclist” (Nathan was hit by a UTA bus while riding his bike on Aug 21, 2007). The trick to life is not causing your drama. I think of the term “baby mama” and think “drama.” Or perhaps, I am just a little jealous of people having babies so casually, so easily—it is not fair! Well, life is not fair. And last night as we were discussing the “ride” others seem to get in life I said, “I wouldn’t wish this pain on others… I think that some do just get a better ride.” Some lives are just easier. Some just do get a better ride in life, some do just have and others don’t, that is life. It is by definition unfair and hard, I believe life was meant to be a test, to see what we would choose. We cannot smooth out the ride for others, we are not meant too. (Congress are you listening to this?) What the ride brings us is character. There is only one way to earn character and that is through going forward when things are hard. As for life being fair--for those that have an easier ride—actually, that is all of us. How many of us had breakfast this morning? How many of us have clean clothes? How many of us have shelter? Hot water? When you think about others who have been dealt life in other parts of the world; with war, hunger, infections and even misquotes kill.

I am blessed that my baby had the best health care in the world extended to her. I am blessed that I was allowed to have her, a baby that some would say wasn’t worth taking the chance and using resources on. I am blessed because I lived just a mere 35 minutes from the hospital and was able to see her everyday. I am blessed because I am Katelynn’s mother. No, life isn’t fair—and for that we are blessed. Some do just get an easier ride and that is us. I don’t want life to be fair, I don’t want you to feel the pain I feel at the loss of Katelynn but I do wish for each of you to know her. She is a reminder of heaven, a reminder that we all need to have a perspective that this is life, a time for us to “prepare to meet God.” What will we choose? I choose to be the best I can, I have many weaknesses, I don’t always say the right thing, I am not yet the person I want to become, but I am trying and at the end of the day I like who I am—I choose to look to eternity, because by looking to eternity is the only way this hurt is bearable.

We went to a grief group. We meet other families that have suffered a loss, a class for the parents and a separate one for the kids. It was reported to us that the kids are doing very well with verbalizing their feelings. This is good, to prevent the verbalizing of screams we all hear as parents like “he touched me!” or “she is my seat!”… No, the goal is not just verbalizing emotions but being able to label them… and I am thankful that my kids are able to express how they feel. Nathaniel announced at the beginning of his group that “he was here because his baby sister died”. Ailsa said “we wanted to bring her home; it didn’t work out that way, but we will see her in Heaven- I will go there after I die.”

In our group, we were asked what was normal? I have never been to such a group and wondered if we were to stand and “say my name is...” I wondered if there would be tormented crying and I wouldn’t be able to identify with the others in the room. Instead I felt normal among them, I felt that we all understood each other, yet are wise enough to know from our experience that we truly don’t understand exactly how they feel. Grief is so individual, each of us approaches it differently… I, with humor, and prolific journal writing. Nathan is glad for work to go and get in the zone. We all looked normal, no tear soaked faces, no defeated body language…I felt like them, pleased that I was not abnormal in my grief. We all want life to go on, and also resent that it has. The daily world we have to deal in, seems so foreign like we are visiting a strange country with odd customs, all our prior experience has left us ill prepared to understand how others seems so unaffected. There was laughter, there was subtle tears, there was camaraderie. I look forward to next week. The social worker said “Normal is a button on your washing machine.” So, when I meet people who tell me they understand my loss, their cat died or I must be OK because Katelynn was so young—I can smile and say “hey, I am normal everyday”… my laundry is so done!

One month without Katelynn.