Tag: hard things

I Know Who I Married

stephaniemoorewrites

A couple months after Rory passed, I was reminded that many marriages, that experience a child loss, end with divorce.

I understand.

Life is hard for each individual person in our family. Lance and I each have a backpack filled with emotional boulders, disappointment rocks, and day to day rubble.

When life is already heavy, it sometimes feels impossible to take on someone else’s struggles.

But that’s key in a relationship.

But that also feels impossible.

I want to say, “I can’t take that on. I can’t deal with that right now.”

I have said it.

Until I can take a deep breath and look at my hubby.

The one I picked 19 years ago. And every day since.

The one that I’ve struggled infertility with.

The one I travel with.

The one that supports me in my goals.

The one that I had 4 kids with.

The one that provides for our family.

There’s a line in Hamilton, “I know who I married.”

It’s true, I know that man I married.

More importantly, I know the man that has stood by my side for 19 years.

I know the more amazing man he continues to become.

Our relationship is worth fighting for.

He’s worth far more than the extra weight that might get thrown my way every once in a while.

One Year

stephaniemoorewrites

Minutes

Hours

Days

Weeks

One year.

To some extent, it feels arbitrary. We’ve already had 364 tear-stained days. Why does 365 hurt more?

It’s the memories.

The missing.

Getting through firsts.

The sad realization that this one year is indicative of the rest of our lives.

I think it’d be easier to stay curled up in bed today.

Instead, I’m going to hug my boys, my husband, my family.

I want to share her love today. To remember her. To honor her.

She was light.

She is light.

She will always be light.

Final Resting Place

stephaniemoorewrites

One of the decisions that needed to be made, and rather quickly, was the final resting place. Again, not something we’d ever thought about for one of our kids. Heck, even ourselves!

Lance and I are from Arizona. We lived about ten years in Maryland. We moved to Utah to live closer to family while our kids were growing up.

Our house had just sold, we were about to move an hour from where we were living.

Nothing felt right.

After laying in bed half the night thinking, I told Lance, “I think we should cremate her.”

Without hesitation, he agreed.

The above are very physical reason. There was a big emotional one:

We couldn’t bear to be parted from her yet.

This is all that remains of the body of our beautiful, spirited daughter that was constantly making us laugh.

We were not ready to let go.

So, we picked a vibrant urn, that reminded us of her. Her resting place is with us. In our family room.

It’s not the right choice for everyone but it was for us.

The Rory corner of our family room.

My Goodbye

stephaniemoorewrites

The beautiful program Ann Gardner created.

The morning of Rory’s service I kept getting this feeling, “You need to say something.”

I kept trying to push it aside. I’ll never be able to keep it together. How am I supposed to speak?

I pulled out a notebook and just wrote. It wasn’t much, but it’s what I needed to say.

My dad was the last speaker from our family, so I asked him to look down at me. If I give you the go ahead announce that I’m going to speak.

At the end, I nodded my head and walked to the stand.

This is what I said:

I want to thank everyone for their love and support. We feel like we’re drowning right now. 10 feet under. But as I look up I see hundreds of life preservers there waiting for us to grasp. Each one of them is thrown by one of you. We might be down here for a while. A long while. But we know and we feel each of your support.

We’ve had wonderful memories shared by my parents and Xander. I would like to share a few of my own.

Rory has always been my sweet baby girl. That’s what I call her. As she grew up I told her, so that there wouldn’t be any confusion, she would always be my sweet baby girl.

Rory asked me frequently when she could start wearing make up. I thought it was so funny because 5 out of 7 days I don’t wear any make up myself. But she’d look through my meager amount of make up and put a little on. I was always so jealous of her eye lashes. They’re so long and perfectly curled. Sometimes I would allow her to put mascara on just to see those beauties more closely.

Rory was silly and funny. The last few years she invented a fake laugh. She couldn’t just laugh with her mouth. She’d fall back and pound the couch and let out the fakest laugh there is. It was so fake.

Rory’s imagination never ceased to amaze me. Last week she carried around a fondant cutter and imagined it to be a million different things. At night she would sit up and read her books and play with her toys. When she’d sit next to me as church she was always moving her arms, imagining she was doing something. Well, when she was leading the music from our row.

I’m going to miss her running into my arms after school. Her kisses on my lips. Because she always wanted them in the lips. Her sweet smile. Her spunky attitude. Man, she got away with everything. Her kind spirit. Her everything.

Look at those lashes!

The Love of a Dad

stephaniemoorewrites

After Rory passed away, so many decisions needed to be made.

The hard thing about unexpected death, we had never given a single thought to what we’d do if one of our kids passed away. So, everything is planned in the middle of shock and grief.

I feel very lucky. My dad stepped up those days. He went to the mortuary. He got all the information and did as much as he could.

There was a point that we were talking in the doorway of a bedroom about plans and money.

My dad said, “You will not pay to bury your daughter.”

I remember tears rolling down my cheek.

It wasn’t the money.

I knew no matter what, my dad was going to be there. He was going to help us through this.

He did.

In so many ways. Even when it tore him apart to do it.

Especially with the viewing. He ensured Rory looked perfect.

Down to her imperfectly perfect painted nails.