Those Precious First Days

 

Anaya Faith 

Big sisters Ava Hope and Alivia Grace now have a precious baby sister! Anaya Faith Melnychuk was born February 17, 2014 at 9:12 AM weighing in at 8 lbs 4 oz and 21.5 inches long. Thank you to our special sweet guardian Angel Ava for looking over her baby sister’s safe arrival. There are a couple different ways to pronounce Anaya, but our way is: AH-NAY-YAH. Our little beauty was named by her Daddy who found the perfect name. Anaya means “Answer of God” in Hebrew and in Sanskrit means “Completely Free”. The Nigerian meaning is “Look Up to God”. Of course, the name Anaya itself is just so pretty, but the meanings are very fitting for our family. Of course, the “Completely Free” meaning reminds me of Ava. Her middle name was always to be Faith. We have Hope. We have Grace. We have Faith. Three darling girls: two in our arms and one in Heaven.

   

Mommy and Daddy falling in love with our miracle baby! 

Alivia ~ so thrilled and so proud! 

Here are a few quotes about having a baby after losing a baby or young child:

(I know it’s hard to read, I couldn’t get it any bigger. If you double click on it, it will open in another window) 

There is no doubt that Anaya is our rainbow and that she has brought us joy in these first few days that is indescribable. For a family that thought they were done having babies and then couldn’t imagine her actually arriving here healthy and safely, I cannot explain how grateful we are for her and how our hearts were always ready to love her and have her in our life.

   

I don’t like having my picture taken without hair and makeup done, but since everyone insists on seeing a picture of me – here ya go! Mommy and her girls. Daddy and his girls. 

Those first few days of having a newborn are oh so precious. Instant love for Anaya from all of us. Immense gratitude for a healthy baby girl. Gratitude to be able to be parents again to another child. Overjoyed that Alivia gets to have a sibling. And, of course with every milestone in life, the ache that there’s always just one thing that would make it perfect: Ava.

Getting ready to go home. Ava, Alivia, and Anaya all wore the same outfit home from the hospital. 

Anaya had jaundice and had to spend a day under the lights. She seems to be past that point now! We got home on Thursday and poor Livi has been quite ill fighting some viral infection – not exactly the homecoming we were expecting. As always, it seems our family has a lot of bumps and challenges we need to face. Hopefully she’s on the mend.

   

Did I mention how over-the-moon excited Alivia is to be a big sister? 

Anaya chilling with Daddy. (NOTE the hippo sleeper for Ava.) 

Here are some pictures for you to enjoy! We thank you for your kind words and support from previous posts – it means a lot!

Playing with her toys. Dalmatian is from Ava. 

Tummy time is OK so far! 

5 days old already – can you believe it? 

Alivia’s present for Anaya – a Laugh N Learn puppy. 

Anaya’s present for Alivia – Tinkerbell’s camper (the closest thing she’ll ever come to real camping. 🙂 ) 

Losing Her Slowly

Thanks to my dear friend Mary Ann for sharing that above quote. Sometimes I read something and it explains it so well. Especially when it’s a facet of the grief process that I want to share with others but that I can’t articulate. Then BAM – I read something and it says what I am not able to.

The above quote by John Irving is excellent. The only part I disagree with is the “you’re not expecting it” part. In my opinion, it doesn’t matter if the loss is expected or sudden of your child, the process of losing the child bit by bit and piece by piece is exactly the same.

I think when most people think of what life must be like for people like me, they think of the big things. Birthdays, holidays, school, graduation, wedding, grandchildren – all the major life events you won’t ever get to have with your child. Although these are horrible milestones to go through without Ava, they are not the things that stop me in my tracks and bring me to tears.
It’s the little things and the losing her in pieces that bring me to the point that I am consumed by sadness.

It’s in the little things – the shock of reality that she’s really gone when the laundry basket no longer has her clothes in it. It’s going to the grocery store and not buying her favourite foods. It’s looking in my rear view mirror and not seeing her sweet little face in the back seat. It’s the coldness in my hand as I’m laying in bed without her saying “hold my hand, Mommy”. It’s the toys laying there gathering dust. The markers and colouring books that lay idle. It’s downloading pictures from the camera and not having any new ones of her. It’s getting rid of her bed. Replacing carpet with hardwood, getting screen doors, buying a new business, renovating a portion of the basement. Painting the playroom. It’s standing at the bus stop with the neighbourhood kids and longing for my own little clan waiting there too. It’s setting foot at the swimming pool or play place for the first time without her . It’s driving by the hospital or setting foot in the hospital. It’s watching all the kids around us outliving her. It’s going to live theatre for the first time. It’s going to Alivia’s first cheerleading competition and wishing Ava was there to support her, too. Would Ava be in cheerleading or would she have stuck with her favourite ballet dancing? It’s buying skates for Alivia and feeling sad that Ava missed out on this winter activity. It’s making the leap and buying a toboggan. Again, Ava would have loved the thrill of speeding downhill on the snow – almost like that Splash Mountain feeling. Every single one of these events affecting me so deeply that I feel like I might just die from the pain.
But I don’t.
I somehow manage to feel the pain, push through the pain, and then carry on.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Allowing oneself permission to feel the unbearable pain and then pressing on. It’s not in people around me trying to make me feel better or brushing my feelings aside, it’s friends and family having the courage and the strength to allow me to feel and experience the horror. These are real, every day occurrences that I experience, yet rarely share. Because yes, although you may know that Ava’s birthday must be a horrible day for me, you may not know that setting foot into Toys R Us every single time is equally as hard.

It’s in the little things that the pain is most intense. And I don’t see an end in sight to that, ever. Nor would I want to.