The days after Eliza went to heaven I started receiving letters, emails, texts even visits from other mamas that had lost a child. Some had lost teenage children, some had lost infants. Some of these mamas had experienced this terrible loss 30 years ago and for others it had only been a few years. Every single interaction no matter the details meant so much, these women knew what I felt. They had experienced the same pain and they joined me in my suffering. The one thing that I found myself longing for was a mama exactly like me, my age, with a daughter Eliza’s age AND with no other children. I told people, knowing that it was going to be a challenge to find anyone that met all of these criteria, one or two maybe but all three I thought the chances were slim.

And then one day in January I got a message from a friend. She said that she knew I was looking to connect with someone that’s situation was like mine and that I should go to the Facebook page Prayers for Kate because this mama was in fact, just like me.
So as fast as I could, my fingers stumbling over the keys of my iPhone, I found Kate. A sweet little 4 year old who had been gone for 1 year that very day. Her mom wrote a blog post and as I read her words I sobbed. She WAS like me. Her words even sounded like my thoughts. She was my age, Kate was 4 years old AND her only child. As I read more I realized she lived only a few miles from my family in Northern Virginia.

So on January 19th I messaged Lindsay, Kate’s mom, and on the 20th she responded. We went back and forth with messages and then we exchanged numbers. I texted her when I was at my lowest and she did the same. There is something about suffering alone that is unbearable and having people around to speak life and encourage is so necessary to survive. And then when you find someone that has had an almost identical experience it is a relief that no words can describe.

And so as the months have passed Lindsay has been a life line for me when I’m so far in the valley I can’t see the light. And some days when I can barely take the pain I think of Lindsay and Kate and I know that she has had the same thoughts and felt the same pain. None of this discounts any of my friendships; friendships that mean everything to me, but there is something about walking the same journey with someone that ties you close together. Sometimes more than years.

So after 4 months we were finally meeting, I was traveling up to Northern Virginia so Lindsay and I would meet for breakfast at a restaurant a few miles from my brothers. It was an seasonably cold rainy day but I didn’t mind, I was excited to finally meet this person that I only knew because we shared a terrible tragedy.

And then we saw each other and we hugged… for a long time.

That morning we talked at a little table in a restaurant in South Riding for almost 5 hours. We laughed and we cried. We shared intimate details about the day that our girls left this earth. Details that make people cringe. We shared how we felt when we heard the words that would make us crumble to the ground, how everything turned to slow motion, how we both weren’t even sure if we actually cried tears or if all we did was cry out from the deepest part our our soul. We shared our regrets and the “what ifs”. We sometimes looked at each other in shock not believing that we had felt or thought or said the exact same thing. We both share a habit of closing our eyes and shaking our heads when we start to go down a path of remembering something painful, like somehow that would magically make the memory disappear…it doesn’t. We agreed that you fade in and out of complete panic thinking that maybe it’s just a nightmare and at any moment you will wake up. We talked about “what’s next” and how sometimes it feels like it would be easier just to quite life…but we don’t.

We love or girls fiercely. They are everything to us. Kate and Eliza both loved Frozen and snuggling with their mommies they were no strangers to doctors visits and hospital stays. Both Lindsay and I are still in touch with the doctors and nurses that cared for our babies AND we can spout off medical terms like nobody’s business. Some of those long hospital days and doctors visits were hard and scary and sad but our girls were brave so we were forced to be brave , and we were, most of the time…for them. We both agreed that we would do it all again in a second if we had the chance.

So I found her… my person, and it was not an accident. It was too perfect to be a coincidence. It was all God and I am beyond thankful. I feel a weight lifted off me knowing that I have her. Knowing that when I go to the grocery store (which isn’t often) and I have to avoid making eye contact in the aisle that has snacks that Eliza loved I can call Lindsay and she will understand, and not just “get it” but she will actually have experienced it.

I always wonder now how many times I have passed people in the store who are suffering an enormous loss. Who feel completely alone in a room full of people, because at a glance I’m just someone walking down an aisle when really I’m fighting back tears as I catch a glimpse of veggie straws on the shelf that I will never buy again. Thats the thing about traumatic grief about this crushing loss, at some point you put on a smile to make everyone comfortable when really all you want to do is scream out that your baby is gone.

I pray that Kate was waiting for Eliza when she got to heaven. I pray that they are laughing and holding hands and running through flowery fields. Those are the things that I pray about now. And if faith is believing in something you cannot see then I have unwavering faith that Kate and Eliza are swinging, and singing and watching Frozen… and that they know for sure how much their mommies love them and can’t wait until the day that we see them again.

You are our everything Eliza and Kate. We will do all that we can to honor your short lives and we will carry you with us always… wherever we go.

and we will be there with you in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain, and the salmon sing in the street”. ~W.H. Auden