When the Marigolds Fade

An empty picture frame,

Hung on the wall to speak your name.

Rachel had a miscarriage a few years ago. At the time, that had been the worst thing she had ever lived through. A few weeks after losing the pregnancy, she had written a poem for her tiny, missing baby as a way to find some closure. These two lines were the only thing she remembered. She knew she had kept a copy somewhere. Unfortunately, time passed, and she tended to forget things such as where she had hidden an intimate poem. They moved a few years later and the poem remained undiscovered. Rachel assumed it was probably gone forever, which made her just the smallest bit sad.

The fraction of the poem she remembered hit her right in the gut. There were no tears left though. All she felt was numbness. The medical supply company was supposed to be there in a few hours to pick up the equipment they had been renting from them. She had been tasked with bringing all her daughter’s equipment downstairs for them to take back. They wouldn’t need it anymore. Her bright, beautiful daughter was gone.

This was the first time Rachel had been in the girls’ room in several weeks. She lowered herself into the rocking chair placed between the girls’ beds. Rachel bought this chair when she was pregnant with her oldest son. The green gingham print had been a great choice. It worked well for her boys, then transitioned easily to the girls’ room. Many evenings and nap times she had spent in this very chair nursing, rocking, singing to her four babies.

Her eyes traveled around the adorable room, decorated with a mother’s love. Rachel had even painted a mural on one wall. It was a field of marigolds, her favorite flower, with a mama bear reading to her cubs. That motif was continued throughout the room. On the opposite wall was a wooden tree-shaped decal her father had gifted the girls. Trailing down from the branches were ribbons filled with hairbows. She glared at the bows. Rachel remembered the hours she spent in the hospital with her daughter making those stupid bows, burning her fingers countless times on the hot glue gun. They had been a soothing way to pass countless hours during the last eighteen months.

Rachel had always taken pride in this room. It was a special place she loved showing off. The boys’ room was decorated with care as well, but this room was made to be a retreat. It was soft, delicate, peaceful. There had been so many nights spent in this very chair next to her daughter’s crib, peering through the slats, praying with every cell in her body that her daughter would somehow be ok. She had always believed her prayers would be answered. That may be the hardest part about this. God had not heard her prayers.

The crib dripped with wires and tubes. Rachel had done her best to strategically place them to be accessible yet concealed. The oxygen concentrator, IV pole, heart monitor, and other various things that had helped her baby girl, were stored nicely against the wall near the closet door, on the other side of the crib. Even now, she could picture her daughter sleeping there. She could hear the monitors beeping and the white noise from the oxygen concentrator. She could see her chubby arm, gently resting above her head, fist lightly closed. She could see her rosy lips pursed, and her thick eyelashes laying ever so softly on her cheek. She pressed her eyes closed firmly as the wave of grief hit her, taking her breath away. Pain rose in her chest, threatening to choke her.

Gone. Her arms ached with emptiness. She took a few deep breaths to help the pain pass and opened her eyes. She saw the little jewelry box sitting on the top of the vanity. Inside were her daughter’s heart beads. Each time they went to the doctor or had a procedure done, heart patients at their children’s hospital were given a bead. Ava had filled two necklaces in her short little life. Those beads represented everything that had been done to keep her daughter alive just a little longer.

Rachel remembered the necklaces on display at the funeral. Her friend had done an amazing job printing out a collage of pictures from her short life with a short explanation of what the necklaces meant. Rachel would never forget the beautiful, smocked dress her daughter had worn. Partly because she had sewn it herself and partly because a mother would never forget a moment like that. Sometimes it was all she could see when she closed her eyes, drowning her in waves of grief. Of course, when she made the dress she had never imagined that it would be the last dress Ava would ever wear. Rachel made two floor-length smocked dresses at the time, cream with small pink flowers. The design on the smocking was a geographical pattern that hadn’t taken terribly long to stitch. Her intention at the time was for the girls to wear them for Rosh Hashanah, with matching bows, of course

A sea of people had come to say goodbye to her baby. She remembered the torn black ribbon pinned to her dress along with the idiotic things said to her. She still had no idea why she didn’t scream and choke some of them. “She’s in a better place.” “Everything happens for a reason.” The trite sayings eviscerated her. The brave faces of her small sons brought a level of pain she knew she could never heal from. They had cried, people had patted their heads. It was too much for such young boys. Her daughter Hannah had been understandably fussy. She was still a toddler herself and only understood that she did not want to be in that place with all those distraught people; her parents, grandparents, brothers, friends, and strangers.

Instead of her girls wearing their dresses to celebrate the new year, they wore them to say goodbye to one another. Her family would have to face their new year with the deepest sorrow imaginable. The end had come so quickly, so unexpectedly. Before the last surgery, Rachel had prepared herself for the worst, knowing the risks were high. However, Ava had done so well, healed so quickly, seemed so healthy. One day she was doing fantastic, and the shock of losing her so fast was still unfathomable. Burning hot pain rose in her chest again, like lava bubbling up. She hadn’t been there and would never forgive herself for that. She had been away for the weekend with her husband, so her daughter had died in the arms of a nurse.

Ava’s second open-heart surgery was such a success. For the first time in her life, things were looking promising. Her friends and family insisted on a romantic weekend getaway and the couple knew it was needed. After all, it had been nearly two years. They agreed, nervously. Rachel remembered with guilt how amazing that weekend had been. She remembered laying her daughters down for their naps just before heading out. Hannah had gone to bed easily. She curled up in the twin bed, eyes closed tightly, favorite bear tucked beneath her arm, and drifted off.

Ava didn’t want to let her mother go. She held tightly on to her when Rachel tried putting her down in the crib and attaching the pulse ox to her toe. Ava continued to fuss. She didn’t want mommy to leave, but Rachel had left her, and now she was gone. Rachel's mother had to watch the night nurse fight to bring her back. Her father held her two sons and little Hannah downstairs, crying, while EMS came. He had called them that early morning, urging them to come home. Ava was already gone, though. She had no idea how her husband had made the two-hour drive back. She spent the entire trip screaming, sobbing, wishing she could throw herself out of the car. The only reason she didn’t was knowing her remaining three children would need the warmth of their mother now more than ever.

The house felt so empty these days. Her young boys didn’t even play loudly. Hannah was solemn. Her husband, always a quiet man, was even more so. Since losing Ava the children had been sleeping with Rachel. This room had become like a monster in the house. Everyone avoided it. No one would walk down the hall. No one would open the door. Being in this room was torture. How was she ever supposed to survive?

Rachel realized Hannah had poked her head around the corner and was staring at her, with her big brown eyes, concern on her face. Rachel gathered what courage she could and smiled back at the worried child, trying to convey that mommy was ok. Tears welled in her eyes, her smile was shaky, but Hannah wandered over to her anyway, wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, and placed her head on her lap. The girls had only been twelve months apart, so Hannah may grow up without many memories, if any, of the sister she had for a year and a half. Rachel ran her hands through the little girl’s hair, still softly laced with baby curls.

Hannah pulled away, then meandered over to the corner of the room and began playing with the dollhouse they had been gifted last Hannukah. Rachel sat there for a while, then went to sit near her daughter. She picked up a doll and followed Hannah’s directions about the game they would play together. In her soothing toddler voice, she chattered on about the little family that lived in the house, telling her mommy what to do. Hannah followed along obediently. From the doorway, she heard her sons and turned to see them watching her. She smiled. This time it didn’t feel forced. It was a real smile, the first in several weeks.

Her boys bounced into the room, one grabbing a book from the small white bookcase beneath the bay window. The other climbed into the rocking chair and began rocking back and forth, something he had always loved to do. Her oldest son laid down in the windowsill and began reading. Her second oldest was rocking and singing from the chair behind her. Rachel looked at all their tiny faces, she glanced around the room she had decorated, what felt like a lifetime ago, and she realized, they would survive this. Even when the painted marigolds fade and chip, even when they are painted over and replaced, this would remain, and this was worth surviving for.