This morning Carlos and I took Lucky to the beach outside our cabin in Waldport, Oregon. I am assuming this was Lucky’s first time at the beach. He celebrated his ocean inauguration by immediately pooping in the water, drinking his body weight in salt water, eating as much sea foam as possible and playing fetch in the sand until he was exhausted. We sat out on the deck and ate breakfast while a pod of whales swam south. It was a good morning. 

We drove from Waldport to Crescent City, California. The drive was incredible and the weather has certainly been on our side the past two days. It seems like every turn there are signs for a view point. Big cliffs, sea caves, rock arches, sea lions, light houses, bridges, rivers and creeks are around every corner of Highway 101. The water kept getting more and more blue the further south we went. Truly, this drive is spectacular.

Tomorrow we are driving to a small beach city just north of San Francisco that holds a lot of sentimental value to Carlos and I. Last time we were there was April of 2015 when we took a week long trip exploring the Bay Area. To look back at that young, unmarried couple is so precious. We had so looked forward to taking Sylvia to San Fransisco, the redwoods and the beaches north. Our hearts ache. Though her entire death still seems like a dream and that it can’t really be our lives, there is a part of it that seems even more make-believe, more imaginary, than that. I suppose because she was our first, and never having children, the idea that she would be here someday when we were pregnant seemed so crazy and unbelievable. But because we never saw her move her little arms, kick her little legs, scrunch up her face, heard her cry or open her eyes…it seems even more make believe now that she isn’t here. Does that even make sense? Would it seem more real if we had seen her move and then she died? There is no way to quantify pain and grieve, so I am not trying to do that or compare one horrific event to another, but a big part of me wonders if it will ever suddenly be real. We only saw her looking like a sleeping beautiful angel and then we said goodbye. I know she was real, but it doesn’t seem real. She is here next to me in her precious little urn as I type this, but I still have a nearly impossible time believing that my daughter is in this tiny little box. We have never had children, so to have our only child be born not alive and to have our experience be what it was, I am sure with future pregnancies it will still seem unimaginable that they will ever be in our arms, alive, someday.

One year ago today Carlos and I were finishing up the last of moving boxes and furniture into our house. We had just gotten back from a long wonderful carefree vacation in Lake Tahoe with friends, I had started a new job and nearly exactly 365 days ago I went off birth control. What a weird, scary, unexpected, heartbreaking, beautiful year.