A new home, but always our home

As we turn the page to the next chapter of our lives, I am reminded of Isla several times a day. My office in Commerce was adorned with photos of her; my new office at UVA has just as many photos. This is a bit confusing to my new co-workers, who hear me talk about my son but see a collection of photos of Dan and I with a pink-headband-wearing infant, sometimes with a nasal cannula and heart monitors, sometimes obviously in a hospital bed but other times outside with and free of medical equipment. I’ve gotten better at those conversations that arise. When asked about her, or about my kids in general, my default response has become, “how much time do you have?”

Telling her story is not something that I want to be crammed into the space of a quick conversation, or a sad footnote in an introductory encounter. Her life and death are things I carry with me every day, and I’ll gladly talk about her and reflect when the circumstances allow it. When I do talk about her, I don’t want the person on the other end of the conversation to hastily apologize for “bringing it up”, as if the mere mention of her rips off the surface of a scab that has started to heal. The talking itself is healing, and it’s funny that I, the bereaved parent, am always on the reassuring side of the conversation when someone hears Isla’s story for the first time.

Yesterday, I took Lorenzo to the doctor for his routine 18 month check-up, and when filling out family information paperwork, I paused on the prompt “List names and ages of siblings below”. In the space of about two seconds, the whole memory of her short life and too-soon death bubbled up in my heart. I looked at Lorenzo, who was gleefully peeling stickers from a sheet and slapping them on his forehead, and decided there was no way to tell his story without mentioning hers. So damn right I put her down on that sheet. She’s his big sister, and she always will be.