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In Memoriam: The MaryMadeline Project

Those of you who followed BabyQuest know that I have depended heavily in the last several years on an online community of women undergoing infertility treatments.  Now I'm part of a parallel online community of the women who have gone on to become mothers, whether through successful infertility treatment, adoption, or spontaneous good luck.  Most of us will never meet, and yet there is a strong bond that I feel with these women.  We've supported each other through years of hope and disappointment, during fights with insurance companies and jargon-laden consultations with doctors.  We've celebrated each other's pregnancies, and every baby born to a woman in that community has about 100 online aunties waiting to see their next photograph and hear about their next milestone.  Those women are my sisters-in-arms.

Today, my heart is heavy, because one of our members is burying her child.  Baby June was born three weeks ago with a rare genetic disorder.  Her parents were told from June's first day on earth that she would not be with them for long.  The strength and love that they have demonstrated in the face of this tragedy are truly inspirational.  They relied on their faith and some unfathomable innate strength, and they rejoiced at June's birth each day of her short life, using every moment with her as a chance to show her their love.  Today, as they bury her, they celebrate her life, short as it was.

Molly, June's mother, keeps a blog.  On it, Molly wrote that a friend had found an organization that creates and donates burial gowns for infants.  Molly wrote about the happiness she felt in having a beautiful gown for her daughter, and the relief of not having to go out and find a gown on her own.  She asked for support for this group, so that other families experiencing such loss could receive the same comfort she did.

The nonprofit group that created Baby June's gown is called The Mary Madeline Project.  They use donated wedding gowns. 

My own wedding gown has been preserved in my attic for almost 10 years now.  I never knew what to do with it.  Now I know.  If you still have your dress and are so inclined, please go to www.marymadelineproject.org and donate yours as well.  Or mention it the next time someone you know asks what to do with their gown.  It may feel a little strange to suggest, but just think of the comfort you can bring to some parents' life.

And please say a special prayer today for Baby June and her amazing family.

September 11

I can't believe its been 8 years since that morning when the Towers fell.  We lived across the river then.  It was a gorgeous morning -- bright and blue-skied, a crisp and perfect herald of the autumn.  I turned on the morning news just in time to see the second plane hit, to hear the shock in the newscaster's voice as the collective realization dawned, that this was all more horrific than an accident... this was purposed.  I left voicemails for my husband, who was teaching school on the Upper West Side -- far enough away from the scene to be safe from immediate danger, but trapped with millions of others on the island of Manhattan, all bridges and tunnels closed, all trains stopped.  We were all potential targets.  I ran through the apartment, shutting the windows, stuffing towels under doors and around vents, convinced that the next step was biological warfare.  My mind ping-ponged between filling the bathtub with water and hiding in the closet under a blanket.  (Where I got the idea that either of those responses would help, I don't know.) 

As the minutes ticked by, I regained some sense.  I didn't go into the closet or the tub, but stayed fixed on the couch in front of the television, cell phone clenched in my fist.  In those first frantic hours, we texted and called and left messages, frantically identifying everyone we could think of and asking, "Are you there?  Are you okay?"  The stories started spilling in... yes, so-and-so was fine.  They were walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, covered in soot.  They were at work on Long Island, far away and safe.  They were standing in their backyards, watching the smoke drift across the river.  My husband and the other teachers stayed at school until the last of the parents had picked up their children.  Some of the parents had walked hundreds of blocks from their jobs to the school.  By the time my husband left, the subways were functioning and he was able to make it home that night.

We were lucky not to lose anyone close to us in the attacks.  We all know someone who died, but we were blessed, so blessed, to escape an intimate acquaintance with the tragedy. 

In the days afterward, we were all on high alert... every time a truck backfired or something dropped, there was a collective shudder through the city.  The bridges were closed several times to chase suspicious vans or marked cars, none of which rendered any help, because as we now know, the assassins died that day.  No one got away.

We watched lower Manhattan smoke for weeks, the long, vertical cloud changing direction with the wind.  We went to Ground Zero to witness the splintered roots of the buildings twisting out of the ground.  Every surface covered with thick ash and soot, the remnants of God-knows-what.  The shoes in the street.  The eery silence. 

Its a testament to the human spirit that the city and the survivors are still here today.  Those killers, those vermin, those twisted souls who somehow justified the murder of thousands of innocents -- their acts were in vain, their lives an ugly stain.  We continue.  We survive.   We thrive.

We pray for the lost ones and those who loved them.  We give thanks to those who worked to save others, who rebuilt our city.  We remember you, and honor you.

In Memoriam

We love you and we'll miss you, Obachama.