Today, Emery would have turned 36. A day that was one of my happiest has now become the hardest day on the calendar for me. In the grief world, Emery is F34. I know things now that I never would have known before. In the months that followed Emery’s death, I found comfort on sites of mothers who had lost children. There is comfort in shared grief. Comfort in reading another mother’s words that I could understand intimately. Comfort in not feeling so alone. The first time I commented, adding F34 to Emery’s name, it felt awkward and impersonal, but also like a connection. Connected by the letter F. Forever. I couldn’t help but think of Forever 21, and the many times I sat in the dressing room with Emery, trying to share her exuberance for the outfits she had selected. I will never know my daughter as a 36-, 43-, or 52-year-old woman. Emery will be forever 34. Even though she was an old soul, 34 was far too young. She was 9 months younger when she died than I was when I gave birth to her. The numbers in my family history have been rearranged in a way that is hard to understand. Emery, my daughter, has become my ancestor.
Charlie and I chose the name Emery shortly after learning we were having a girl. Jane, her middle name, was a quick response to the nurse holding a clipboard who waited at my hospital bed. She had one more blank to fill in on her paperwork. Even though she said, “Take your time,” she seemed to be in a hurry. Charlie said, “How about Jane?” adding that it was easy to spell. So, Jane it was, but the decision felt rushed. On the drive home from the hospital, I told him I wanted “Greer” or “Glenn” as her middle name. With the surge of post-birth hormones flowing through my body, I honestly had no idea what I wanted. Charlie suggested waiting a few weeks and if I still wanted to change it, we could. After a few days, Greer and Glenn no longer mattered. Our girl was Emery Jane. Charlie knew. Emery loved her middle name, so much so that it became her daughter Muna’s middle name.
Emery arrived at 9:06 a.m. on October 2, 1990, one day after her due date. I had my first and only sonogram at 7 months, and when the technician asked if I wanted to know the sex, I said yes. Three of my friends were also pregnant, due within weeks of me, and all were having girls. I needed to know. I told others, and I told myself that I would be happy with three boys, and of course I would have been, but I also knew I wasn’t fooling myself or anyone else. I wanted a girl. When the technician said, “I’m almost positive it’s a girl,” I mentally eliminated the “almost” and ran with it. I bought pink onesies. I bought pink yarn. I knit pink sweaters and bought tiny pink dresses, and I don’t even like pink. When Charlie and I decided on the name “Emery,” I knit it into the top of her Christmas stocking. It was preparing my nest for a girl, and I was in it deep. On our way to the hospital on the evening of October first, the technician’s addition of the word almost came back to me. She was almost positive. What if I was wrong? 4 1/2 year old Thomas had instructed us that if it was a boy, to leave him at the hospital. Grant, age 3, had picked out a small doll for her. Charlie wore a pink polo to the hospital. We were set for a girl, and thankfully, the technician was correct.
My family is on the second round of anniversaries. Thanksgiving, Christmas, family birthdays, Emery’s birthday, and the date I’m not sure what to do with, but can’t forget: January 4th, the day Emery died. The date is a recognized anniversary, but it’s hard for me to use that word, anniversary, as anniversaries are usually associated with celebrations. What does one do with a date that will never be forgotten, but that doesn’t want to be remembered at the same time?
I had my beautiful girl for 34 years and two days shy of 3 months. Last year, the family honored her in Carlsbad, California. We bought a beautiful cake and flowers, and I brought the two candles, a 3 and a 4, that I found in a basket on a shelf in my kitchen and had no idea where they came from. It was a hard day, a sad day, and a beautiful day with my two sons, their wives, and 3 of my grandchildren. I’ll be with family again this year.
When my children reached an age when gifts didn’t hold the same importance they did as children, I started writing them letters instead of giving them gifts. I’ve saved them all, in folders in a trunk and in later years, in files on my computer. Recently, I reread some of the letters I gave Emery in a book before she got married. There is an overwhelming theme of letting go, and as my youngest child, and the one to leave my nest last, that makes sense. I read some of the lines from those letters at her celebration of life. The following words are from one of those letters. The words carry the difficult theme of letting go, but they read so differently now than when I wrote them.
November, 2012, shortly after Emery’s engagement to Miles.
I needed you far more than I ever wanted you to know. Instead of holding you on my lap or holding your hand as we walked across the street, I hold you in my heart and know you do the same with me. From the time the sonogram technician told me she was “almost” positive you were a girl, I knew you. I knew your energy because it was my energy, and I could feel it while you grew inside of me. I knew your eyes would be curious and your hair wild, and we’d connect over things only we would understand. I knew you would sing made-up lyrics to familiar tunes with me and speak with British accents between sips of pretend tea from mismatched china cups because British accents make the tea taste fancier. I knew you’d share my sense of adventure and curiosity, and I would spend the rest of my life enjoying that with you. What I didn’t know was the pain that would come when I’d have to let you go. My youngest child. My last bird to leave the nest. I would give you roots, and I would help you with your wings. I always knew the wings would be the hardest. I love you, my darling girl.
My heart holds two timelines, my before and my now. I loved you all of your life, my darling girl, and I will miss you the rest of mine. On this joyous and painfully sad day, the day you would have turned 36, I not only grieve for the loss of what was, but also what never will be. My heart aches. My F34 Emery Jane.