Gummy Bear's Garden

For those who haven't been reading since the beginning, Gummy Bear is my name for the baby that we lost in December of 2006. Gummy Bear lived in my body for less than 12 weeks, but that baby has never left my heart or soul.

On what-would-have-been Gummy's birthday (EDD), July 2, 2007, my husband and I planted a small garden in our yard. It is in the corner, the farthest spot away from the house. There is a rose bush, some lavendar, a stone that says "Believe," and a bench. The day we planted it, I stuck a taper candle in the freshly tilled soil, and sat there until the last flicker of the flame died away. I watered the new plants with my tears.

I loved having that garden for the rest of the summer. That rose bush had such lovely, creamy pink roses, that bloomed all the way through August, longer than the label said they would. I would cut them just as they were about to fully bloom, and place them in a small milk glass vase that sat on the windowsill in my kitchen. I wouldn't throw them out until long after they had drooped and turned brown around the edges. I cried in September when I had to prune the branches of the rose bush, preparing it for the silence of winter. I felt as if I was cutting away parts of Gummy Bear by shearing away the growth of the plant.

Winter in the Pacific Northwest is not harsh, but it is dreary, rainy, and cold. Going outside in our marshy backyard is hardly enticing. I did visit the garden on December 12, which was the anniversary of the D&C, but I hadn't been out there other than that since fall.

Today, I went out to prune the rose bush and cut back the lavendar. It is spring now and time to ready the garden for another growing season. As I snipped away, Baby Boy gave me a nice little tap from the inside and I realized that it is my own growing season as well.

I still miss my Gummy Bear. Time has buffered some of the sharper edges of my grief, but it is still there, and it still cuts me. Having this sweet baby does not replace what we have lost, but it does make it more bearable, in some ways. I am looking forward now, not stuck in place. And it feels good. I can't wait for the roses to bloom.