We left the hospital on Thursday and buried our daughter that following Sunday. The days in between are somewhat of a mystery in my memory, but there are a few events I’m certain of. The first was the preparation for Ava’s funeral.

Friday morning, Travis got up before me and went to the town offices to purchase a cemetery plot. He returned home with a map of the plots and the instructions to write down the number of the one that we wanted. Seemed simple enough. We drove the half mile from our house to the cemetery and we started walking around trying to find the perfect place for our baby. Since day one, Travis had a general idea of where he wanted to bury Ava. He wanted her towards the front where she would have visitors and a spectacular view. He brought me to the vicinity and we started to turn in circles, looking this way and that way trying to decide the backdrop for Ava’s final resting place. I couldn’t really process any of it. How do you pick a place to bury your child? It all looked the same to me. All I saw was a bunch of cold dirt and hard rocks instead of a warm crib in my house. My brain shut down and I was starting to feel too weak to continue standing. Travis was the one with the vision so I told him he could make the final decision. I walked back to the car and sat in the front seat. From the window, I could see my husband sitting on the ground gazing out into the distance silently. I knew he had found the spot he had envisioned. Travis took the map to the town office with his selected plot and about 30 minutes later he was home with a receipt.

On Saturday morning, Travis got up early and went to his friend’s house where they built Ava’s casket together. It was built, in accordance with Jewish tradition, out of plain wood with no metal fasteners and no adornments. It was the most meaningful and most beautiful, plain box of wood I have ever seen. Travis brought it home along with three mezuzot that he had made from the scrap pieces. One for his mother, one for my parents, and one for us. A way to keep Ava’s memory with us wherever we go.

 

Saturday afternoon, we left Logan with my parents and went to the funeral home to prepare Ava’s body. When we arrived, she was waiting for us, wrapped in a hospital receiving blanket, on a table in a back room with a small water hose next to her. We gently unwrapped her body. It felt strange to touch her again. Neither of us was sure what we were doing, and as awkward as it felt, we knew we wanted to take care of our baby the only way we still could. We turned on the warm water, and gave our daughter her first and last bath. She didn’t look much different from the last time I’d held her. She was just as still and just as beautiful. We each took turns tenderly letting the water pour over her and then gently dried her with a towel. It is Jewish tradition for a person to be buried in a plain white cloth or shroud, and I had been trying to figure out where to find the perfect garment. I even debated buying a christening gown or going to a toy store to buy a doll dress but it didn’t feel right. The day we got home from the hospital I opened a drawer and knew exactly what to use. It was perfect. At the funeral home I laid out the plain, white, linen blanket that I had used to cover my breasts when I nursed Logan. It held some of my fondest memories of the early days of Logan’s life and I was looking forward to using it while nursing our new baby during the hot summer months when she was supposed to have been born. I smoothed out the wrinkles with my hand and gently lay my still baby on top. I slowly pulled up each corner as the visions of what life with Ava was supposed to be floated around like tiny bubbles inside my head, popping and exploding one by one. I wrapped the linen fabric around her lifeless body and thought about how I had planned to sustain her and provide for her inside of this blanket. We were supposed to share our most intimate moments together with her wrapped in this blanket, it was only appropriate for us to wrap her in it now, our most intimate and final moment together. I sent every ounce of love I had for my daughter into the blanket that would now hold her, instead of me, for eternity. We took a few final pictures and kissed her tiny head as the last corner of the blanket fell gently over her face, then placed her into her beautiful, tiny casket. We opened a small bag of dirt from Israel and sprinkled it around her body then placed the lid over the top. We hugged and cried briefly, but not as hard as I imagined I would. I think I was too emotionally exhausted to let out the screams that were echoing in my head.

That evening my mom drove me to the grocery store to get food and supplies that we might need for the next day, and right there in the dairy aisle, ironically, my milk came in.

Sunday morning was beautiful. The sun was finally shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I took a shower and slowly got dressed, carefully pulling my dark grey maternity pants over my incision. I shoved my now gigantic breasts into a black nursing shirt and wore the only footwear I could squeeze my feet into. Our friends showed up to help us finish getting the house ready for the visitors that would surely be coming over following the funeral. I sat on the couch watching everyone scurry around and get ready. Moving furniture, picking up the last few pieces of dust or Logan’s toys, it all happened around me. I don’t think my parents stopped cleaning or doing laundry since we returned from the hospital, it was how they were handling the stress, and my house has never been so clean. I didn’t appreciate the help enough. I remember feeling annoyed at everyone keeping so busy. I just wanted them to be still, like I was. I wanted the world to stop. How could anything or anyone keep going when my baby was dead? But time continued moving, just like it always does, and before too long it was time to go to the cemetery.

We had announced Ava’s death and her funeral on Facebook and in a newspaper obituary but we weren’t sure who would really show up. My parents were in town but we didn’t have any other family attend. We asked them not to. Because while I wanted more than anything to be surrounded by my family and loved ones, I also kind of wanted to be left alone. I wanted them there as much as I didn’t. I wanted them to come but only on my terms and that would have been unfair. But also because we live so far away from everyone, we didn’t want them to come all the way here to see us in our worst moments. Our visits are so far and few between with our families, we didn’t want them to waste the time or money it would take to come for just a day. We requested they wait until a happier time and they obliged. Without family in town, I wasn’t sure who would really be at the cemetery with us to bury Ava but I knew I had Travis, and my parents, and a Rabbi.

We arrived at the cemetery just two minutes after leaving our house and I was surprised to see there were already people there waiting. I was nervous. I didn’t want to talk to anyone or have to look them in the eye. I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to interact with anyone either. I just needed people to be in the background, to feel like I wasn’t truly alone, while not feeling obligated to say anything. We walked to the grave site and were immediately greeted by the funeral director and then we met the Rabbi. We had never actually met before. We had talked on the phone, Facetimed from the hospital, and e-mailed, but this was our first face-to-face. He was younger than I imagined and looked like someone who could have been my friend. He brought a calming presence. I felt relieved. Our friends passed around a book for people to sign while the Rabbi, my parents, Travis, and I stood in a small circle and performed the ritual of Kriah. We pinned a small piece of black fabric to our clothing and tore it, symbolizing our grief, while we said a prayer. Travis went to Ava’s casket, still inside a hearse, and slipped in the one thing we had forgotten to include when we prepared her body, a tube of blood from her umbilical cord. It had been sitting on the computer in my room the morning we were discharged from the hospital and we figured it would be thrown in the trash when we left so we brought it home with us. We wanted it to go into the ground with her. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, every part of her body needed to be returned to the ground. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep at night I think about that tube of blood, and sometimes I wish I’d kept it for myself.

The service itself was brief, I think it lasted around 15 minutes. The Rabbi included the traditional Jewish psalms and prayers and even added some personal touches specific to our family. He had e-mailed the service to us a few days earlier and we sent it to family to read along with us from afar. I was glad to have a copy of the service to read later because I’m not sure I really heard a lot of what was said during the funeral. I was trying to keep it together, but the blood was pounding so hard in my head that the rest of the world seemed muffled. I kept reminding myself to stay present, in the moment, because it would never come again, but my mind kept wandering. The Rabbi turned to Travis, as he had planned to say something, but he shook his head no. Travis had wanted to read a goodnight story to Ava but it was too overwhelming. Next, my dad carried the tiny casket from the hearse and brought it to her grave. The hole was deep and we didn’t have a way to lower her casket slowly the way adult caskets are put into the ground. My dad quickly improvised and got down on the ground. First on his knees, then laying on his stomach, he softly placed his granddaughter into the soil. Those of us who were familiar with it, recited the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning, together. I said what I could but the words kept catching on tears in my throat. They still do. I don’t think I’ve ever managed to say a complete Mourner’s Kaddish for my daughter, I just can’t seem to get all the words out.

With Ava in the ground it was time for the final step of the Jewish funeral, the actual burial. This was the part I had dreaded. The final step in saying goodbye to our baby. I slowly stood up from my seat and looked up for the first time since we had arrived at the cemetery. To my right I saw a firetruck and ambulance parked on the street, and to my left was a line of firefighters dressed in uniform, standing at attention. Their presence was powerful. I felt protected and cared for with Travis’ brothers in uniform watching over us as we said goodbye to Ava. I steadied myself, walked to the large pile of dirt, and picked up a shovel. I flipped it upside down, picking up dirt with the backside to symbolize our hesitation to bury her, and placed the dirt in the hole. I did this three times. And while I worked the world was silent. I don’t remember if Travis shoveled first or if I did but once we were both done we moved to the foot of her grave and I immediately retreated to his arms. I buried my head into his chest and I completely fell apart. Any semblance of composure disappeared as the grief poured out of me in sobs and cries and chest heaving wails. I didn’t care anymore if people saw me cry and I let the pain consume me. When I think back to her funeral the sound of my grief echos in my head. I have never made a noise like that before. It was the sound of raw agony as daggers of grief penetrated my heart until it shattered and crumbled inside of my chest, and then it was quiet. I could hear everyone behind me sniffling even more now, but I was quiet now. I had nothing else left.

We turned and faced Ava’s grave again and watched as one by one our family, friends, members of the community, and even strangers took their turn to pick up the shovel and help us lay our daughter to rest. And because most of the people who came were not Jewish, nor had they ever attended a Jewish funeral before, we somehow ended up in a receiving line. They would shovel the dirt, then walk over to us to offer condolences and a hug, and the next person would be right behind them to do the same. And we did this 70 times. 70. We counted in the book our friends signed. Our daughter lived for about 15 minutes and 70 people showed up for her funeral. 70. That number is mind-blowing to me. 70 people. Some were co-workers, some were good friends, some were casual acquaintances or people we had met once, and some we had never even seen before, but 70 people showed up for us in the worst moment of our lives. It was nothing short of amazing. I have no words for the love and the gratitude I felt that day.

Once the line had gone through Travis shoveled the remainder of the dirt in to the hole while Logan tried to help by pushing dirt with the toy bulldozer he had brought from home. I sat in a chair and watched them. It was a surreal sight, my toddler playing in the dirt that my husband was shoveling into our daughters grave. A few minutes later, when the hole was filled, we immediately left the cemetery to welcome the community into our home to sit with us. But before I got into the car I turned back and saw the group of mourners still lingering in front of Ava’s grave overlooking a gorgeous green landscape underneath a perfect Colorado sky, and I told Travis to take a picture. I wanted to remember this moment. Because it was a breathtaking juxtaposition of intense grief and remarkable beauty. Because even on the worst day of my life the world was still filled with so much good, and I needed to remind myself of all that remained outside of my pain. And because something felt lighter in me. I had survived the worst moments of my life and there was nothing left to fear. There was nothing more I needed to worry about and nothing else that needed to be done. I felt a moment of peace knowing that Ava was safe in her final resting place and we were not alone.