Wedding memories, Jedi and the dog that wore wings

Halloween is interesting for us because - and no I'm not kidding - it's our wedding anniversary.

Yes, we knew it was Halloween when we decided on the 31st as a lovely date to be married in October. We just didn't think it was a big deal. It was the only date that we could get the church and the Officers' Mess in October. We wanted October, I wanted the parish church I went to weekly, and my father was hell-bent on the Officers' Mess for the reception and open bar. Open bar was a huge deal to him.

So. This year made it 17 years since that Saturday we were wed on Halloween, that date when friends went from our reception (drunk from the open bar) to Superpub at university. When our Chinese best man wearing a kilt didn't get the attention he had wanted because passersby just thought he was dressed up for trick-or-treating. He stood on that downtown street in Ottawa screaming, "People! I'm a Chinese man in a kilt! And I'm wearing it properly!"

I can't believe in some ways that it's been 17 years. In other ways, after all we've been through, it seems it should be longer. The biggest shock for us was realizing that we were 19 when we met and started dating, and if we've been married 17 years that means we've been together 19 years. Oh my. We've been together as long as we were old when we met. I think I just got more white hair on my head.

We spent our anniversary day getting our little trick-or-treaters ready for a party in the afternoon and then the good-food-before-candy-gorging before we headed out to trick or treat. We were well protected by Obi Wan Kenobi and young Anakin, menaced by Darth Vader's Secret Apprentice (our five-year-old boy is so the Dark Side), and a princess who said she was Princess Leia but really had funky boots and a witch's dress on. And Albert dog wore pink fairy wings because he is secure in his masculinity and looked very cute in them.

My oldest son sidled up to me as we were just about ready to head out into the night to go door to door and asked me, "Mum, if George were here, would he wear the elephant costume?" I said, "Oh, definitely. That's tradition. Every child in our family has to wear the elephant costume as a little one." He smiled and that was that. I find it interesting that the children, just as I do, seem always to think of what should have been or what might have been. Their little brother is in their thoughts without my prompting, which gives me a sad joy.

Sunday was the Feast of All Saints and today is the Feast of All Souls. I think of our George constantly any way, but naturally every special occasion is bittersweet. I went to Mass with the children on Sunday (my husband stays home and watches NFL football) and we lit candles for George and other dead babies. I'd been worried about teaching the children's liturgy during the service, fearing I'd think about George and start to cry.

What was interesting was that several children in the group of about 50 asked to pray for dead siblings. There are many children who, like ours, have lost siblings. It was a bittersweet moment to watch these little kids turn to each other and say, "Oh, you too? You've lost a baby?" and share their stories of death and grief with simple honesty. I did get teary, but I kept it together as I listened and led them in prayers for angel babies and family members left to mourn. Truly, I think a couple of the other children started to feel jealous as we prayed for these little angel babies and I'm not sure but I think one little girl made up a dead baby sister just to fit in - her mother wasn't in the room but she looked as though she was fibbing and her friends looked at her funny. But who knows? Maybe there is an angel in her family and I certainly am not going to question that. We prayed and I thought that even if she didn't have a sister who died there are many other babies who have so so our prayers are lifted up for them and their families.

Life with babyloss is so paradoxical; all these moments of sorrow interspersed with joy and laughter. But always an awareness of what is missing.