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The arrival of spring always brings with it a fresh start. The cold of winter dies away and color starts to pop out of its winter shell. New leaves, new buds, and people come out to enjoy the warm sunshine. But for an unlucky few spring heralds the end of anticipation, fantasy, and hope.

I was one of those people in the spring of 2003. In mid-winter I discovered that I was expecting my second child. For months my days were filled with daydreams of my unborn child. Would he have his father's eyes? Would she be a good dancer? I made life decisions based on the future presence of that child in it. The day came for "the" ultrasound. I couldn't wait to find out if I was going to have a girl or a boy. The news I got, though, brought my world to a screeching halt.

I found out that day that my child was ill. The kidneys, which were to create that magical amniotic fluid, were flawed. They were nonfunctional and so they weren't able to create the fluid. The fluid was needed to help the lungs mature. Without mature lungs my child would never breathe. Our family was devastated.

For two weeks I cried, prayed, and searched for answers. Everything I found told me the same thing- incompatible with life. What a cold, hard phrase to read over and over again. Still, it helped me to accept the inevitable. My search went from trying to find a miracle to trying to find support. By the end of that incredibly long and bitter two weeks I was ready to do what needed to be done. I needed, for myself and family, to memorialize the child I would never mother.

That spring I learned to garden. My first planting was a Dwarf Flowering Cherry. I chose it because I knew each spring it would produce beautiful buds, then after the buds it would give us cherries. The cherries would then feed the robins. Life would be maintained with that little tree. I felt a sense of peace when I planted it. Every year it would grow, produce, and my child's memory would live on. It was a perfect memorial. Still, I felt hollow. I needed to plant even more.

I spent a lot of time planting hardy perennials that year. I wanted flowers and plants that would come back year after year. And, because I was new at this, I wanted to make sure it would be hard for me to kill them. I chose the strongest and most beautiful plants that I could find. I think I planted more flowers than our small yard was able to handle. Each one got the attention and love that I wouldn't be able to bestow upon my child. As the weeks passed they grew and flourished and comforted me. Each time something was planted in the ground I created a memory. I knew I would need those memories to get me through some tough times ahead.

My son was born and died on the 23rd day of July that year. After I left the hospital, without my bundle of joy, I headed straight to my little garden. The flowers seemed to hug me as I grieved for my little man. They also gave me a reason to smile. Each petal, each leaf, each small bee buzzing around reminded me of my short time I had with him. Those were the only good memories I had of being his mother. I cherished every single one. The garden I'd started as a way to say "Goodbye" became a perfect living memorial.

Every spring and summer since then has found me among those plants. I have become an avid gardener. I've brought in many more plants since that first spring. But the older ones are my favorite. They brought me through the darkest period of my life. Tending them helped me cope. That garden helped me say "Goodbye" then. It helps me live now.

Learn more about this author, Lizzie Flynn.
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