She Brings Joy

I have to take a break before finishing Bea's birth story. What came after she was born is a little more difficult to write so plainly. It deals a lot with *feelings* and those are a little harder to recall after a year and two months. It’s not an emotional thing, I just want to be honest.

For posterity.

I was thinking of something else today- a simple little idea that has been rooting itself in my head. The more it roots, the more dirt it disturbs.

No one says her name.


I would love to hear her name. I would love to have someone else say it, unbidden. I would love for someone to say something to me, maybe at work, and reference her. It's a beautiful name. We chose it with such care. I love to say her name.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

I wrote a note, when I went back to work. I invited people to ask about her. No one did- but it was ok, it was so new- I didn't expect anyone to say anything then. I thought it was just too soon. I was new to this baby loss game. I didn't realize that no one would EVER say her name again.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

I post updates on facebook, mention her name often. The majority of people who respond to the posts are other baby loss moms. Once in a while a friend or family member will *like* a status, or post a note. Occasionally, I’ll get a private message from someone asking me why I don’t talk to them any longer (because you said something that was so awful, that every time I think of you I feel pain,  but I can’t bring myself to unfriend you- you were part of the me I used to be. I hope (delude myself) that I will get back there someday.) They have a lot to say about football and Farmville and horoscopes. But I want to hear her name.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

I have healed enough to understand that people may be frightened of hurting me. I have healed enough to understand that people may be saddened themselves by her passing. I understand- but she isn't an abstract idea. She isn't a "dead baby." She is very much alive, to me. I see her in everything I do.

Maybe that's the problem. If I would have invited everyone into the hospital room as she lay dying, they would have seen that she was so worth talking about. Her eyelashes were long, and sat so perfectly against her cheek. There was a peace in being the guardian of someone so fragile. The ordinary in life became extraordinary.

While I was pregnant, I spent time playing music to her- everything I could think of. I wanted her to hear it all….. Elvis, Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Eminem, Beethoven… I tried to eat everything she would be missing because she would not be coming home. I talked to her. I asked her to hang on. For me. I told her I loved her. A lot. I tried to fit a whole life in 34 weeks. She missed Easter and Christmas- but she was with us for each of our birthdays. This meant so much to me. She mattered. I still need to hear her name.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

It rolls so sweetly off of your tongue. It makes you think of rabbits and bonnets. Geese and the color blue.

It makes me think of a small girl that changed my life. It makes me recall that I was the mother of the mysterious SHE. I was the mother of a woman once. I was the mother of this prefect small being who inspired so many people to think of life differently- even if it was for a short time.

If everyone could just see that, they would not be able to resist talking about her, saying her name.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

I have a hunger for those letters now. I want to paint them on walls everywhere- leave graffiti. People on the street will ask one another- “who is this Beatrix?”

I did it once- I scratched her name in the bench in the baseball dugout at the local high school. Maybe someday, some handsome boy will see it. Maybe he will wonder who she is- this mysterious Beatrix. He’ll say her name quietly, and wonder what she looks like. I could tell him that she had red hair. That her lips were absolutely perfect. I could tell him that I wish he could have met her but that she has gone away and won’t be coming back. He would go on his way, speaking her name to other people- talking about the girl that got away. He would be saying her name.

Beatrix.

She brings joy.

Her name resonates. It is solid and trustworthy. It suits saints and sinners alike. It will not disappoint anyone. It will not leave them cold. It will not leave me sad. I would like to hear you say it.

Her name is Beatrix.

And she brings joy.

I feel slightly awkward.

My last post was awful. Just completely awful. I was trying much too hard to meld a load of different ideas into one cohesive post. It didn’t work. I’m leaving it there to remind myself to be humble, and not to force things that don’t come naturally.

Tonight, I’m going to write about something else, totally out of line with any subject matter that’s come previous, but a story that I’ve wanted to tell someone for a long time.

Afterbirth

I want to write about my hospital experience, and what happened in the days after Bea was born. This is not a grief remembrance, but for posterity. I have written about my pregnancy in numerous places- here , here , and here . This is a remembrance of her life outside of the womb, and what happened immediately after she died. This will be done in a “stream of consciousness” style, and so may not be grammatically perfect or particularly beautiful, but it will be honest.


I went into labor at 34 weeks, on December 12, 2010. I had begun feeling back aches at about 10 p.m. I was in bed and deep down inside I knew as soon as I started feeling pain, that I was in labor. I ignored it for a half an hour or so. Then I went to use the restroom, and my water broke. Maybe I was unwilling to admit to myself that she was not going to make it to term- I was so unprepared. I thought I had more time to access the photographers and clothiers of mortally ill infants. I had also been told that she could possibly survive if she made it to term. The realization that it wasn’t going to happen that way was crushing. Hope had been what kept me going throughout the pregnancy.


We had to leave my then 7 year old with his older brother. The normal hour long ride to the hospital took only 30 minutes. The contractions were intense and painful during the ride there. I was frightened, because we had been told that Bea absolutely had to be delivered via C-section, because of her short umbilical cord- she could become lodged in the birth canal and cause me to hemorrhage. I did not let on to my husband how quickly the contractions were coming- I didn’t want him to be frightened for me.

I walked into the hospital, fluid gushing down my legs, pain in my back, and my lower half soaking wet. I was embarrassed, and just wanted the whole labor to be over- on the same token, I wanted it to stop. She was living (as far as I knew), but she would most likely not be as soon as she was removed from my body. We made our way to the admitting desk for labor and delivery. It was the only place in the hospital, besides the cafeteria, that has plastic seats. The receptionist and intake coordinator didn’t seem too worried that I was leaking fluid everywhere and that I was making a mess. The calmly filled out our paperwork, and I got a hospital ID bracelet snapped on my wrist.

I’m not sure exactly where they bring laboring women at this big teaching hospital. I was led to a curtained room- much like something in an emergency room. There was a woman laboring quietly next to me. I could not see her, but her husband was standing outside of her curtain. He was an orthodox Jew- I could tell by his clothing, and he was so young. I wondered why they were there- I gave birth in a children’s hospital, so I assume that only people with problems give birth there. They were so young, and he looked so worried- I wondered whether it was because it was the first baby, or because there was something wrong.

Nurses and doctors bustled in and out, hooking me up to machines and tubes. They tried to get Bea’s heartbeat, and couldn’t. They tried again, and again. They called a doctor- and she couldn’t find it.
“I think she’s gone.”

My daughter was going to be born still. Unbreathing and unmoving in my womb. I would never get to see her living. The whole measure of hope that had carried me through the pregnancy was gone. It was devastating. I hated that young woman next to me, for her quiet laboring and concerned young husband.

The doctor tried one more time, to see if the baby was in a difficult position, and miraculously found a heartbeat. My girl was going to be born alive! I lost hope and gained it back in a matter of seconds.

They prepped me for surgery- I recorded Bea’s heartbeat on my phone- three thirty second shots. (I'm still planning on having someone with a little more technical know-how than I have, draw out the sound of her heart, and cut out hospital sounds... just haven't gotten to it yet...)




I was wheeled into the surgery theatre flat on my back, my big belly raised up. My previous births were both vaginal, so surgical birth was a new experience. Surgical anything was a new experience. I had never been in an operating room.

The doctors who delivered Bea were not my normal doctors.

I need to back up a little bit too here- I gave birth on a Sunday. On Friday I had been to see the doctor. I was concerned that my mucus plug had dropped. I had had two children, and knew what this was. I asked for steroid shots that afternoon, but she said that she didn’t think I was in labor, and there were no shots. This could have sped up her lung development, increasing her chances of surviving. I will never get over not having those shots.

Back to the story- the doctors that delivered Bea were not my regular doctors. I knew when I saw them that she wasn’t going to live. They hadn’t had conferences with me, working out the course of treatment. I’m sure that they were competent (well, I assume they were being that this was a major big city hospital- the best in our state for birth defects.) But they were not her doctors.
 
I can’t remember everything. They numbed me- the anesthesiologist made a comment about a tattoo I have on my back. His assistant held my hand. She was Asian and young, and so kind. She stayed with me until my husband was allowed to enter. He told me later that there was blood all over the floor and the doctor was in my abdomen up to his elbows. I had a classical incision, and my scar runs hip to hip, so that is believable.
They had to pull Bea out of my womb inside of her placenta, because her umbilical cord was too short for them to pull her out and cut it naturally. It was quiet- she did not make a sound. I later found out that she was not breathing, and they had to resuscitate her. The brought her away to be worked on. About 30 minutes later, the neonatologist came back and told us that she wasn’t going to make it. My husband left with her, and the Asian, anesthesiologist’s assistant was back holding my hand.

 About 15 minutes later my husband brought her to me. She was alive, but already slipping away.

She was beautiful. I loved her lips, and her tiny fingers. I couldn’t believe that she wasn’t going to make it. A nurse took photos and my husband has a stark, bewildered look in his eyes. I don’t know if I can share that one.

I held her as they sewed me up, and wheeled me into a recovery room. She died in my arms, in the recovery room, one hour and forty seven minutes after she was born.

I’ll continue this tomorrow. It’s late, and there’s so much more.

First day of Lent.

Ash Wednesday

"From dust you came, and to dust you will return."

Those words make you small- as they are intended to.

I am all about esthetics. I like the smell of incense and organ music and old time hymns. I love being immersed in the experience of worship. I don’t just want to hear, I want to touch, see, and taste.

I want my worship to be transcendent. I want to be brought to another place in time. I want to be made small.

Faith has become much more transparent since Bea died. It is the tie that binds her and me.

At this point, it does not always have to happen with a full musical accompaniment. It does not always have to happen in that sinking into a labyrinth, complete and utter devolvement of myself- although sometimes that is what I would prefer. It does not always have to happen in church.
It can come in gentle prayer over the kitchen sink.

One,

two,

three tears roll down my cheek as I wash the dishes, my back to my family so that they can’t see that I still cry. Because I am immersed in that place where my hand is holding hers. I am in another place and time. She is my object of adoration. My link to eternity. I am humbled and bent at the knees with these tears.

I meditated on this today.

“From dust I came.”

Worship comes in my body. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I was created from nothing- at one point in time, I didn’t exist. All of the things that make me unique were not a part of this world. Then, I was smaller than a speck of dust. I am organic.

“To dust you will return”

Worship comes in the garden soil, as I prepare to begin growing things in this unusually warm weather. All of the dead things I turn up in my hands. Bugs and leaves and green smelling items whose identities I can’t discern. I will be dead in the soil, at some point too. My body will disintegrate, and I will return to the dust.


I will die, just as she did. And then we will be the same, as we were once a short time ago.

Small.

Spring is coming here. It's one if those things you can just feel. Like the trees are stretching themselves out after a long nap. I feel like I've worn a tight skin for months, and the need to shrug it off has become almost manic.

Last year, I planted a garden for Beatrix. It was pathetic, really. It went untended in my sadness, and in a shady spot. The flowers perked up when I put them in the soil but refused to get any bigger than they were when I had bought them. They were stunted, and most of them died.

This is what I am manic to try again- we had a fall wind storm that felled many of the trees in our yard. The spot where Bea's garden is, lost the most tree coverage. I am hoping that the sun will reach it now.

I am hoping that the sun will reach me. That all of what's stunted in my growth from lack of nurturing will somehow spring to life.

Part of "recovering" from grief is wanting to, I think. It is very comfortable to sit in my dark hole. No one expects anything....."she's grieving," they say.

Grief is addicting. It relieves you of responsibility for your actions. You can claim- "the grief made me do it." When you hit send on that nasty email, hang up the phone and decided that you're not going to speak to someone again. When you behave poorly in public.

In the beginning, when my grief was so raw, I found these were honest responses. But now, I find myself, more and more, using my grief as a block from unpleasant situations.

I just don't want to any longer. Callous people are part of life- they don't just suddenly appear when you lose a child. Staying in this place cheapens my daughter- it makes her nothing more than a crutch.... nothing more than an excuse.

My daughter is much more than an excuse.

Tomorrow, when I wake up, there will be a difference. A change. An owning up to responsibility and a conscious effort to make my daughter more than an excuse for being angry at the world.

I am making an effort to grow. I am making an effort to throw off my stunted skin and stretch toward the sun.

That last post was written in January. I stopped writing, because I didn't know, any longer, what to write- I can't continue on in this morbid way, steeped in my grief. I'd like to be better. I want my daughter's death to matter. I'd like to have carried my second absent baby to term.


I want my experiences to make a difference.

I think that I will re-orient this writing. Because one year and two months and five days after my daughter died, and two months and thirteen days after losing my second child (and I will write more about that little one... just not yet.) I have to get on with it. I just don't want the grief any longer. I feel like it's a job- I have to work at it sometimes.

At least today I feel that way. I'm slowly shaking it off, and it feels ok.

I think she (they) would like that.

I would like to write tonight, about my one of my living children. Sometimes I feel ungrateful- I have so many children, and I am still greedy for this one that is lost to me.

But that’s not for tonight.

Tonight is sorrowing children night. Tonight is the night where I show you something like this:



He carries this bear around everywhere, and becomes very upset if we sit on her, or if she ends up on the floor. Anything that has been done to his displeasure is met with chastisement and a quick tug to right the bear from whatever indecency she has been subjected to.

Her hat is the hat that went to the dress that Beatrix wore in the funeral home. It was too big for her, so we had to put a diferent one on her.

It seems benign. I don’t know if it is. I don’t care- there is no “healthy” way to mourn a tiny baby sister that you never got to know. As a child, there is no way to explain “not coming home.” He’s happy, and he loves his bear.

You may recognize this bear as a “Comfort Bear” from Sufficient Grace Ministries. This organization helps women who have chosen to carry to term a pregnancy in which a lethal birth defect has been found. The bears are for newly bereaved moms to hold onto when their arms ache for their babies.

I am not a very teddy-bear holding type of person. When the box arrived with the bear in it, I put it aside, in favor of the baby book that came along with it.

It sat for a few days on a chest at the end of my bed, still in the packing box it arrived in.

Then he claimed it as his own. He named the bear Beatrix. We call her Bea Bear.

At first, I admit, I was worried- I thought it was a bit abnormal. I thought that he was growing an unhealthy attachment to the bear, that it was “replacing” his baby sister. I changed my mind after we took her on vacation and almost lost her.





Now, she sits lazily around the house, taking up a regular corner of the sofa when she is not tucked safely into his sleeping arms. We give her a bath once a week so that she smells good. She is beginning to look a little grimy in spite of it.

But that’s ok.

I don’t mind Bea Bear hanging around. I thought it would hurt to hear him calling her name, and talking about her name, and using her name on some (stupid) bear. She wasn’t my baby. (I don't really think the bear is stupid- I was angry when I thought that. Really. I LOVE Bea Bear now.)

I tried, at the time, to dissuade him from calling her that. I picked other bear appropriate names.

Nope. All he wanted was for her to be his Bea Bear.

And I’m glad.

I’m glad that he when he was needing something to anchor him in his loss, he found something tangible to hold onto. I’m glad that he found a way to make his baby stay, that he found a way to make Bea a part of his every day existence.

Sometimes I envy the way he has just gotten on with things. His matter-of-fact faith that eventually, he will see her. I am jealous that hugging the comfort bear makes him feel a little whole.

My faith is so tiny right now- in comparison to his. I could get all philosophical, and try to talk about the mustard seed, or Jesus wanting us to let the children come to Him…..But I think I’ve done enough of that the last few days.

His sorrow has been so much smaller than I anticipated. He obviously doesn't understand the magnitude of what has happened, but I think it's also because he has some tangible piece of what he thinks is her, to hang onto.

I have come to realize lately, that this bear is his memory box.

I have my box, where I retreat when I am sad, pulling out her tiny clothes and smelling the hospital smell.

He carries his around, wearing his heart on his sleeve.