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 am sick.

I am sick that instead of looking for dresses and favors for my Bea’s first birthday, I am looking for just one more perfect item to commemorate loss. I only have dozens of items with her name on them- but I need more (maybe I'm afraid I'll forget?)

I am sick of seeing stories in the news about people harming their children, knowing that I would never have done that to my Bea.

I am just sick of all of it. The whole “baby loss” thing.

I am sick of seeing people making money off of bereaved parent’s desperation.

I am sick of this community thing- like we are a tribe apart…. Different than all the other moms. We have some type of leprosy.

I am sick of searching for answers.

I am sick of having each and every day go by, and being torn between the place that I am in, and the place I want to be.

I am sick of the life that I have- and of grief over not just Bea, but the life I lost… not once, not twice, not three times, but four times- once at 9 weeks, when they told me I was miscarrying. Once at 16 weeks, when they diagnosed her with T13. Once at 26 weeks, when it was confirmed that she had LBWC, and once on December 13th, when she stayed with us for such a short time.

I am sick because I don’t eat well, or sleep well. I just don’t live well any more.

I am sick of breathing, sometimes.

I miss it, that other life. That was two springs ago. I didn't know anything about this sickness. I didn't know anything about this creeping ugliness in my soul. I didn't know anything about death and strength and life lived too shortly.

Birth defects were something you read about in the news. And babies didn't die from them- they just had a more difficult time.

We live in America- this just doesn't happen here. And it certainly doesn't happen to me. I mind my p's and q's.

I am sick with wanting. With waiting. I am sick with this year. This day. This hour.

And I realize that this is no longer my home. I don't belong here.

I used to think that people who couldn't wait for Heaven were crazy- I thought it would be s struggle for me to let go of my earthly life.

No, I walk with one foot in Heaven, and another on earth.

I'm sick of death and broken dreams and broken hearts.

I'm sick of the photographs of my daughter, who is dead. Not because I don't want to see her, but because I want to see HER. All of her photos will always be old. Old photos of a dead baby. I don't want that.

I am sick of this fallen place. This opening where darkness rears it's ugly head, and defeats me.... over and over again.

My outsides are plastic, while my insides are all commotion. Everything moves in me, and the smallest things pierce me, and I just want to let it all go.

This is where I am trying to be today:

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

It's not going so well.

I must have accidentally deleted my last entry, so to anyone who was interested (and there were at least 18 peple who were....) I posted it again. It is in the previous post, because that is where the linky goes when people who are participating in this blog roundup go to see each others entries.

This was recorded for the spoken word blog round up at Still Life With Circles.

This is a request for spoken word blogs from a baby loss mom, in the spirit of sharing our voices with one another.



HERE is where you can go to see what this is all about- and to see other mom's entries (and maybe participate as well, if you are a baby loss mom or dad!)

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.

So, thinking about the last post. Thinking about how sometimes, I am standing at the edge of a precipice ready to fall in. Or maybe jump in?

I would just like to reiterate that I still believe. And I still have faith -- because there is a difference between belief and faith.

On a purely emotional level lack of faith would be too awful -- because then there is no hope of reunion. No life in her. She would be just an accident of nature, like a twisted root or a mutated virus.

Gone. Forever.

But the horror of a forever separation is not the reason I have faith. I have faith because I know what is, is.

I have faith in God’s existence like I have faith there is a sun in the sky. I can remember from my earliest memories knowing He was watching out for me -- He was there.  It has never been some vague, eye in the sky belief. It has been about the sin in the Garden, and His triumph over Death on the cross.

People might take what I say and think, she’s lost her faith. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I just don’t quite trust Him with my heart right now.

Maybe He will see fit to pull the rug out from under me again? I don’t know. I do know I so desperately want to lean somewhere…. But the thought of embracing The One who took my daughter straight out of my arms is hard.

It is almost impossible.

I do it though. I want to be clear about it.

I do it grudgingly. I don’t do it graciously. I don’t come to Him with a servant’s heart. My heart is strangled and ridden with desperation.

Tonight, I think of Jacob- wrestling God and demanding a blessing.

Lately I've had something on my mind. A question which I've asked myself repeatedly since Beatrux died --

Am I the mother of a special needs child?

I have been feeling like acceptance has been withing my grasp lately.

I have been feeling like maybe I see a light at the end of this tunnel, and it's not a bright light that blinds me. It's a light that welcomes me home.

I have begun sorting through my feelings (constructively).

I have come to terms with some aspects of Beatrix's birth and death (the doctors REALLY couldn't do more than they did, and it is o.k. to feel o.k. about not having a baby who lives her life hooked up to machines that regulate her basic bodily functions.)

I have, I have, I have..... felt fine before. But then it hits me in a wave. And all I do is sit around listening to sad music all day, wishing she were here. Sometimes it's just a "course of the day" type of thing.


But sometimes there's a catalyst.


Last night, my husband confided in me that he has dreamt of Beatrix twice since she died. We lay spooned up in bed. His belly to my back. As he says this, my heart begins hammering in my chest. The blood pounds so loudly in my ears that I am afraid he will hear it. Of course the tears begin to slip slowly down from my eyes. I am sinking in my sorrow.

I haven't dreamt of her once.

I've prayed, I've begged. I've cried, bargained... all of it.

Not so much as a twinkle of a memory.

In my well regulated voice, the voice in tears that I have learned to use well, I ask what she was like in those dreams.

He told me.

I was heartbroken.

I spent the day in a funk. I listened to sad folk music, and moped around the house feeling sorry for myself.

Just once I'd like to see her moving. Just once I'd like to imagine her as something more than the already leaving baby who I held in my arms.

Here I thought I was doing so well. I thought that because I had passed the milestone of acceptance, I would be better about regulating my emotions. I thought I was getting to a place where I would be capable of being honest when I told everyone that I was "o.k."

I bounce around like a pinball. I hit walls and fall down holes. Each morning is the beginning of a new game.

So, I sit and fold clothes, listening to my sad folk music.

One of the CD's I have been listening to lately is Eddie Vedder's "Ukelele Songs". There is a sweet rendition of him singing "You Belong To Me" on it. I plan on using the song for part of the video I will eventually make with all of Beatrix's photos.

Looking online for a video of the song, I find this-




I'm watching it and realizing how appropriate this video is for the feelings which I have been working through, today.

It would seem irreverent to be posting a video of people dancing while making any statement about my Bea.

But as I watched it, I thought it was just absolutely perfect.

Because grieving her is like this- dancing in the snow- trying to make my footsteps land in all of the right places. Trying to do everything well, and at every turn, tripping myself up. Doing everything I can to avoid falling.

But I fall. A lot.

Today, I may exhibit so much depth to my loss. These are the spots where I sink into it- it covers up my feet, and I have a difficult time pulling them out. I'm stuck with my feet buried and the rest of my body attempting to move out of the spot I'm in.

Sometimes, there are moments when I lose my balance, and I need to lean on my husband and children. They will also lean on me when the ground under their feet becomes too slippery. We do this to avoid landing in the cold.

Sometimes, I need to try to stand on my own. Because it's the experience of the other's grief that is threatening to tumble me.

I recognize that my husband's admission tipped the weight of grief a bit to heavily in my direction, and clinging onto him would just make us both fall flat.

Sometimes, I think I'll just be stuck out there with my feet frozen in the cold. Unable to step away from the spot I'm in.

But I watch these people, and I am thinking that maybe one day, like them, I`m going to be capable of laughter as I get up and brush myself off.

This is what keeps me going every day.

I read a poem today on a blog I have begun following. It was simple and beautiful. I wanted to write a bit about it tonight. When I tried, I found I was having a difficult time with it. Not for lack of ideas, or because the thoughts moved me too much- but because it is all encapsulated in this poem. The constant brutal nature of death. I'll leave it in lieu of my own thoughts tonight.

DEATH BARGED IN

by Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano


In his Russian greatcoat
slamming open the door
with an unpardonable bang,
and he has been here ever since.

He changes everything,
rearranges the furniture,
his hand hovers by the phone;
he will answer now, he says;
he will be the answer.

Tonight he sits down to dinner
at the head of the table as we eat, mute;
later, he climbs into bed between us.

Even as I sit here, he stands behind me
clamping two colossal hands on my shoulders
and bends down and whispers to my neck,
From now on, you write about me.

I have a difficult time sleeping. If you look at the time stamps on my blogs, you will notice that they are usually posted in the early morning hours. This isn’t because I am one of those “morning people” who are ready to go at 4 a.m. It’s because most of the time I have something in me which I must get  out. Sometimes, it takes all night to get there.

Last night, I had a dream. Because of my persistent insomnia since Bea died, I usually don’t remember my dreams. So the fact that I recalled this one was kind of fabulous. I miss dreaming.

My dream was as follows:

My husband and I were walking through a building with a lot of hallways and rooms. Maybe a school. There was a cafeteria, and we made plans to go and eat there. I told him to go on ahead, because I needed to change my shoes.

I had a bag with all types of shoes in it. There were so many shoes in the bag. A normal female would cry from the sheer happiness of having all these shoes available. The bag was kind of like a Mary Poppins bag too- the shoes just kept coming. There were sneakers and high heels and ballet flats and tights and socks- just all of the accessories your feet could want. I was overwhelmed with the choices.

They were all so beautiful.

I had to have them all.

I kept trying on these different shoes- but none of them matched what I was wearing.

It became frustrating.

I was also trying on the most outlandish combinations - like these kicky high heels with woolen knee socks.

Really? High heels with wool socks?

So.

I am trying on these shoes, and I am watching my husband through the window if the cafeteria. He is waiting for me to come and join him. His profile is to me. He can’t see me watching him, but I am.

I am trying my hardest to hurry up and find some shoes to match what I am wearing, but it’s taking a long time. I am worried that he’s going to be angry (you know how men get when we are trying to find just the right pair of shoes).

As I’m watching him while searching for the perfect fit, I can see by the expression on his face, that he’s not getting angry. But his shoulders are beginning to slump. He has no food on a plate in front of him- and I am sure that he’s hungry by this time.

He is sad.

Disappointed.

Alone.



And here I am, worrying about what types of shoes will look best. What type of shoes fit me?

I woke up before I found the right shoes.

My husband was already gone to work.

I knew immediately what the dream was about- the message that my psyche was sending me.

As a clarification, I don’t believe in charms and fortunes and horoscopes and messages written in the stars.

I do believe our dreams are an outlet to deeper feelings we may have, which we may have trouble clarifying in everyday life. Our nonsensical parts act out the drama in our subconscious mind, helping us to think things through in some outlandish way which would never make sense in real life.

My dream was about the “action” portion of my grief.

This blog is not the only “project” that I have begun since Beatrix died.

I have helped develop and help run a website dedicated to supporting moms who are carrying babies diagnosed with Limb Body Wall Complex.

I am a member of a very active Facebook group for moms who have delivered with this defect complex.

I am working on presenting a perinatal hospice bill to the state senate, in Beatrix’s name.

In addition, I am toying with the idea of establishing a non-profit in Beatrix’s name, to help people who choose to carry to term with medical bills (we would hate for anyone to choose termination because of the cost of carrying to term- which can be quite high.)

I also personally support other moms with this diagnosis.

For the last six months or so, I have devoted at least an hour every night to searching out other moms who have given birth to children with this defect complex- hoping to connect us all.

I haunt Baby Center, What to Expect, and all of those other baby boards, waiting for a mom who has just received the diagnosis. Steering them towards our group and website.

I am also working on establishing a miscarriage and loss memory box program for our local hospital.

To you, my lovely baby,

Yesterday was a particularly difficult day.
I wish I could have just one dream of you- just one little image of your face, animated in life. A smile would be nice- but I’m getting ahead of myself. I would just like to see you.
I read a line in a book. A woman was writing about visiting her infant daughter’s grave. She said that she knew her daughter wasn’t in the ground, wasn’t in that grave, but:
“it’s just that her knees are, and I would have loved to kiss them after she fell.”
How I miss the physical presence of you, daughter of mine.
I miss sticky fingers.
I miss gum in your hair.
I miss make-up all over your face, because you have gone through my pocket-book….
I miss it all.
I miss all of what we could have been, and all of what we would have been- all that we never will be.
I want your hair, tangled after you’ve showered. I imagine you sitting impatiently while I run a comb through it trying to get the knots out. It’s curly coarse hair, like your dad’s. Before you go to bed, I put it into little pig-tails. They’re tiny- because you are just a baby. You haven’t gotten enough hair in yet for a real braid. You would probably pull out anything I put into your hair. That’s just what babies do.
Your brother asked today, how old you would be. He is interested in knowing what you would be if you were alive. I try to explain to him, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a baby that small in the house. I imagine you pulling yourself up a bit. Not walking or really even standing. There would be a lot of plopping on your behind right now. I don’t think he would be quite so entranced by you, if you were here.
I miss you. I miss the feel of you. I miss your breath on my cheek. I miss your tiny hand wrapped around my finger.
I miss you with tubes and wires, because then you were pink and healthy looking. There was possibility and chance. There was a future where you came home in that memory.
I miss you without them, because then you were in my arms, and I knew the struggle was almost over. I knew that you were going home, in that memory.
I miss fairy princess dresses.
I went to a wedding. The bride and groom had invited children, and had asked all of the little girls to dress in princess dresses. How difficult it was to spend the evening with so many small birds running around in their tiny little ball gowns. I tried to be happy. It didn’t work.
You were missing.
It wasn’t fair.
I miss you falling asleep on dad’s chest. I miss you holding his crooked pinky finger.
I miss the second chance we had in you.
I miss your joy, and your arguing with your brothers, and your girl’s night with your sister.
I miss ballet class.
Yesterday was an awful day for missing.
I miss your messiness and thumb-sucking, drooling, teething, crying in the middle of the night, getting into everything you’re not supposed to be getting into, naughtiness. All of it.
I wish you would come back. Just for a second.
I sit with my eyes closed, and I imagine that you are right next to me. I know that it is a test of my faith- if I open my eyes, you will disappear. But if I keep them closed, you will stay right there for as long as I’d like. I sit quietly, straining to hear your tiny breath near me.
What I wouldn’t give to hear you say “mama” just one time. I wouldn’t even care that you said “dada” first. Just something.
I miss mud puddles and rain boots, now that fall is here.
I miss you, my lovely baby girl.
I miss your forehead and your knees, and everything in between.
I miss you with me, and everything we may have been together.
I could keep going on, because there are a million and one things I miss about you. So I’ll end this now.
Still missing you.