- Thursday, June 28, 2012
- 3 Thank You For Visiting
Please remember her.
This new baby is not a replacement for the girl I lost. This new baby will not help heal the heartache I feel whenever I think about NEVER holding her again. Nothing will change, in the scope of my grief. I still want her every second of every day.
She should be here- feeling the swell of my belly, and anticipating the joy that a wee one will bring. She should be here waiting to see if this new baby will be a boy or a girl. She should be receiving a little bit more from me, in preparation for losing her place as “the baby.”
Be very aware that this new baby will not make things better for me. That while I talk with excitement about the plans I have for this new baby, she is never far from my mind. I love her. She is missing. She always will be. No matter how many babies I have I will never get over the loss of my sweet tiny girl.
I want to be clear, too, that this baby would have come to us even if Bea had lived- because every baby is a “planned” baby. God planned for this baby to come to us at this time. This baby’s existence was written into His book of life long before Bea was even a thought in my head. This baby is just as intentional as she was- this life has meaning that is separate and wholly his/her own. This baby is not a salve for my wounds. This baby is just a baby.
If this baby is a girl, please do not say to me- “you needed a girl”, or “you must be so happy to finally be having a girl.” I already have a girl. Her name is Beatrix. If this is a girl, she will be my second daughter- not the first. She will know that someone came before her.
If this baby is a boy, please do not feel sorry for me, in my houseful of men. This baby is an individual- not here to “make-up” for the loss I suffered. I already love this baby so desperately that I can’t breathe when I think of holding him/her. I don’t NEED a girl- I need a healthy baby.
Please remember her.
The greatest gift that you can give to me is to acknowledge her existence. While it may seem morbid to talk about a dead baby while a living one moves within my body- there is nothing morbid about the girl that I love. She is MY baby, not some cartoon caricature. Not a story you read about in the news. She is beautiful and I feel so tenderly towards her. Nothing speaks more to me, in the language of love, than that you remember with me.
My biggest fear is that when this baby is born, everyone will let out their captive breath- the breath that they have held ever since I lost her. They will begin to think- “Ah! Everything is back to normal now. We can pretend that that thing never happened.”
My biggest fear is that this baby will overshadow her in a way that I have no control over. That once born, this baby’s life will consume hers, until she is no more than a dusty photograph. As lifeless as the moment I last held her. Forgetting her takes away the importance of what she is. It removes her humanity and creates a void where my heart sits.
She is my daughter. She is as well-loved as all of my children here. She is as important to me as the sun, rising and setting on the horizon. I need her to nurture growth within me, and to warm my face when I look up to the sky. She is still part of my mothering experience- one of the most beautiful parts. Her cells still free-float in my body, her imprint was left on my heart. She is my first born daughter, the only one I will ever have.
- Tuesday, June 26, 2012
- 4 Thank You For Visiting
We would like to announce to the world, that we are expecting another child. So far, things are going well. We have passed all tests with flying colors and the doctor has said that he anticipates no problems.
This, of course, means absolutely nothing to me.
Unfortunately, in my crowd, I have a special knowledge of every conceivable thing that could go wrong. I know about super babies who were so ridiculously healthy that mom had not a care in the world, until that baby was born lifeless. I know about the girl who was born, went home, and then died five days after at her mother’s breast- she had an undetected heart defect.
I know about the SIDS babies who die in the months following a perfectly healthy pregnancy and delivery.
I know about car accidents and pool accidents and accidents too terrible to talk about.
I am especially fearful of everything. The air we breathe causes concern, as it could be contaminated with some toxic fumes or fungus spores. I am frightened of undiagnosed illnesses and un-immunized children (even though we follow a very minimal vaccine schedule for our kids…)
I am frightened of malformation and toxic chemicals and shampoo with formaldehyde in it.
I was frightened of ectopic pregnancy until the doctor did an ultrasound to make sure that the baby was properly located in my uterus- Irrationally perhaps, after loss- I truthfully don’t know how I would handle having to purposely remove a baby growing in the wrong place….. the devastation would be too much for me, I’m afraid.
I am frightened of the next few months, and becoming big and ungainly and vulnerable. I don’t want to travel alone- you see the stories in the news…. Those women who like to steal babies out of their mother’s wombs.
I do not want to be so fearful. I suppose that it is some form of post-traumatic stress disorder. I suppose that I could see a doctor who would prescribe me with some “safe” medication that would calm me down and mitigate my fears. But that would require me taking in a substance that could possible interfere with proper fetal formation.
I could do yoga or get a massage. But if my joints pop out of place, or I stretch the wrong muscle, or I am rubbed the wrong way that could cause preterm labor. And that would be bad.
I want to be happy.
My husband is happy. He whispers sweet nothings to this tiny being and I want to say, “Where have you been for the last two years? Don’t you remember what happened? Don’t you remember that BABIES DIE?”
Who is this man? Where did he come from, this person who can so blithely look at the child birthing experience and say, “everything will be fine- you’ll see.”
I want to purchase something online, and not think “at least I’ll have a tiny little something to remember this baby by, if things don’t go well.” I want to stop planning what I will do when (not if) things go wrong. Because they inevitably will go wrong. I want to be honest when I tell my other children that things will be ok. That yes, this baby will live.
My 9 year old told me that he doesn’t have any room for another bear in his bed, if this baby died too. We were sitting in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I wonder what the people at the next table thought of us and our dark-minded child.
I am tired of fearfulness. But I cannot be any other way- if I don’t guard my heart, than I will be disappointed again, and I will be devastated and I won’t know what to do with all of this hopefulness I could be sprouting.
My paranoia is a problem. I am too careful of everything, and my fear translates into stagnation and distrust. I won’t eat soft cheeses or tuna fish and I don’t clean the bathrooms any longer- because of both the chemical and biological toxins involved.
If this is a girl, I should call her Deirdre- “fearful or brokenhearted.”
The worst part- the fear itself makes me worry about things. Am I being so fearful that I’ll have a nervous, pre-term baby? Will my child be shy (if I have a child), and rigid in his/her being? Will stress cause the child to spontaneously combust in my womb?
I don’t know what to make of all of this, or how I will make it through the next few months of carrying the baby burden. I wish that this pregnancy thing could be done under sedation. I could sleep away the days like a bear in hibernation and wake up surprised at the baby in my arms. I could be in a dreamless sleep where I can’t begin the task of imagining all of the things which could go wrong.
I wish I was the fearless girl I once was, who took on challenges and overcame things. Now I am just a sad, frightened pregnant woman in the process of growing a baby who may or may not be birthed in a heightened state of anxiety.
I wish I could be normal again.
This, of course, means absolutely nothing to me.
Unfortunately, in my crowd, I have a special knowledge of every conceivable thing that could go wrong. I know about super babies who were so ridiculously healthy that mom had not a care in the world, until that baby was born lifeless. I know about the girl who was born, went home, and then died five days after at her mother’s breast- she had an undetected heart defect.
I know about the SIDS babies who die in the months following a perfectly healthy pregnancy and delivery.
I know about car accidents and pool accidents and accidents too terrible to talk about.
I am especially fearful of everything. The air we breathe causes concern, as it could be contaminated with some toxic fumes or fungus spores. I am frightened of undiagnosed illnesses and un-immunized children (even though we follow a very minimal vaccine schedule for our kids…)
I am frightened of malformation and toxic chemicals and shampoo with formaldehyde in it.
I was frightened of ectopic pregnancy until the doctor did an ultrasound to make sure that the baby was properly located in my uterus- Irrationally perhaps, after loss- I truthfully don’t know how I would handle having to purposely remove a baby growing in the wrong place….. the devastation would be too much for me, I’m afraid.
I am frightened of the next few months, and becoming big and ungainly and vulnerable. I don’t want to travel alone- you see the stories in the news…. Those women who like to steal babies out of their mother’s wombs.
I do not want to be so fearful. I suppose that it is some form of post-traumatic stress disorder. I suppose that I could see a doctor who would prescribe me with some “safe” medication that would calm me down and mitigate my fears. But that would require me taking in a substance that could possible interfere with proper fetal formation.
I could do yoga or get a massage. But if my joints pop out of place, or I stretch the wrong muscle, or I am rubbed the wrong way that could cause preterm labor. And that would be bad.
I want to be happy.
My husband is happy. He whispers sweet nothings to this tiny being and I want to say, “Where have you been for the last two years? Don’t you remember what happened? Don’t you remember that BABIES DIE?”
Who is this man? Where did he come from, this person who can so blithely look at the child birthing experience and say, “everything will be fine- you’ll see.”
I want to purchase something online, and not think “at least I’ll have a tiny little something to remember this baby by, if things don’t go well.” I want to stop planning what I will do when (not if) things go wrong. Because they inevitably will go wrong. I want to be honest when I tell my other children that things will be ok. That yes, this baby will live.
My 9 year old told me that he doesn’t have any room for another bear in his bed, if this baby died too. We were sitting in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I wonder what the people at the next table thought of us and our dark-minded child.
I am tired of fearfulness. But I cannot be any other way- if I don’t guard my heart, than I will be disappointed again, and I will be devastated and I won’t know what to do with all of this hopefulness I could be sprouting.
My paranoia is a problem. I am too careful of everything, and my fear translates into stagnation and distrust. I won’t eat soft cheeses or tuna fish and I don’t clean the bathrooms any longer- because of both the chemical and biological toxins involved.
If this is a girl, I should call her Deirdre- “fearful or brokenhearted.”
The worst part- the fear itself makes me worry about things. Am I being so fearful that I’ll have a nervous, pre-term baby? Will my child be shy (if I have a child), and rigid in his/her being? Will stress cause the child to spontaneously combust in my womb?
I don’t know what to make of all of this, or how I will make it through the next few months of carrying the baby burden. I wish that this pregnancy thing could be done under sedation. I could sleep away the days like a bear in hibernation and wake up surprised at the baby in my arms. I could be in a dreamless sleep where I can’t begin the task of imagining all of the things which could go wrong.
I wish I was the fearless girl I once was, who took on challenges and overcame things. Now I am just a sad, frightened pregnant woman in the process of growing a baby who may or may not be birthed in a heightened state of anxiety.
I wish I could be normal again.
- Saturday, June 16, 2012
- 4 Thank You For Visiting
Please send love to this sweet mommy. She lost her rainbow baby.
http://fortheloveofbabyliam.blogspot.com/
http://fortheloveofbabyliam.blogspot.com/
- Tuesday, May 01, 2012
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
So. I did something kind of funny last night.
I was at the laundrymat, doing a small load of late night laundry. I was alone, and started cleaning out my pocketbook. I got rid of old receipts and envelopes from bills I'd payed. I gathered up all of the markers and stickers that belong to my son.
And then I gathered up all of the money. Loose floating dollar bills. Most of them singles, but there were quite a few. I had a small fortune when I was finished.
(o.k. I didn't really have a small fortune- but I had almost $30!)
I folded the money neatly and put it into my wallet.
Then I took it out.
I wrote Beatrix's full name on each bill, with her date of birth and the number of a Bible verse about holding on to Joy.
I fed some of those bills into the change machine last night, where they will be disbursed into my community. Four of them, to be exact. Maybe by today, four people have wondered who Beatrix Elizabeth was.
I gave a $10 bill with her name on it to the boy who works in the pizza shop near my job.
As he took the bill, he said, "Let's see what this says... Beatrix Elizabeth......."
It's the first time I have heard anyone outside of our family- our immediate family- say her name out loud. It shocked me, and thrilled me, and knocked the breath from me all at the same time.
He said her name.
Her whole entire name.
And he didn't look uncomfortable, or disturbed. He said it like it was a real person's name. Like it wasn't the name of the dead, sweet baby that dances on my shoulders.
It's like a drug- I should warn you. I sat down in the pizza shop and quickly wrote her name on the bills I had received in change. I don't want to miss this opportunity- the opportunity to hear her name spoken without fear.
Someone is thinking of my daughter. That someone isn't me- or you- or my husband, kids, friends.
It's someone who may imagine her as a human being. Fresh and breathing. A person who wears shoes and maybe plays a sport or two.
Someone with life.
Someone who doesn't know.
Someone who walks around like she owns the place.
How large the swell of my gratitude was today.
I was at the laundrymat, doing a small load of late night laundry. I was alone, and started cleaning out my pocketbook. I got rid of old receipts and envelopes from bills I'd payed. I gathered up all of the markers and stickers that belong to my son.
And then I gathered up all of the money. Loose floating dollar bills. Most of them singles, but there were quite a few. I had a small fortune when I was finished.
(o.k. I didn't really have a small fortune- but I had almost $30!)
I folded the money neatly and put it into my wallet.
Then I took it out.
I wrote Beatrix's full name on each bill, with her date of birth and the number of a Bible verse about holding on to Joy.
I fed some of those bills into the change machine last night, where they will be disbursed into my community. Four of them, to be exact. Maybe by today, four people have wondered who Beatrix Elizabeth was.
I gave a $10 bill with her name on it to the boy who works in the pizza shop near my job.
As he took the bill, he said, "Let's see what this says... Beatrix Elizabeth......."
It's the first time I have heard anyone outside of our family- our immediate family- say her name out loud. It shocked me, and thrilled me, and knocked the breath from me all at the same time.
He said her name.
Her whole entire name.
And he didn't look uncomfortable, or disturbed. He said it like it was a real person's name. Like it wasn't the name of the dead, sweet baby that dances on my shoulders.
It's like a drug- I should warn you. I sat down in the pizza shop and quickly wrote her name on the bills I had received in change. I don't want to miss this opportunity- the opportunity to hear her name spoken without fear.
Someone is thinking of my daughter. That someone isn't me- or you- or my husband, kids, friends.
It's someone who may imagine her as a human being. Fresh and breathing. A person who wears shoes and maybe plays a sport or two.
Someone with life.
Someone who doesn't know.
Someone who walks around like she owns the place.
How large the swell of my gratitude was today.
- Friday, April 27, 2012
- 5 Thank You For Visiting
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to cause whatever happened.
I'm sorry that you will never see the sky as beautiful and blue as it was this past weekend, or as gray and rainy as it was today.
I'm sorry that you will never run barefoot through the green, green grass- toddling along after your big brother.
I see you wearing a sundress, holding a plastic beach bucket. It's empty, and purple with a yellow handle. You're smiling and your cheeks are flushed. You have tiny white teeth like pearls, your red hair is curly over your forehead.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I couldn't hold on for just a bit longer- long enough to give you the opportunity to have a fighting chance.
I'm sorry that you struggled. I'm sorry that in the end, we had to say, "no. take it all away."
I'm sorry that you didn't get to meet your older siblings. Two big strong brothers who would have kept you safe and seen you as a treasure. One big sister who would have shown you all of the secret things that sisters do when their mothers aren't around. One small, big brother who would have been your very best friend.
I'm sorry that I expected you to complete the picture.
I'm sorry that I don't cry every day any more. That I smile. It's obscene, I know.
I'm sorry that I tried again so soon after you were gone. I know that you welcomed that tiny baby with open arms.
I'm sorry that that doesn't make me feel better about the whole thing.
I'm sorry that your loss has eclipsed your life. That I think more upon those last hours, when I held you in my arms- than I do about the months of movement in my body.
I'm sorry that I have become cynical. I'm sorry that I just assume that everyone else's babies will die, until I have seen them breathing and pink. And then, I'm sorry that I'm angry at them for breathing and being pink.
I'm sorry that you are not here with me, making messes of things and throwing temper tantrums. I'm sorry that you could be almost a year and a half old... but you're not. I'm sorry that there were no balloons and no celebration for your birthday. No messy baby hands in a big birthday cake, no almost toothless grin with frosting on your lips.
I'm sorry that there was no birthday crown.
I'm sorry that summer is coming and I can't take you to the sea. That we can't feel the sand squish between our toes and dig up crabs with a plastic shovel. I'm sorry that you have no sun-hat. Or winter coat. Or umbrella.
I'm sorry that we couldn't be more to one another, for a longer time and in a different place.
I'm sorry that you couldn't stay in there, safe and warm forever.
I would have kept you there, you know.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to cause whatever happened.
I'm sorry that you will never see the sky as beautiful and blue as it was this past weekend, or as gray and rainy as it was today.
I'm sorry that you will never run barefoot through the green, green grass- toddling along after your big brother.
I see you wearing a sundress, holding a plastic beach bucket. It's empty, and purple with a yellow handle. You're smiling and your cheeks are flushed. You have tiny white teeth like pearls, your red hair is curly over your forehead.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I couldn't hold on for just a bit longer- long enough to give you the opportunity to have a fighting chance.
I'm sorry that you struggled. I'm sorry that in the end, we had to say, "no. take it all away."
I'm sorry that you didn't get to meet your older siblings. Two big strong brothers who would have kept you safe and seen you as a treasure. One big sister who would have shown you all of the secret things that sisters do when their mothers aren't around. One small, big brother who would have been your very best friend.
I'm sorry that I expected you to complete the picture.
I'm sorry that I don't cry every day any more. That I smile. It's obscene, I know.
I'm sorry that I tried again so soon after you were gone. I know that you welcomed that tiny baby with open arms.
I'm sorry that that doesn't make me feel better about the whole thing.
I'm sorry that your loss has eclipsed your life. That I think more upon those last hours, when I held you in my arms- than I do about the months of movement in my body.
I'm sorry that I have become cynical. I'm sorry that I just assume that everyone else's babies will die, until I have seen them breathing and pink. And then, I'm sorry that I'm angry at them for breathing and being pink.
I'm sorry that you are not here with me, making messes of things and throwing temper tantrums. I'm sorry that you could be almost a year and a half old... but you're not. I'm sorry that there were no balloons and no celebration for your birthday. No messy baby hands in a big birthday cake, no almost toothless grin with frosting on your lips.
I'm sorry that there was no birthday crown.
I'm sorry that summer is coming and I can't take you to the sea. That we can't feel the sand squish between our toes and dig up crabs with a plastic shovel. I'm sorry that you have no sun-hat. Or winter coat. Or umbrella.
I'm sorry that we couldn't be more to one another, for a longer time and in a different place.
I'm sorry that you couldn't stay in there, safe and warm forever.
I would have kept you there, you know.
- Monday, April 23, 2012
- 4 Thank You For Visiting
So, we had a meeting at work tonight. One of my co-workers walked up next to me, and began rubbing my belly.
Then she asked me if I was pregnant.
I'm just going to leave it at that.
I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
Then she asked me if I was pregnant.
I'm just going to leave it at that.
I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
- Friday, March 23, 2012
- 6 Thank You For Visiting
I realized today, with a growing panic, that it isn't going to get better. I could walk away from a toxic friend, or a bad marriage.
I can't walk away from this. It's here.
Forever.
I am 37. The average woman lives 80 years. That means that I could conceivably have 43 more years of this. Waking up every day. Being the one who lost her baby.
Oh
My
God.
(And I wasn't taking His name in vain- that was a bottom dropped out of everything exclamation of despair.)
I can not imagine going through the rest of my life this way. Every ever-loving second of every single day. I read about people's lives, and they talk about being 20 years out from their loss. Supposedly they feel better.
I think it's a lie. We tell the newbies that in time they will feel more peaceful.
Lie, lie, lie. You and I both know it. Just thinking about my Bea brings me back to that place, and I feel drenched in sadness and furiously angry and completely helpless. You're trying to say that at some point it will go away? Keep telling yourself that- let me know how it's working for you.
I am at odds with this reality. It is heavy, and weighs me down.
Every
Single
Day.
Forever.
I really don't want this any more- sadly, while our friends can walk out of the door, we are stuck. I want to say all kinds of curse words. I want to yell until I can't yell any more. I am trapped. I can not do this every day for the rest of my life. I can not get up every morning and wear bright eyes for everyone when from one minute to the next I'm thinking- "it's only such and such amount of time until bedtime."
And I really don't believe that sleeping overmuch is part of depression, in this case- it's deliverance.
Sometimes I have a difficult time living in this skin. I want to get out of it. It constricts me and I can't function. She is everywhere. She follows me like a tiny ghost.
I feel like I am encased in a glass jar, and I am screaming, and it's a long, screachy scream that no one can hear. They all look and laugh, while I am running out of air.
What are you supposed to do when every heartbeat is another beat away from her? And it's not like I'm crazy talking- I'm just stating a fact, or I guess, asking a question- what am I supposed to do with all of this time? The time that is stretched between her and I? How am I supposed to watch television when my daughter is dead? How am I supposed to eat a meal or go to work? (I was going to ask how I was supposed to wash dishes, but I seem to write a lot about washing dishes.)
I guess I would just like to know: what am I supposed to do with all of this time?
I can't walk away from this. It's here.
Forever.
I am 37. The average woman lives 80 years. That means that I could conceivably have 43 more years of this. Waking up every day. Being the one who lost her baby.
Oh
My
God.
(And I wasn't taking His name in vain- that was a bottom dropped out of everything exclamation of despair.)
I can not imagine going through the rest of my life this way. Every ever-loving second of every single day. I read about people's lives, and they talk about being 20 years out from their loss. Supposedly they feel better.
I think it's a lie. We tell the newbies that in time they will feel more peaceful.
Lie, lie, lie. You and I both know it. Just thinking about my Bea brings me back to that place, and I feel drenched in sadness and furiously angry and completely helpless. You're trying to say that at some point it will go away? Keep telling yourself that- let me know how it's working for you.
I am at odds with this reality. It is heavy, and weighs me down.
Every
Single
Day.
Forever.
I really don't want this any more- sadly, while our friends can walk out of the door, we are stuck. I want to say all kinds of curse words. I want to yell until I can't yell any more. I am trapped. I can not do this every day for the rest of my life. I can not get up every morning and wear bright eyes for everyone when from one minute to the next I'm thinking- "it's only such and such amount of time until bedtime."
And I really don't believe that sleeping overmuch is part of depression, in this case- it's deliverance.
Sometimes I have a difficult time living in this skin. I want to get out of it. It constricts me and I can't function. She is everywhere. She follows me like a tiny ghost.
I feel like I am encased in a glass jar, and I am screaming, and it's a long, screachy scream that no one can hear. They all look and laugh, while I am running out of air.
What are you supposed to do when every heartbeat is another beat away from her? And it's not like I'm crazy talking- I'm just stating a fact, or I guess, asking a question- what am I supposed to do with all of this time? The time that is stretched between her and I? How am I supposed to watch television when my daughter is dead? How am I supposed to eat a meal or go to work? (I was going to ask how I was supposed to wash dishes, but I seem to write a lot about washing dishes.)
I guess I would just like to know: what am I supposed to do with all of this time?
- Saturday, March 17, 2012
- 5 Thank You For Visiting
My daughter was fearfully and wonderfully made. I would like to make that clear. She was created- not a fluke of nature. Not a mistake.
She was intentional.
Each cell in her body was pasted together by Someone who fashioned her in love. Each tiny, red hair on her head was numbered. He whispered endearments into her small seashell ears.
He loved her.
She was molded from shards of spirit and sunlight. His hands pinched and tucked out the pieces of her that made her unlike any other person on this earth.
Her eyelashes were laid down by Him. A piece of art more beautiful than anything a human mind could conceive of creating.
The wrinkles in her fingers were carefully carved out of her skin. The fold on the back of her neck was softened and her knees were beautiful in my hands.
Her atoms were microscopic universes, encapsulated in blood and bones, the nucleus of each a sun surrounded by the electric charge of a lifetime lived in seconds.
Her body was unlike any other human body ever to grace this place we mistakenly call home- there will never be any other person exactly like her again.
He made her unique.
Each breath that she took was noted by Him. They were, every last one, written down in His book of life. Her part of the plan was vital- she was an agent of His desire. A means to His end.
He drew the lines in the palms of her hands. He sketched each fingerprint, indelible in her skin. He was aware of all that she would touch. Of where she would leave her mark.
The mark of His hand was evident in each piece of her. His fingerprints were in the wide, dark irises of her eyes.
The mark of His hand was evident in each piece of her. His fingerprints were in the wide, dark irises of her eyes.
He knew her.
And because He knew her, I know Him.
- Saturday, March 10, 2012
- 3 Thank You For Visiting
This is the second part of Beatrix's story.
When my daughter died I was holding her. Not many people experience the death of their child, and fewer still are holding their child when they stop breathing.
My daughter died in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I have photographs of her living in my arms, her eyes like slits and her tiny mouth open. She was so light in my arms. I couldn’t make her stay.
One hour and forty-seven minutes after she left the womb she left this world.
There were no hysterics, and it was peaceful. I think shock overcame us then.
I had not been able to get a hold of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep for a photographer in the immediate time preceding her birth and I wasn’t thinking of it immediately after. We did take photos of her, mindful of the realization that they were the only ones we would have.
My hair was a mess, my glasses were broken, and there were wires and tubes coming out of both me and Bea. The photos that the nurses took of the three of us were blurry and messy.
Each and every photo we took is precious. I love them all.
I don’t know how long we kept her with us. A nurse kept coming in and out and I wanted her to leave us alone. My husband was grateful because he had seen me bloodied and opened and he was frightened. All that I knew was that she was interrupting my solitude.
We took our photos and unwrapped my daughter’s tiny body. Some mothers choose to keep their baby’s bodies covered because LBWC can include some horrific defects. We were at the minimal spectrum, and I wanted to see everything. I knew that I would wonder later, what her body looked like. I took a photo, because I knew, again, that I would wonder, later.
I neglected to look at her backside- at least, I don’t recall looking at her backside.
I regret it. I know that may seem strange, but in such an important moment, I can’t believe I forgot something so basic. I will never know what my sweet little baby’s behind looks like this side of Heaven.
But I guess those things won’t matter there- although the idea of her mooning me as I walk (or float?) up to the pearly gates is interesting. Who knows?
I think we may have kept her with us for only about 2 hours or so after she died. I didn’t know that I could have asked for her to go with me to my room. I didn’t know that I could have kept her with me for 10 hours, if I had wanted to.
Strike 1, against the hospital.
Before the nurse took her from me, I asked her to make sure that she brought me back her small hat and her blanket.
She walked out with my daughter in her arms, and my husband and I fell into one another and our grief.
And……
Then the nurse brought her back in.
Strike 2, against the hospital.
(I know you’re thinking- wait, strike 1 was not telling you that you could have her back, or keep her for 10 hours.
If we had known that we could have her as long as we wanted, we would have kept her longer. But once the decision was made to let her go, we had made the decision to let her go. It was extremely difficult to watch her walk out the door with my daughter.
And then walk back in.
She interrupted a private moment between my husband and I.
And I’ll tell you why.
Bea’s hands were folded, like in prayer. I had put them that way, as she was slipping away.
The nurse thought that she was just so adorable. She thought we may want a photo of her with her little hands folded. My husband took the photo. It is the only photo I have of my Bea, in which my husband or I are not touching her. Where we are not caring for her. I hate it, but I can’t get rid of it, because it’s the last one I have of my Bea.
That’s why it’s a strike 2.)
After about 5 minutes, the nurse came back in with Bea’s box of belongings. I opened it.
Her tiny locks of hair.
Her hat.
Footprints.
And a brand, spanking new receiving blanket, which was most definitely not the one my daughter was wrapped in.
Strike 3, against the hospital.
I hit the call button.
Many times.
She came rushing in. I handed her the blanket, and told her I wanted my Bea’s.
The one that was colored with birthing fluid, the blood from IV pokes. With my daughter’s epithelial cells all over it .
The one that served as the only clothing that she would wear while she was living.
She had to dig it out of the garbage.
Strike 4, against the hospital.
(Two separate strikes- one for trying to foist some false item on me, and one for throwing away anything that had touched my daughter’s body so intimately. Anything that had held her while I held her.)
So, back to the rest of what happened after.
She left. Again.
I was unbelievably calm.
A man came and wheeled me out of the recovery room, and into a private room. I was placed on a floor for women whose babies were in the NICU. Or were stillborn. Or were only alive for an hour and forty seven minutes.
My husband eventually left to care for the living. I stayed in my hospital bed.
I stayed in the hospital for almost a week. Drs. and social workers and food people all came in and out. I didn’t cry. I almost did once, but a nurse walked in. I couldn’t cry in front of strangers.
They brought Bea home the day before I left.
My husband made arrangements for her to be taken care of. While he was sitting with the funeral director, he explained the story of our situation. The funeral director asked him,
“And you never thought of abortion?”
My husband said he almost left, but answered him, “no.”
The man got up and hugged my husband, and told him that 8 months before we lost our Bea, that he had lost a daughter. He and his wife had made the choice to carry to term a pregnancy in which the baby had been diagnosed with a severe case of Spina Bifida. I can’t post the name of someone else’s child here, but I will say that her middle name was Joy- it’s interesting- many carried to term babies have a name that references Joy.
For the first time since our pregnancy ordeal had begun, we finally had someone who knew exactly what we were going through. It was the right thing, at the right time.
The funeral home that she went to is on the corner of my road. I have to pass by it every time I leave my house. I think of the quietness of the room where we sat with her. I think of my youngest son holding her so sweetly. I think of saying goodbye to her. I think of how I was the last person to touch her, after everyone had gone. I think of her hat that was too big, and her small fur-lined pink boots. Her dress had a cupcake on the front. It was so sweet and tiny.
As far as the birth and death story- that is basically all. There are small details that I could continue with, things I have missed, that I could add later. But right now, there is no more involved in the story of her life.
I am left here only to keep my grief now.
I miss her so.
- Thursday, March 01, 2012
- 6 Thank You For Visiting
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.
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.
To clarify- when I say no one, I mean no one outside of the people who live in my house- and even they use it too sparingly... all except for my littlest guy, who says it daily- how I love him for remembering her with me.
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.
- Tuesday, February 28, 2012
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
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.
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.
- Friday, February 24, 2012
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
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.
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.
- Thursday, February 23, 2012
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
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.
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.
- Tuesday, February 21, 2012
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
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 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.
- Saturday, February 18, 2012
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
I have lost another baby. I thought I should just come out with it, instead of beating around the bush.
Not the same type of loss as my sweet baby Bea, but still another opportunity lost.... no first step, no "mama". Nothing.
I went to the doctors office for a routine ultrasound, happy at the prospect of another look (I'd had two already) at this sweet little being growing in my belly, and the baby's heart was no longer beating.
I am the poster girl for "there is no safe time during a pregnancy."
We waited a nice, long time to tell people- there are many people who still don't even know that I was expecting again.
I wonder if I will always be chasing these babies.... I wonder if I will ever be able to have another baby. I know that I am greedy, with my houseful of noise. I know that I should be grateful for what I have.
It's just been so very long since I have held a baby. So long since a sweaty, curly head has rested in the crook of my arm.
I can't help it.
I should have known that it was going to happen. I bought a hat. And some booties. I should have waited.
I carried this baby around for over a week after that tiny heart stopped beating. I received the hat and booties in the mail, during that time.
On a whim, I gave the hat to my son, to put on the Bea Bear... it was a perfect fit. Of course it was.... because the hat was never meant to be worn by a "real" baby.
Sometimes, when I think that I am really getting too old to worry about babies any longer, I think that this is such a poor showing- such a poor way to go out. My last experiences of childbearing, are also my most intimate experiences of death.
- Saturday, February 18, 2012
- 8 Thank You For Visiting
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 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.
- Thursday, November 17, 2011
- 4 Thank You For Visiting
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.
- Thursday, November 03, 2011
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
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!)
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!)
- Tuesday, November 01, 2011
- 8 Thank You For Visiting
Today is October 25, 2011. The small ticker on the side of my page tells me it’s been 10 months, 1 week, and 5 days since we said goodbye.
It’s difficult to conceptualize what you have been doing in this time.
I’ve been mourning your fingers. Those tiny little appendages which could be clinging onto mine right now.
Your fingernails would be clean, with moon-shaped beds. I would be tempted to polish them, even at only 10 months old. You have to forgive me; I have never been the mother of a baby girl before. I was so looking forward to caring for your fingernails. You would have had dimples in your hands. They would be plump and sweaty. They would grab onto things that they shouldn’t be. Then they would hold tightly when I tried to take those things away.
All of my children show strong tempers, so it would become a battle of wills to remove anything you really wanted to hold on to.
I guess that’s kind of how I feel about you.
I should be holding your hands as you toddled around. You would wrap your little fingers around mine, hefting your weight as you take tentative steps- pulling your knees up high and setting your feet down softly, unsure of where you are taking yourself.
But then I remember- even if you were here, there would never be any first steps for you. Doctors called it sacral agenesis. I called it perfection.
Your hands worked just fine though. You usually kept them in front of your face. This made it difficult for us to get images of your face during ultrasounds.
Sometimes, you are so close, that I can almost smell your baby skin. If willpower could bring you back to me, you would have already arrived.
I want those hands, so desperately. I want those hands with little black marks in the creases, and playing in the mud, or in your food…. In all of the things that they’re not supposed to be touching.I see other moms holding their baby girls. The baby will put her hand in front of mom’s face, and mom will bat it away. I want to say,
“No- stop. You are taking her hands for granted. Can’t you see how magnificent they are? What a marvel your daughter is, all put together with her organs neatly stuffed INSIDE of her body.”
If you were here, I would let you explore my face with your hands like a blind person. You would pull at my eyebrows. I know this because at one point in time, almost a million years ago, I have had babies who lived- and they pulled at my eyebrows. You would pick at the mole on the side of my mouth, trying to remove it because it looks like a speck of dirt.
I would close my eyes, while your fingers trailed over my face, feeling the contours of my skin, knowing me intimately.
I wonder what your hands would have done in the space of a lifetime.
I imagine all of the actions taken by my own hands, and I vow to use them more wisely. I vow to use my hands for things that I would imagine you doing.
But I won’t. After a while, I’ll forget about my promise, and go back to “normal.”
It is difficult not to idealize you, my baby daughter. You would have been perfect, I know. The exact person I thought you would be. All of things that I wanted for you, you would have. You would love my preference for long hair and books. You wouldn’t mind my old-fashioned ways. Your hands would be next to mine, kneading bread and making jam.
I want your hands, right now. Each tiny finger was so valuable to me. I would have walked around in the grocery store, pointing them out to strangers- “look how beautiful her hands are!” And they would have been so awestruck, that they would stand still, silent in reverence.
Your hands would have done so many lovely things. They may have nurtured children. One touch from them may have healed illnesses- or maybe they would have created stunning works of art. People would flock from the world over to gaze at them, in their pristine perfection.
Your hands are one great big missing link in the chain of my life. It is broken, just because I can’t hold them in my own.
And I think I am safe in assuming that I am not the only one who has lost out, in a world where your hands are missing.
- Tuesday, October 25, 2011
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
