- Wednesday, August 28, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
I have always been attracted to broken things. When I was a
girl I would buy china dolls with cracked faces and stuffed bears with rips in
their seams. I felt sorry for them because I knew if I didn’t do something,
they would most likely end up in the rubbish bin. So I took them home with me.
Things that are broken are not as strong as they are
intended to be. The damage incurred at the breaking point is a weak spot in the
overall construction of the item. Vulnerable, broken things need protection in
order to continue working in whatever capacity they should be working in.
I think a lot of brokenness.
It’s many forms- wear and tear. Slow rubbings that leave raw
spots. Violent rippings that leave a jagged edge.
I don’t think brokenness is pretty.
It wobbles and lurches and goes about more slowly than its
fully functional counterparts.
I am broken and in need of protection. I have weak spots and
some parts of me are as fragile as glass.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
Lately I have begun contemplating all of my broken
parts. The broken parts of me that I try
to hide- the parts that are covered over with a glossy shine and that nobody
sees. My sympathetic parts are all jagged and torn. My empathetic parts as
well.
My broken insides with missing parts. My broken outside with
a long, smiling scar that stretches hip to hip.
It seems that I am compiled of all types of broken elements.
I short circuit.
I fail to launch.
I am not beauty from ashes today, but the dust left behind.
I will keep broken things
Sacred in their splits
I will keep broken things
I will swallow them whole
- Sunday, August 04, 2013
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
I watched this today. It was probably a mistake.
I began with a miracle baby story-
one of those where the baby who was declared "incompatible with life"
ended up surviving . It made me feel hopeful about the
world- who doesn't love a little bit of the miraculous in the morning?
But then I continued. I wanted more-
more miracles, more surviving.
That's generally not the case,
though, when dealing with an "incompatible with life" diagnosis.
As I watched, I cried, and I grieved
along with these families as they told their stories- that moment when they
learned that their baby would be much more fragile than they had ever
anticipated. The moment where they had to simultaneously hold tight and let go.
And inside of the videos and images
there was a familiarity. Things that no "normal" person would ever recognize.
The fact that a number of babies
were not diapered- why diaper a baby who will never eat, much less digest
and pass waste?
The fact that there were entire
families in the room- generations upon generation, well beyond the usual three
person limit allowed by most hospitals- because this is going to be the one
and only chance to cherish this baby, this side of heaven.
The fact that mom was given the baby immediately after
birth, even while still in the operating room, on the operating table, with no
concern about the side effects of medications possibly causing mom to drop the
baby- because if the baby dies before the doctor finishes sewing mom up, she
will never have the opportunity to tell the baby she loves her, and that she is
so glad she came.
I began this post with what was
written above, fully intending to catalog all of the ways that a terminally ill
baby is brought into the world. It would have been an organized list of the
things that I saw and felt needed to be put down on paper for others to see- so
that the uninitiated could fully view what went on in a hospital room when a
baby dies. At least, so that they could catch a glimpse.
Compartmentalizing (listing) things
makes it easier to push them aside.
It makes
it easier to push back the parts of these events that I am not willing to
confront.
What I really feel compelled to write about is the fact that it's not about lists, or
the box full of stuff. It's not about the photographs and tiny footprints, or the
way that the doctors treated me, or the fact that no one really seems to get
that what was lost has created such a large hole in my heart that I will never
be the same again.
It's about her.
The life that she lived.
The life that she lived.
I let this sink into me for a few
minutes this morning.
It's about the life she lived.
Both inside and out of the womb, she
was a quiet girl.
I remember her tiny movements. Those
small jerks that let me know that she was there. I felt "phantom"
movements long after she was gone. She took up an enormous amount of space in
the world, for such tiny bodied being.
Well before we thought of her as
"alive" she lived.
She lived her own secluded life- a
life that I only have minimal knowledge of- a life of sleeping and waking,
floating and dreaming. A life that I did not bring into
being.
Her life was separate from my life.
She had her own belongings, her own
name, and her own distinct personality- which was amply evident during
ultrasounds.
She had her own soul. I forget that sometimes-
that we are not bodies with souls, but rather souls with bodies.
She was a human being, and her life
had merit on its own terms- and sometimes, I get so caught up in the "me,
me, me" motions of grief that her life gets lost.
It's not about me.
It never was.
Each life makes such a difference in
the world, and one small pin point of light can bring clarity to darkness.
Her life mattered.
Because she mattered as a separate entity,
wholly distinct from who I am.
Her light was so magnificent.
Her light is still magnificent- that’s
what needs to be spoken of. That’s the most important part of her story. My Beatrix
has substance. Her weight is immeasurable. She was created not because I needed
a baby, or because I wanted a baby. She had her own purpose here and that fact
has been overshadowed, in my life, for quite a long time now.
My grief is about me.
Her life is about her.
Those are two distinct items and as
much as they may seem to be related, they aren’t.
I need to remember that at times.
I need to remember that it’s not
about why she died but rather, why she lived.
I need to stop concentrating on what’s
missing and focus more on what I’m missing.
*** the image came from a tumblr account, and there was no attribution..... if it's yours, I will gladly remove it. :)
*** the image came from a tumblr account, and there was no attribution..... if it's yours, I will gladly remove it. :)
- Wednesday, July 10, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
I miss her, ever so much, today.
I love you so....
Sometimes it just makes everything ache.
I love you so....
Sometimes it just makes everything ache.
- Saturday, June 15, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
I just want you to know that this will be about a touchy subject.
I will turn off the comments at the end, because it is so touchy that people will want to chastise me and tell me that I am cruel. But it is a subject that I have contemplated for a while, and I feel the need to get my thoughts off of my chest. Since this is my grief journal, I am writing it. It is part of my journey.
The other day I was conversing with another poor pregnancy diagnosis mom in a private forum child loss group on Facebook. We both knew the others story, at least the peripherals of the stories.
I carried to term, and she did not.
While I was very hostile towards those who terminate, in the immediate time period after my loss, I am now very, very careful not to pass any judgement on anyone for the choices that they make. I have friends who have chosen differently than I have- I don't agree with that choice- I think its wrong, but I understand that not everyone is of the same mind as I am.
So, in the course of that conversation, someone else comments how wonderful this woman was as a mother- how she made the best possible choice- the only humane choice- for her child. How she saved her child needless suffering. She spoke of how selfless her act (of terminating the pregnancy) was.
This is a common theme within the child loss "community"" when it comes to women who have terminated for medical reasons. The suffering of the child is most often given as the reason for terminating the pregnancy.
If continuing the pregnancy is futile (because the child will die), then why prolong the child's suffering?
This attitude bothers me every single time I see it. It bothers me when someone, who may be a loss mother, but who has not had the experience of having to make that choice says it. It bothers me when women who have terminated for medical reasons says it.
Statements about selflessness in terms of ending your pregnancy, imply that those of us who continue our pregnancies are selfish.
Statements about ending your pregnancy because you did not want your child to suffer, imply that those of us who continued our pregnancies are causing our children unnecessary suffering.
Most people in loss groups will state that the choice to continue the pregnancy or not should be left to the parent involved- that no one should judge that decision... and will then proceed to make an affirmative judgement about termination. This puts some of us who have continued our pregnancies in an uncomfortable position.
Do we state, unequivocally, that our children did not suffer any pain during pregnancy and birth?
Do we let it go, hurt at the implication that we would let our children suffer? They most definitely don't let it go if someone comments about Carrying to term- they almost always find it necessary to post a caveat statement about their termination... but again, we are supposed to stay silent. When people are implying that we allowed our children to suffer.
Do we pull up the facts about fetal development and pain that reinforce carrying to term as a loving option for parents? What about the abundance of available information showing that moms who carry to term have better psychological outcomes, overall, than moms who terminate?
Most of the time, I try to ignore those extremely hurtful implications. But lately it has become overwhelming. This sense that I want to take something back for my daughter and all of the tiny babies like her.
Terminating a pregnancy for a fetal anomaly is no more scientifically proven to limit suffering than carrying to term is. Some of us who carry to term believe that terminating causes more pain and suffering. Some of us want our children to have no knowledge of anything but peace and light- and we believe that continuing the pregnancy is the best way to do that. My daughter was given every single test in the book, and not once did she ever exhibit any sign of being in pain
Those of us who carry to term believe that we are putting our baby's needs before ours- acting most selflessly. Some of us fight to have elective C-sections in order to save our children the stress of the birthing experience. Some of us risk our future childbearing capabilities to bring those fragile children into the world. We are anything but selfish in our decision to continue our pregnancies- we are giving our children a gift of time.
As many mothers who have made the decision to carry to term can tell you, termination is the only option offered by most doctors. There is a tremendous amount of support out there for women who have terminated for medical reasons.
Most pro-life people even believe that terminating for gross fetal anomaly is acceptable. Those of us who make a different choice are viewed as religious nuts, fanatics.
Invariably, when I tell someone about my experience with Beatrix, people will end their part in the conversation with the statement that they thought what I did was beautiful, but they believed that women should have the choice to terminate their pregnancies in that same circumstance.
Why is this necessary? What does your belief in termination for fetal anomalies have to do with my beautiful girl?
And even more distressing....
you do realize that in essence, what you have just said is that you think my childbirth story was beautiful but you would like to keep the option, for children like my daughter- beautiful, breathtaking little souls- to have their lives cut short, open.
Even if you believe this- is it appropriate to the conversation? Is it a valid end to my daughter's story?
I am so very tired of bending over backwards to try and be respectful of other people's decisions and not receiving the same courtesy. I am so tired of the implication that somehow, I am a selfish person who chose to give birth to satisfy a need in me. A person who disregarded my child's needs.
I am a good mother.
My child did not suffer.
Children carried to term with a poor prognosis are closely monitored to make sure that their lives are comfortable- both before and after birth, through perinatal hospice practices.
The assumption that terminating a pregnancy like this is the only "humane" thing to do is insulting to those of us who continue ours.
Please, when commenting on this subject, if you are supporting a mother that has terminated for medical reasons, and there are other moms sharing the same space, be mindful of their experiences and how your words could be taken. Don't make judgements or identify one decision as correct and one as not- most of us who carry to term are bending over backwards to show those who terminate that we understand and we don't judge them- it would be nice if the same courtesy were extended towards us.
As I said before, I am disabling comments here. If there is something terribly important that you need to say you may email me at the email address on the sidebar.
Otherwise, be kind to one another.
I will turn off the comments at the end, because it is so touchy that people will want to chastise me and tell me that I am cruel. But it is a subject that I have contemplated for a while, and I feel the need to get my thoughts off of my chest. Since this is my grief journal, I am writing it. It is part of my journey.
The other day I was conversing with another poor pregnancy diagnosis mom in a private forum child loss group on Facebook. We both knew the others story, at least the peripherals of the stories.
I carried to term, and she did not.
While I was very hostile towards those who terminate, in the immediate time period after my loss, I am now very, very careful not to pass any judgement on anyone for the choices that they make. I have friends who have chosen differently than I have- I don't agree with that choice- I think its wrong, but I understand that not everyone is of the same mind as I am.
So, in the course of that conversation, someone else comments how wonderful this woman was as a mother- how she made the best possible choice- the only humane choice- for her child. How she saved her child needless suffering. She spoke of how selfless her act (of terminating the pregnancy) was.
This is a common theme within the child loss "community"" when it comes to women who have terminated for medical reasons. The suffering of the child is most often given as the reason for terminating the pregnancy.
If continuing the pregnancy is futile (because the child will die), then why prolong the child's suffering?
This attitude bothers me every single time I see it. It bothers me when someone, who may be a loss mother, but who has not had the experience of having to make that choice says it. It bothers me when women who have terminated for medical reasons says it.
Statements about selflessness in terms of ending your pregnancy, imply that those of us who continue our pregnancies are selfish.
Statements about ending your pregnancy because you did not want your child to suffer, imply that those of us who continued our pregnancies are causing our children unnecessary suffering.
Most people in loss groups will state that the choice to continue the pregnancy or not should be left to the parent involved- that no one should judge that decision... and will then proceed to make an affirmative judgement about termination. This puts some of us who have continued our pregnancies in an uncomfortable position.
Do we state, unequivocally, that our children did not suffer any pain during pregnancy and birth?
Do we let it go, hurt at the implication that we would let our children suffer? They most definitely don't let it go if someone comments about Carrying to term- they almost always find it necessary to post a caveat statement about their termination... but again, we are supposed to stay silent. When people are implying that we allowed our children to suffer.
Do we pull up the facts about fetal development and pain that reinforce carrying to term as a loving option for parents? What about the abundance of available information showing that moms who carry to term have better psychological outcomes, overall, than moms who terminate?
Most of the time, I try to ignore those extremely hurtful implications. But lately it has become overwhelming. This sense that I want to take something back for my daughter and all of the tiny babies like her.
Terminating a pregnancy for a fetal anomaly is no more scientifically proven to limit suffering than carrying to term is. Some of us who carry to term believe that terminating causes more pain and suffering. Some of us want our children to have no knowledge of anything but peace and light- and we believe that continuing the pregnancy is the best way to do that. My daughter was given every single test in the book, and not once did she ever exhibit any sign of being in pain
Those of us who carry to term believe that we are putting our baby's needs before ours- acting most selflessly. Some of us fight to have elective C-sections in order to save our children the stress of the birthing experience. Some of us risk our future childbearing capabilities to bring those fragile children into the world. We are anything but selfish in our decision to continue our pregnancies- we are giving our children a gift of time.
As many mothers who have made the decision to carry to term can tell you, termination is the only option offered by most doctors. There is a tremendous amount of support out there for women who have terminated for medical reasons.
Most pro-life people even believe that terminating for gross fetal anomaly is acceptable. Those of us who make a different choice are viewed as religious nuts, fanatics.
Invariably, when I tell someone about my experience with Beatrix, people will end their part in the conversation with the statement that they thought what I did was beautiful, but they believed that women should have the choice to terminate their pregnancies in that same circumstance.
Why is this necessary? What does your belief in termination for fetal anomalies have to do with my beautiful girl?
And even more distressing....
you do realize that in essence, what you have just said is that you think my childbirth story was beautiful but you would like to keep the option, for children like my daughter- beautiful, breathtaking little souls- to have their lives cut short, open.
Even if you believe this- is it appropriate to the conversation? Is it a valid end to my daughter's story?
I am so very tired of bending over backwards to try and be respectful of other people's decisions and not receiving the same courtesy. I am so tired of the implication that somehow, I am a selfish person who chose to give birth to satisfy a need in me. A person who disregarded my child's needs.
I am a good mother.
My child did not suffer.
Children carried to term with a poor prognosis are closely monitored to make sure that their lives are comfortable- both before and after birth, through perinatal hospice practices.
The assumption that terminating a pregnancy like this is the only "humane" thing to do is insulting to those of us who continue ours.
Please, when commenting on this subject, if you are supporting a mother that has terminated for medical reasons, and there are other moms sharing the same space, be mindful of their experiences and how your words could be taken. Don't make judgements or identify one decision as correct and one as not- most of us who carry to term are bending over backwards to show those who terminate that we understand and we don't judge them- it would be nice if the same courtesy were extended towards us.
As I said before, I am disabling comments here. If there is something terribly important that you need to say you may email me at the email address on the sidebar.
Otherwise, be kind to one another.
- Wednesday, June 12, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
(Written when Baby M was eight weeks old.)
She has colic. She doesn't like to be put down.
She will be the last. This is a definitive statement.
She has colic. She doesn't like to be put down.
EVER.
"Parenting After Loss" is the title of a book. It shouldn't be my life. But it is. So here is my take on parenting a newborn after loss.
Colic? Doesn't faze me. A crying baby is a breathing baby. A crying baby is a living, emoting being that has succeeded in surviving outside of my body. When her cord was cut there was no hush in the room. There was a small, thin cry. It was a watershed moment. The moment I had dreaded because I was sure that when they cut me open, she would be silent and still.
There were complications with her birth.
Uterine Rupture.
A True Knot.
Bradychardia.
She came out blue, and I lost my uterus.
There were complications.
But she is breathing now, full of wind and anger and red-faced and beautiful.
I have nothing but gratitude for colic. For whatever it is that forces tears from her eyes and breath from her body.
She will be the last. This is a definitive statement.
The first weeks were terrifying. I was convinced that she was dying. That something was terribly wrong with her. I slept with her because I was too frightened to allow her to be farther than arms length away. I stayed awake watching her chest rise and fall, each time praying that it would happen again.
I would be lying if I said that I was over that now.
I'm not.
Every morning when I wake up and she is still here is a marvelous wonder. I think, O.K. we made it through another day. She is healthy and blooming.
- Thursday, May 23, 2013
- 5 Thank You For Visiting
I have been meditating on this thought the last few days.
Because I touched your skin, my hands are holy.
The weightiness of ushering someone into death is something that clings. It is suffocating. Like too much perfume in a small room.
But I can still feel the weight of you in my hands, and that has to count for something, doesn't it?
These average hands have been indelibly marked- you have been carved into them. My palms feel electrified at times. Like something was retained.
Something of you is left in my grasp.
My hands, which have been used for such frivolous things as washing the dishes and tapping away at the computer, held you.
For this reason they should be enshrined. I should have been wearing gloves all of this time to protect your epithilials from dropping off into the dust.
I could have been one of those crazy old ladies that children are frightened of.
Oh, these hands. They touched you. They held your hands and your feet. They reached between your lips and touched your tongue. I just wanted to touch a part of your body that was functioning properly. These hands held you for your entire life. These hands held you in death, as you stopped.
Stopped beating, stopped breathing. Stopped living.
I often think about the parts of you that I miss. The parts that I will never see again. I don't often think of the parts of me that are beautiful because they held you. The parts that are holy and well formed for loving a baby who was not so well formed.
When I die, my gravestone should say, "These hands held love."
Because I touched your skin, my hands are holy.
The weightiness of ushering someone into death is something that clings. It is suffocating. Like too much perfume in a small room.
But I can still feel the weight of you in my hands, and that has to count for something, doesn't it?
These average hands have been indelibly marked- you have been carved into them. My palms feel electrified at times. Like something was retained.
Something of you is left in my grasp.
My hands, which have been used for such frivolous things as washing the dishes and tapping away at the computer, held you.
For this reason they should be enshrined. I should have been wearing gloves all of this time to protect your epithilials from dropping off into the dust.
I could have been one of those crazy old ladies that children are frightened of.
Oh, these hands. They touched you. They held your hands and your feet. They reached between your lips and touched your tongue. I just wanted to touch a part of your body that was functioning properly. These hands held you for your entire life. These hands held you in death, as you stopped.
Stopped beating, stopped breathing. Stopped living.
I often think about the parts of you that I miss. The parts that I will never see again. I don't often think of the parts of me that are beautiful because they held you. The parts that are holy and well formed for loving a baby who was not so well formed.
When I die, my gravestone should say, "These hands held love."
- Saturday, April 20, 2013
- 4 Thank You For Visiting
It's late.
I think of your small face, held in my hands. I touched your skin, and it makes my skin seem holy somehow. That close to heaven, I was- it's still unbelievable.
When I close my eyes I can still hear that heartbeat sound, and I can still feel the tension in the air and all I want, when I close my eyes, is to imagine being with you again.
I want two girls, because I am greedy. I want you holding hands in matching sister sister headbands, with your old time names and your hair in pigtails.
Her hair is red, this tiny sister of yours.
Oh, how I hoped that it would not be.
Every day, I realize that she looks just like you did- when your face was animated with life. Her mouth and chin are shaped the same, because you both look like dad. It used to hurt to see his face at a certain angle because it reminded me of what I could no longer see. Now, I spend hours gazing into her face, and it's not yours, so it's o.k.
I wish that you were here. I wish that this thing wasn't always sitting in the back of my head, ripe for emotion and ripe for tears.
I wish, at this point, to have a dream of you- I just want to be able to imagine holding you safely- just one time. I would like to hear your lispy toddler voice. You would be almost two and a half. I have missed that.
Two and a half years and I think of you every day.
I went into your box the other day.
I pulled out the small pajamas and crushed them into my face- the delicious smell of you filled me for a sharp moment in time. I remembered, then.
You are so close to my heart tonight.
I think of your small face, held in my hands. I touched your skin, and it makes my skin seem holy somehow. That close to heaven, I was- it's still unbelievable.
When I close my eyes I can still hear that heartbeat sound, and I can still feel the tension in the air and all I want, when I close my eyes, is to imagine being with you again.
I want two girls, because I am greedy. I want you holding hands in matching sister sister headbands, with your old time names and your hair in pigtails.
Her hair is red, this tiny sister of yours.
Oh, how I hoped that it would not be.
Every day, I realize that she looks just like you did- when your face was animated with life. Her mouth and chin are shaped the same, because you both look like dad. It used to hurt to see his face at a certain angle because it reminded me of what I could no longer see. Now, I spend hours gazing into her face, and it's not yours, so it's o.k.
I wish that you were here. I wish that this thing wasn't always sitting in the back of my head, ripe for emotion and ripe for tears.
I wish, at this point, to have a dream of you- I just want to be able to imagine holding you safely- just one time. I would like to hear your lispy toddler voice. You would be almost two and a half. I have missed that.
Two and a half years and I think of you every day.
I went into your box the other day.
I pulled out the small pajamas and crushed them into my face- the delicious smell of you filled me for a sharp moment in time. I remembered, then.
You are so close to my heart tonight.
- Tuesday, April 09, 2013
- 3 Thank You For Visiting
Sometimes, I can't believe that I have survived this long without her.
Sometimes, I can't imagine surviving another day without her.
Time stretches before me and it just seems so long. I am almost 40, and I feel like I am 100. All of those seconds to come make me weak inside.
Some days I just want to quit this place. Each breath drags so slowly out of me.
I really try to think positive, and I am truly grateful for what I have.
But I still miss her .
EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY.
And it seems like I am supposed to have moved on, especially since I have had another baby now. I feel an incredible sense of guilt, because there are so many women I know who can not have children.
I would give anything to just look at her again.
To feel her weight in my arms. I just want a few more minutes.
I often find myself angry that I didn't think things out more. That I didn't pack the bag with memorial items, and I didn't call Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.
But then I realize that it's not my inaction that I am angry about. It's not opportunities missed that haunt me.
It's the lack of time that I had with her.
Just one more minute of touching her hair.
Her tiny fingernails.
Her eyelashes.
Sometimes, the weight of it all is too much to carry around.
I try to juggle two halves of myself.
The half that picked up and moved on. The half that has other people to care for and other times to live in. That half that lives out life in a variety of ways and places.
The half that sits in that room with my arms wrapped around that beautiful baby flesh. The half that won't ever leave her.
I am stuck there, while the world turns and people greet one another in the street.
Sometimes, it doesn't seem fair that life moves on- even though I move along with it.
Sometimes, I can't imagine surviving another day without her.
Time stretches before me and it just seems so long. I am almost 40, and I feel like I am 100. All of those seconds to come make me weak inside.
Some days I just want to quit this place. Each breath drags so slowly out of me.
I really try to think positive, and I am truly grateful for what I have.
But I still miss her .
EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY.
And it seems like I am supposed to have moved on, especially since I have had another baby now. I feel an incredible sense of guilt, because there are so many women I know who can not have children.
I would give anything to just look at her again.
To feel her weight in my arms. I just want a few more minutes.
I often find myself angry that I didn't think things out more. That I didn't pack the bag with memorial items, and I didn't call Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.
But then I realize that it's not my inaction that I am angry about. It's not opportunities missed that haunt me.
It's the lack of time that I had with her.
Just one more minute of touching her hair.
Her tiny fingernails.
Her eyelashes.
Sometimes, the weight of it all is too much to carry around.
I try to juggle two halves of myself.
The half that picked up and moved on. The half that has other people to care for and other times to live in. That half that lives out life in a variety of ways and places.
The half that sits in that room with my arms wrapped around that beautiful baby flesh. The half that won't ever leave her.
I am stuck there, while the world turns and people greet one another in the street.
Sometimes, it doesn't seem fair that life moves on- even though I move along with it.
- Saturday, March 30, 2013
- 3 Thank You For Visiting
So, here's the thing.....
The joy can be overwhelming, but the grief is still crushing.
At times.
This is going to be a little rambling, because I am trying to fit a lot into a little space of time.
About Rainbow babies:
Obviously, one baby could never replace another- but.... my mind is more restful. I don't have that inner shudder, when I see a sweet girl in front of me. That shudder that says, "I will never experience that." I can look at babies and not feel the weight of loss deep on me. Maybe one day, I will be able to hold someone else's without feeling that wrenching sadness.
This new Matilda girl is not anything like her sister. It's funny, how well aware I am of that- even though I only held my Beatrix for two short hours, here on earth. This younger girl is quiet and sweet. She is the most docile baby I have ever had the experience of caring for. She smiles and babbles and is a joy for everyone who looks at her.
This Matilda is a balm for my heart. I was so frightened of the circumstances of her birth- that I would feel less for her, somehow, because she wasn't what I "really" wanted. I wanted my Bea.... honestly.
Rainbow babies have such a weight about them- so heavy with expectations. And anyone who says differently is being foolish I think.
This girl, though. This girl is much more than a Rainbow baby. I am utterly smitten.
With her.
I do have a lot more to share, but that will have to wait for another time. Little people need love right now, and I have it to give- in abundance.
I am so grateful for my life.
Even the hard parts.
The joy can be overwhelming, but the grief is still crushing.
At times.
This is going to be a little rambling, because I am trying to fit a lot into a little space of time.
About Rainbow babies:
Obviously, one baby could never replace another- but.... my mind is more restful. I don't have that inner shudder, when I see a sweet girl in front of me. That shudder that says, "I will never experience that." I can look at babies and not feel the weight of loss deep on me. Maybe one day, I will be able to hold someone else's without feeling that wrenching sadness.
This new Matilda girl is not anything like her sister. It's funny, how well aware I am of that- even though I only held my Beatrix for two short hours, here on earth. This younger girl is quiet and sweet. She is the most docile baby I have ever had the experience of caring for. She smiles and babbles and is a joy for everyone who looks at her.
Rainbow babies have such a weight about them- so heavy with expectations. And anyone who says differently is being foolish I think.
This girl, though. This girl is much more than a Rainbow baby. I am utterly smitten.
With her.
I do have a lot more to share, but that will have to wait for another time. Little people need love right now, and I have it to give- in abundance.
I am so grateful for my life.
Even the hard parts.
- Friday, March 15, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
I have had a lot to write about lately, in terms of grief. So many opportunities to clarify a moment for other people's reading. But the time needed to grieve- that's another thing altogether. The honesty to write all of my emotions out, something that I can't afford to give away right now.
I can't write about my mom because our relationship was wrought with discord and moments of beautiful messiness. I have tried to get it all down in the past and failed solely because I was too worried about the hurt that could follow. Maybe someday I will be adult enough to stake my claim in the parental tell- all blogosphere. But I don't think I will. My view is skewed by my participation in the events.
It doesn't seem fair to tell a story that is shared by two people, when one of them is gone.
I have another grief to share (I know you are waiting on Rainbow baby news... but I will have to work through this first).
I live on the East Coast of the US. More importantly, I live 20 minutes away from Newtown, CT. We here are still reeling from the shock of a gunman deciding that this was the best place to show his anger at the world. It happened the day after my Beatrix's birthday. Which is why there was no finished second birthday letter to my girl- it's here, in a saved post. I just lost the heart to finish it at that moment.
My friend was the substitute teacher that was killed.
Lauren Rousseau.
This grief, the grief of losing someone to murder is different than (almost) anything I have ever felt. Not worse, but different. More difficult to look at with open eyes in some ways.
This death is raw, a jagged open wound with salt rubbed into it. Nothing private and quiet. Her face was on the cover of People magazine. Politicians are using her life to craft laws and ignite arguments. It is obscene when realty TV creates a commercial moment out of your personal tragedy. She has become larger than life- her victimhood has begun to define her.
But for those of us who loved her, who still love her, she is much more.
Things about Lauren that you won't read about in the paper.
She dressed her cat for Halloween, walked it on a leash, and if you were lucky enough to get a Christmas card from her, you would see that Laila was the star in those, too...
She wasn't one of those people who took the teaching credits because she had a Communications degree, and wasn't really sure about where to go with it, so she chose teaching because it was a good gig. She was passionate about teaching, always telling me about new classes she was taking to improve her skills, about how much she loved her kids, about how happy she was to be working where she was.
She was in love. She wanted to get married and live the rest of her life with her boyfriend. They loved the Muppets, opening night showings of movies, and wore matching pirate costumes for Halloween. I am so glad that she found someone who made her so happy.
She was always laughing. Always. The entire time that I worked with her, I only saw her grumpy once- no lie. It was two weeks before she passed away, and I teased her all night about it, because it was so out of character for her.
Everything about her was upbeat. She had struggled with medical issues that could have made her bitter, but she always seemed to look on the bright side of everything.
She didn't stop talking. Ever. Once she started a conversation, you knew that you were not going to get away without hearing her opinion about whatever it was she was talking about- but 9 times out of 10, it was about her boyfriend, her cat, or her teaching- in that order. And those conversations were about how happy they all made her.
Lauren was one of those people who always brought sunshine into a room. No kidding- she really was the happiest person that I have ever met. There was absolutely no cynical or dishonest bone in her body. She was a very different type of person, and everything that you read in the paper- all of the wonderful things that people will say about her- they aren't the result of only remembering the good about someone who has passed- they are really how she was.
We will miss such a special person, and the world is a much sadder place today, than it was before she left it.
Something is lost in all of the media frenzy. Something is lost in all of the clever post- cards for and against gun control. Something is lost each time her image is shown in any context other than as a beloved daughter, the girl who just celebrated her first anniversary with the guy she believed was "the one."
Lauren was a rainbow baby. Her mother had lost a daughter in childbirth before her. This resonates with me, especially now.
Something has been lost for all of us who knew her.
I had a baby a week after I lost this sweet friend. A beautiful baby girl. While I am obviously overjoyed at her arrival, there was a small hint of sadness that my daughter would never meet my mother, or this friend of mine. Both losses so close in proximity to Beatrix's birthday and the birth of this new baby made for a very difficult time.
The new baby is beautiful. She is a dark haired, ruddy complexioned girl. I wish that she could have been welcomed with a no vestige of sadness.
But we now know that there is no such thing as life with no vestige of sadness.
So we keep marching on. We make the choice to smile and to love again.
We hold our children close and try to keep them safe from bad people. We make the decision to keep moving forward and living our lives and risking love.
On December 21st, I once again found love.
Love's name is Matilda.
She had some minor problems at birth, which required a NICU stay. I had some problems too- but that's for another day.
She is happy. She is more than I ever imagined a baby could be. She is a heart healer.
I can't write about my mom because our relationship was wrought with discord and moments of beautiful messiness. I have tried to get it all down in the past and failed solely because I was too worried about the hurt that could follow. Maybe someday I will be adult enough to stake my claim in the parental tell- all blogosphere. But I don't think I will. My view is skewed by my participation in the events.
It doesn't seem fair to tell a story that is shared by two people, when one of them is gone.
I have another grief to share (I know you are waiting on Rainbow baby news... but I will have to work through this first).
I live on the East Coast of the US. More importantly, I live 20 minutes away from Newtown, CT. We here are still reeling from the shock of a gunman deciding that this was the best place to show his anger at the world. It happened the day after my Beatrix's birthday. Which is why there was no finished second birthday letter to my girl- it's here, in a saved post. I just lost the heart to finish it at that moment.
My friend was the substitute teacher that was killed.
Lauren Rousseau.
This grief, the grief of losing someone to murder is different than (almost) anything I have ever felt. Not worse, but different. More difficult to look at with open eyes in some ways.
This death is raw, a jagged open wound with salt rubbed into it. Nothing private and quiet. Her face was on the cover of People magazine. Politicians are using her life to craft laws and ignite arguments. It is obscene when realty TV creates a commercial moment out of your personal tragedy. She has become larger than life- her victimhood has begun to define her.
But for those of us who loved her, who still love her, she is much more.
Things about Lauren that you won't read about in the paper.
She dressed her cat for Halloween, walked it on a leash, and if you were lucky enough to get a Christmas card from her, you would see that Laila was the star in those, too...
She wasn't one of those people who took the teaching credits because she had a Communications degree, and wasn't really sure about where to go with it, so she chose teaching because it was a good gig. She was passionate about teaching, always telling me about new classes she was taking to improve her skills, about how much she loved her kids, about how happy she was to be working where she was.
She was in love. She wanted to get married and live the rest of her life with her boyfriend. They loved the Muppets, opening night showings of movies, and wore matching pirate costumes for Halloween. I am so glad that she found someone who made her so happy.
She was always laughing. Always. The entire time that I worked with her, I only saw her grumpy once- no lie. It was two weeks before she passed away, and I teased her all night about it, because it was so out of character for her.
Everything about her was upbeat. She had struggled with medical issues that could have made her bitter, but she always seemed to look on the bright side of everything.
She didn't stop talking. Ever. Once she started a conversation, you knew that you were not going to get away without hearing her opinion about whatever it was she was talking about- but 9 times out of 10, it was about her boyfriend, her cat, or her teaching- in that order. And those conversations were about how happy they all made her.
Lauren was one of those people who always brought sunshine into a room. No kidding- she really was the happiest person that I have ever met. There was absolutely no cynical or dishonest bone in her body. She was a very different type of person, and everything that you read in the paper- all of the wonderful things that people will say about her- they aren't the result of only remembering the good about someone who has passed- they are really how she was.
We will miss such a special person, and the world is a much sadder place today, than it was before she left it.
Something is lost in all of the media frenzy. Something is lost in all of the clever post- cards for and against gun control. Something is lost each time her image is shown in any context other than as a beloved daughter, the girl who just celebrated her first anniversary with the guy she believed was "the one."
Lauren was a rainbow baby. Her mother had lost a daughter in childbirth before her. This resonates with me, especially now.
Something has been lost for all of us who knew her.
I had a baby a week after I lost this sweet friend. A beautiful baby girl. While I am obviously overjoyed at her arrival, there was a small hint of sadness that my daughter would never meet my mother, or this friend of mine. Both losses so close in proximity to Beatrix's birthday and the birth of this new baby made for a very difficult time.
The new baby is beautiful. She is a dark haired, ruddy complexioned girl. I wish that she could have been welcomed with a no vestige of sadness.
But we now know that there is no such thing as life with no vestige of sadness.
So we keep marching on. We make the choice to smile and to love again.
We hold our children close and try to keep them safe from bad people. We make the decision to keep moving forward and living our lives and risking love.
On December 21st, I once again found love.
Love's name is Matilda.
She had some minor problems at birth, which required a NICU stay. I had some problems too- but that's for another day.
She is happy. She is more than I ever imagined a baby could be. She is a heart healer.
- Monday, January 14, 2013
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
I would like to be honest about a variety of things here- just brutally honest, even though sharing these types of things may not be appropriate in a public sphere.
I am now 33 weeks pregnant with my second sweet girl, and I am totally unprepared.
I have clothes and sheets and a cool, light place for her to sleep. I just don't have the emotional wherewithal to anticipate her arrival as happily as I should. I have my moments, but for the most part- all of the joy is a farce.
As impossible as it seems, most of the time I just push the fact that I am pregnant out of my mind. Even the growing swell of my belly and the discomfort of the end stages of pregnancy can't convince me that I am really going to bring a baby home. I can't allow myself to become attached- even at 33 weeks- I know that things could happen, even at this late a date.
It would be too painful to go through that again. Too painful to go through the whole process again and come home with nothing to show for it, except a box full of hopes and dreams that will never come to fruition.
To complicate this, I want my baby Bea. This morning as I was lying in bed I let my mind wander over the last few years. It has been almost two years since I held her. Two years without touching my infant girl- my tiny baby. Two years is such a long time. When this all began, I would never have imagined living with this crush of sadness for years on end. I can not contemplate decades more of this separation.
I can close my eyes and imagine the feel of her tiny hand in mine- so small and warm.The weight of her left an indelible impression on my palm. I close my eyes and I am there again, in that hospital room with that antiseptic smell (funny- most people smell a baby and marvel over that magical "baby smell". I smell antiseptic and it brings me to my Bea. I love that smell.) I don't just remember. I am there, in the moment.
Some people call these type of clear as day rememberings Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I call them a blessing. I call them the only way I get through my day- the only sensory connection I have to the daughter I will never again see this side of heaven. I call them the memories I keep because no one else can.
I don't know how to love this baby intensely and still love my Bea at the same time- it seems like something that only the meanest, cheating heart would do. I owe my sweet Bea- because no one will ever hold onto her as deeply as I do.
If I give too much up to this baby, what will I lose in terms of what I hold onto, of Bea?
I read in books that this is normal, but is it? What mother- especially one who knows what it is like to lose- what mother doesn't see all of her baby's future full of butterflies and moonbeams? What type of person prepares herself for the worst case scenario when there is absolutely no indication that there is a problem? What type of person has packed a bag for the hospital- and in one of the tiny side pockets, a list of all of the numbers she needs to call just in case things go wrong?
I delivered Bea at 34 weeks- one week away from where I am right now. If this baby makes it past 34 weeks, it will be something of a milestone, I guess. Maybe some type of comfort will come then? I can't think so- because then will come another week to get through, and another, and another. And then will come birth and home and a whole new set of worries..... and I tell myself that if I worry about losing again- if I worry about my crushed heart, maybe I am not as unattached as I think. But with that possibility the possibility of heartache grows exponentially.
In small, quick moments, I hope.
I hope that I can be all of the things to this sweet girl that I would like to be.
I hope that I can give her a heart willing to love without reservation.
I hope that in that moment when I see her, all of the fears will be erased, or at least will be pushed aside by the joy.
I hope that this feeling of impending doom will subside.
I hope that I can hold onto the memories of my other tiny girl- the one who never made it home.
I hope that the memories don't meld together and become one, that my Bea's birth, besides it's ending in death, retains some of it's own space in my recollections.
I hope that this baby makes her own memories with me.
I hope that this baby smells like baby, and not antiseptic.
I hope that she does not have red hair- I can not look at girls with red hair anymore because the ache in my heart is so deep.
I hope that she doesn't have the same fingers and toes, or lips.
I hope that her heart beats and her breath comes.
I hope that she cries.
And I hope that she comes home.
I am now 33 weeks pregnant with my second sweet girl, and I am totally unprepared.
I have clothes and sheets and a cool, light place for her to sleep. I just don't have the emotional wherewithal to anticipate her arrival as happily as I should. I have my moments, but for the most part- all of the joy is a farce.
As impossible as it seems, most of the time I just push the fact that I am pregnant out of my mind. Even the growing swell of my belly and the discomfort of the end stages of pregnancy can't convince me that I am really going to bring a baby home. I can't allow myself to become attached- even at 33 weeks- I know that things could happen, even at this late a date.
It would be too painful to go through that again. Too painful to go through the whole process again and come home with nothing to show for it, except a box full of hopes and dreams that will never come to fruition.
To complicate this, I want my baby Bea. This morning as I was lying in bed I let my mind wander over the last few years. It has been almost two years since I held her. Two years without touching my infant girl- my tiny baby. Two years is such a long time. When this all began, I would never have imagined living with this crush of sadness for years on end. I can not contemplate decades more of this separation.
I can close my eyes and imagine the feel of her tiny hand in mine- so small and warm.The weight of her left an indelible impression on my palm. I close my eyes and I am there again, in that hospital room with that antiseptic smell (funny- most people smell a baby and marvel over that magical "baby smell". I smell antiseptic and it brings me to my Bea. I love that smell.) I don't just remember. I am there, in the moment.
Some people call these type of clear as day rememberings Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I call them a blessing. I call them the only way I get through my day- the only sensory connection I have to the daughter I will never again see this side of heaven. I call them the memories I keep because no one else can.
I don't know how to love this baby intensely and still love my Bea at the same time- it seems like something that only the meanest, cheating heart would do. I owe my sweet Bea- because no one will ever hold onto her as deeply as I do.
If I give too much up to this baby, what will I lose in terms of what I hold onto, of Bea?
I read in books that this is normal, but is it? What mother- especially one who knows what it is like to lose- what mother doesn't see all of her baby's future full of butterflies and moonbeams? What type of person prepares herself for the worst case scenario when there is absolutely no indication that there is a problem? What type of person has packed a bag for the hospital- and in one of the tiny side pockets, a list of all of the numbers she needs to call just in case things go wrong?
I delivered Bea at 34 weeks- one week away from where I am right now. If this baby makes it past 34 weeks, it will be something of a milestone, I guess. Maybe some type of comfort will come then? I can't think so- because then will come another week to get through, and another, and another. And then will come birth and home and a whole new set of worries..... and I tell myself that if I worry about losing again- if I worry about my crushed heart, maybe I am not as unattached as I think. But with that possibility the possibility of heartache grows exponentially.
In small, quick moments, I hope.
I hope that I can be all of the things to this sweet girl that I would like to be.
I hope that I can give her a heart willing to love without reservation.
I hope that in that moment when I see her, all of the fears will be erased, or at least will be pushed aside by the joy.
I hope that this feeling of impending doom will subside.
I hope that I can hold onto the memories of my other tiny girl- the one who never made it home.
I hope that the memories don't meld together and become one, that my Bea's birth, besides it's ending in death, retains some of it's own space in my recollections.
I hope that this baby makes her own memories with me.
I hope that this baby smells like baby, and not antiseptic.
I hope that she does not have red hair- I can not look at girls with red hair anymore because the ache in my heart is so deep.
I hope that she doesn't have the same fingers and toes, or lips.
I hope that her heart beats and her breath comes.
I hope that she cries.
And I hope that she comes home.
- Wednesday, November 21, 2012
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
