Forty...soon

I turn forty on January 22. It's coming up, as we enter 2010. I had my first baby when I was twenty. She's a grown-up girl now, recently engaged, working on finishing school and probably already thinking about having babies of her own.

Am I crazy to be contemplating another baby at my age? Probably. My littlest kids (ages 7 and 8 now) aren't so very little anymore. I've said before, when we conceived William, that I felt like someone was missing from our family. And now, of course, someone really is. Was that what I was feeling? What a horrifying thought... that I was "missing" a soul I would lose and miss forever?

I don't feel the same anymore. Like someone else is missing. I don't have a sense or feeling, like I did with William, of someone out there, waiting to come. Maybe that's a sign. Maybe I should just stop with the charting and the trying and the testing and the obsessing. Maybe I should wait to be a grandmother. :)

But that mother part of me is very strong. Losing William has made me even more conscious of how long I've been a mother, and how much a part of me my mothering really is. I don't need to mother another baby. But I would like to. I very much would love to have... just one more. Yes, I'm blessed, yes I've had four beautiful, healthy babies. And still, I want.

Maybe this momentous birthday will bring me a wonderful present. Maybe. I do still have hope.

Christmas Morning

Thank you all very much for making my Christmas morning so very blessed and full by remembering William with me.

We received and read almost 100 messages from friends and family on Christmas morning. I cried, I laughed, and cried some more. I read William's name over and over and whispered the names of other lost babies on that morning and remembered them, too.

I will keep these messages in his stocking for next year, and in my heart, forever. I will probably read them every Christmas morning from now on until the paper they are written on is yellowed and the type faded. I will hold every one of your gifts close.

I can't tell you how much it means. There aren't words.

Serendipity

Today I went shopping for William's stocking. The first two places had nothing I wanted or was interested in. I had something in mind and wasn't finding it. Then I did:

Right above it, I found something else. Ever since his death, the two things that really make William "real" to me are the lock of his hair and his handprint on my husband's drum. 

I knew it was perfect when I brought it home and looked at M's face when he saw it. And of course, I'd just been saying I didn't even have an ornament for little William. My only regret was that it wasn't personalized with his name. 

Then the most amazing thing happened and in the mail came this from another sweet, kind baby-loss mama who remembered my William:

It's just so delicate and elegant and perfect.

I didn't get to keep my baby, and I didn't get to announce a pregnancy this holiday (negative tests filling my drawer and today it's official, I will be bleeding through Christmas Day, I imagine... *sigh* Back to the drawing board...) but the friends I've made out of these tragic circumstances are truly such a blessing.

That much I did get, and I am so grateful. More grateful than I could ever say.

Friends, I Need Your Help...

I sent this out on Facebook and thought I would ask here as well...

****

My Dear Friends,

As Christmas day approaches I know that it will be a difficult day for me to get through without the love and support of those around us. This would have been William's first Christmas and we feel his absence so very much during the holidays.

Please consider a moment to send an email or note:

I am going to get a special Christmas stocking for William. The hope is to fill it with heartfelt notes from those who wish to help us in remembering our son. Knowing that your child is not forgotten is the best gift you can give a bereaved mother. The notes really have no guideline, just write what you feel. You can write to William, to me, to our family. It doesn’t have to be more than a sentence really. The point is just to remember him with us on Christmas. The smallest gesture carries the biggest comfort and love in the hardest of times. I figured this is a great way for all those around me to love and support me through this holiday without actually having to be here or call me as I know all of us have families to be with. On Christmas morning I will print the notes and we will read them and put them in William's stocking.

I want to say that there is no need to censor your writings or be afraid that I will be sad in talking about William. Nothing makes me sadder than the fact that he is not here with us, and remembering him brings some peace to my heart. I encourage all of you to just write what is in your heart, if you had things that you wish you could have said to William, me, or our family then I ask you to do so. It can help you as much as it helps me. I appreciate any notes or thoughts that are sent. I will hold them all very close to my heart!

So here is how I am going to accomplish this:

Please send me an email to inannajourney@gmail.com with “FOR WILLIAM – DO NOT READ UNTIL CHRISTMAS” in the subject line. I will read them on Christmas Day. I will be checking for the last notes on Christmas morning, so send them any time until then.

Thank you again for everything and helping me remember William and helping me during these holidays when it will be so very hard not to think of him.

*** To all the angel mommies and daddies (etc.) out there reading this, I know that all of us have a rough time during the holidays. I wanted to share this idea with you all. If you are going to do this or something close to this, please send me a message and let me know as I would be honored to write each and every one of you a little note about your baby/babies. Please feel free to copy and paste this letter with the appropriate changes... it isn't mine, it's been borrowed and permission has been given. I hope we all find some peace during the holidays and feel the love of not only our angels but those in our lives too. Thank you again!

The Golden Egg

Sometimes, when you share your dreams, it's like you let the air out of them. They end up sounding silly or strange outside of the space of your soul. Sometimes telling a dream diminishes it.

I don't want to do that to this dream, but it was, truly, too much of a gift not to share.

I gave birth to a golden egg.

I was expecting a baby, but I birthed an egg. It was smooth and soft, unbelievably soft, seamless and heavy. I thought it must be solid gold, it weighed so much. I was thrilled and amazed by this change in circumstance, and even more surprised with the egg opened and my baby was inside. It wasn't William--this was a new baby, a tiny little girl, cradled inside the egg. She had an incredible light about her, mostly I think from the egg, which kind of glowed, and when I lifted her up, she didn't cry but her eyes were open and dark and looking straight at me, into me, and for the first time since his death, I really felt William's presence, not his baby-self that I knew oh-so-briefly for the nine months I carried him, but the core of who he was, the "who" he would have been as a boy and a man - the "who" he had been before we conceived him and who he became after his death. I felt him very particularly in the light of the egg surrounding his sister, touching me, that light that had been holding (protecting?) her and it was pure gold, just absolute light and warmth, and I'd never known such peace or perfection in my life.

The baby began to cry, then, and I knew she was fully in and of this world at that moment, and I was glad, but so grateful, so very grateful for the gift of her brother's presence.

I couldn't have been a greater gift this Christmas than this dream. Thank you, William.

Maybe I am carrying his little sister (or brother) even now. What a blessing that would be. I'm nine days past ovulation tomorrow and hoping, again, still.

I'm not asking for miracles.Well... maybe just a tiny one. One tiny little miracle. I hope it's not too much to ask.

Captured

Last night, I dreamed I gave birth.

I was home alone, and the baby was coming. I went into the bathroom, contracting, knowing birth was imminent, and someone had purchased me an emergency birth kit. Except it came in the exact same type of box I'd received as William's "memory box." Inside were all the things a birth kit usually contains... cord clamps, the little hat... but I also noticed there was a disposable camera inside. I was just delighted. How smart, I thought, for someone to think of that!

How full circle... of course you want to take pictures of your living, wiggling, crying baby... to hold that memory... everything so fleeting... of course you'd want to take pictures of your dead one... to hold that memory... everything so fleeting...

It can't be captured. It can't be held. Everything is nothing. Dust through our fingers.

A memory box. A birth kit. Life. Hope. Death. There is no difference, no end, just beginnings, again and again.

Eight Months

Oh William, I'm so lost. It's been eight months, almost three seasons, but it feels as if time stopped when you died, my sweet, forever-baby. I remember other baby-loss mamas saying, "It gets easier... time really does help..."  Funny, it's been backwards for me. Or maybe it's just the holidays. I looked at one-year-old clothes and toys while I was shopping and thought, "I should be buying those for William." One less stocking to hang. I don't even have an ornament to hang on the tree for you, little one.

I think I've pushed myself beyond the edge of reason this year. It feels like I'm moving in slow-motion lately, like I've been trying to run a marathon through an endless desert of sand and oh, god, I'm so tired. I'm just so tired.

I didn't know eight months would feel like this. I didn't know I could miss someone like this. I didn't know my heart could be shattered and still keep beating. I didn't know I could look into the black hole of my dead son's slack mouth, hold his tiny bruised and swollen head in my hand, and still be breathing eight months later. I don't want this, and there's nothing I can do to take it back, to give it back, to undo the horror that is my life without William.

I feel so melodramatic, writing any of that down, but the feeling goes beyond the words. I can't possibly tell you, and for most of you reading this, you already know. The feeling plumbs the depths of my core and comes back with the blackest tar imaginable. The darkness I'm living in isn't deep, it's infinite.

I can't "stay positive" or, as my OB prescribing progesterone today remarked, "Keep fighting the good fight." I don't have any fight left in me. If I could punch God in the face, then maybe. If there is such an entity to fight with... I have a feeling I'd be shadow-boxing. I've been doing enough wrestling with invisible demons. Enough.

Eight months. In a word? It sucks. What's another eight months gonna feel like? What about eight more years?

I don't know if I want to know.

Roller Coaster Weekend - FAIL

First there was this...

Then this...

And if you think you see a line... you don't. Because then came this:

Pregnancy = FAIL

Game called on account of I'm broken... :(

Pain

I took my nineteen year old daughter to get a tattoo tonight. A pretty involved tattoo. Which meant a lot of pain. She was incredibly stoic about it, and as I watched, I saw the little three-year-old she had once been. She always hid her pain, even then. She once got her finger pinched in a folding door, and instead of coming to get me, crying, she just hid in the closet until it stopped hurting. (I found her just a few minutes after it happened - opened the door to get something and there she was, cradling her hurt hand...)

Watching her, remembering, got me thinking about pain. We all respond to pain - physically and otherwise - so differently. Like my daughter, I'm good at hiding mine. I'm not outwardly emotional. But I feel, and I know she does too. Deeply.

Her father and I divorced ... it's been ten years since then. We've been apart now longer than we were together. At the time, the pain was so great I thought I couldn't bear it. When the rift and wound was fresh, driving down familiar streets, past places we lived together, was incredibly painful. I drove through some of them tonight and realized... my pain has ebbed. In fact, what I experience now isn't pain so much as it is sadness, some nostalgia, and a little regret.

 It's faded over time. As I watched colors bloom on my daughter's skin...a back I soaped and rinsed 1,000 times in her life...I realized that the bright pain I still feel over William's death would disappear like that. Like my daughter's tattoo...colors would bleed and fade and slowly disappear, leaving the ghost-image of what it once had been.

Some day I really will look back and remember William differently. I felt that tonight, watching my oldest daughter bear her own pain and wondering what life had in store for her. At nineteen, I had yet to experience my greatest pain. Today, at thirty-nine, I'm not sure I have yet. But I have had my share. The longer we're here, it seems, the more life gives us. Our souls, like tattooed bodies, blooming bright, colorful pain that burns and slowly heals over time until it fades into the outline of our memory. Still there, always there, but never quite the same.

No, we are never quite the same again.

Magical Thinking

I took off my "memory" necklace for the first time in seven months the other day. Had to get a thyroid ultrasound (and just seeing an ultrasound image again was traumatizing enough) and it was in the way. We're still trying to catch an egg and get pregnant again, although every month that goes by, I wonder if it just wasn't meant to be and William's death was meant to be a big STOP sign from the universe.

I took off my necklace and had never felt more naked. And as I held it in cupped my hand and the ultrasound tech did her thing - looking for nodules or anything that might be causing the thyroid issue - I wondered if I should just put it away. I put away both William "reborns." They don't "sleep" next to my bed anymore. They're put away in the, as of now, unused nursery, and we have to make a special trip to "visit" them if we want to. So far, I haven't.

William's picture is still up, along with his ashes and the little momentos and statues we received after he died. They're all still there and I plan to make a permanent place for them. Soon.

But I wondered, holding that necklace into my hand, if it was my holding onto William and his memory that was keeping me from getting pregnant. Strange, the things we think, the associations we make.

Two women, now, who have come onto a loss board I frequent, who lost term or near-term babies after I did, have now gotten pregnant. That's hard. I'm happy for them, but looking around and wondering...why not me? Why is this so hard? I've never had a problem getting pregnant before. Quite the oppoosite.

Of course, I did get pregnant two months ago. It just didn't... take. What's wrong with me? All the tests they give me, everything keeps coming back normal. The issues I have (thyroid) are "under control" according to the tests, and shouldn't be preventing me from getting pregnant. So they say. But then again, they can't find any reason my baby died, either.

And it's now been seven and a half months since I held my dead son and I'm not pregnant again.

It must be my necklace. That must be it, I thought, clutching it in my hand and watching the ultrasound screen, wishing we were looking at a baby and not my thyroid gland.

The tech said everything looked "normal." No nodules, thyroid wasn't enlarged. Of course.

So I put my necklace on again and no, I haven't taken it off. What does magical thinking get me, anyway? Nothing. Which is what I have. Nothing.

It's hard to hope, it's hard to "stay positive." I told M. that I "feel" pregnant this time. I don't know, yet, not quite testing time... but I do. I feel pregnant. Of course, trusting my body is a big issue anymore.

He replied, "I hope you are...but I don't think I'm going to get very excited for a while."

That makes me sad. I understand it completely, and feel the same, but how awful that we have to hold back, hold our breath, hang onto memories and hopes and scattered dreams. I don't want to live that way, and I'm not sure how to avoid it.

If only I had a magic wand...

The Alternative

On Halloween, I walked the neighborhood with Vampiress and the Grim Reaper, all too aware of how light I felt. Last year I was pregnant, and my pelvis felt soooo heavy walking the streets. I was exhausted after our night of trick or treating last year.

This year I wasn't pregnant. This year, I should have been pushing a fat pumpkin in a stoller, but I wasn't. 

And then November 1 was the seven month anniversary of William's death. All Saint's Day. My first son's birthday followed on November 2. He turned sixteen. 

And life just keeps moving. 

My husband always says, "Well, that's better than the alternative."

Hm. Maybe. There are days I wonder. 

Missing Important Days

My friend Deanna died two years ago this November. She died at the age of thirty-six, of breast cancer that had metastasized to her bones (and finally, to her liver...) She and I talked a lot about missing anniversaries for "the sad stuff..." We both had a tendency to "forget" them. Her mother had died (melanoma, metastasized to the brain... ain't it a kick how genetically inclined the C-Monster is?) just a few months before I met Deanna, and year after year, she would "forget" the anniversary of her death. But a few days or weeks later, she'd find herself crying for no reason. Except, of course there really was a reason after all.

I haven't missed the anniversary of my friend's death. That's next month. But I have let the first of the month pass by without a thought several times since William died. I let Infant Loss Awareness day pass by without a mention. Why?

Deanna always wondered, too... why did she do that?  

I think I know. Because it hurts too much to remember.

It's hard enough to have a day every month - the first day of every month - where William is so close to the surface of my thoughts and the center of my heart it's hard to breathe without pain. To have a day when I'm supposed to remember them all... all of the lost babies... how is one person supposed to hold that?

I was catching up on reading blogs today, and I must have made that sound, the one that's common around here anymore, a sighed, frowning "Awwww." When my husband asked me, "What?" I showed him the picture of a daddy holding his lost baby, M. looked, frowned, and made the same sound. "Awwww... another one..."

It wasn't a question. We both knew what we were looking at. We knew the looks on the faces - they had been our own. It's so universal, this pain, this experience. It's a picture from an alternate reality, somehow superimposed over what should have been. There's Daddy, holding his son, Mama looking on, and you can see it on their faces, what should have been. She's proud, look at how she looks at her son... she can't help but see the beauty of her baby. Daddy holds his future in his arms, smiling strangely for the camera, but you can't smile in this situation without pain. There is a smile there, but instead of joy, there is sorrow.

Now times that by ten... by ten thousand... by a hundred thousand...

We're all the same, our hearts cracked open before the world, raw and bleeding. And it doesn't stop. It never stops. Babies keep dying. Hearts get broken. Dreams smashed. Again. Again. Again. Our own pain compounded, over and over. Impossible pain times infinity.

It's no wonder that I didn't light a candle, that I kept my breath shallow and my tears checked. It hurts too much to remember my son... your son... your daughter... 

But today I'm crying. Today I'm feeling them anyway, all of them, the lost souls, each light gone out. Today I'm breathing deep, heaving, cleansing sobs and wondering why I bother to fight it... it's going to come anyway. The pain comes like the tide, like babies dying, unstoppable.

I am helpless. It hurts to much to remember. And I can't help but remember.

What I think my friend, Deanna, didn't realize (and me, with her...) is that when we allow ourselves to remember... especially when we are connected, remembering together... somehow... when we are all united in this pain... there is some sort of comfort in it.

I didn't light a candle on October 15 this year. But I felt the love and light from those who did. Even in the dark hole I'd dug to hide in, I felt it. And I was grateful.

Maybe next year... maybe next year I'll be brave enough to light a candle.

Saddled

I used to love this season - the crisp fall air, trips to the cider mill, picking apples and the changing leaves. I loved it so much I named my first daughter after this season, the one she was born into.

But this year, I can't stand it. I look at the bright, bold colors of each leaf throwing off its chlorophyl, beautiful and brilliant in their final dying, and all I can see is death. Everything is dying. Cornstalks that, just a few months ago, stretched into endless green fields now sway in the autumn wind, yellowed and faded, simply husks. It's all fading away, and while I once gloried in the beautiful, dazzling display of autumn's end, now all it does is remind me.

It reminds me of William, and his death. I wish I'd seen him in those last moments, been able to look into his eyes, feel his last breath. If I had to lose him, why couldn't I have held him in those last moments? Why does the universe have to keep dangling things in front of me, a carrot before the horse, and yanking it away at the last moment? Almost there...you've almost made it... yet over every hill is just another mirage.

The universe says, you can carry your baby for nine months, but he'll die before you ever get to hold him. The universe says, sure, fine, you'll get pregnant again and get to ride that elated wave for a few days...before it all ends in more pain and blood. 

Always pulled up short, just shy, never quite reaching any sweet destination.

Does the horse eventually catch on? Does she just stop in the middle of the field? Does she turn and leave that impossible carrot dangling?  I am harnessed, the bit a cold, steel reminder in my mouth. There is no other way, that's what my body says, what my head screams.

I want that carrot.

I want my "fuck you" to the universe.

But what I really want is William back.

It's a callous and cold thought: "I went through all that for NOTHING!?" But it's my feeling and it's real. How many times did I say, heavy and dragging with my belly distended with William, "I'm never doing this again!"

I'm never doing this again... 

Careful what you say.

Today, M. said, "If we're not pregnant this time, maybe we should just stop trying."

I couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. That horse can't imagine not trodding onward, heading for that dangling carrot. There is nothing else in her field of vision - it's all orange, all the time. For me, it's like that. All baby, all the time. How can I stop? How can I say no?

The truth is, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of making that choice. I'm afraid of losing the hope, the possibility that I might... just... reach... that... carrot.

But I'm more afraid of who I might become if there is no rainbow at the end. I have glimpsed that woman, and she isn't pretty. She is bitter, angry, resentful, cynical... If there is no hope, I'm afraid that I will become her, that the worst of the things I have been since William's death will become crystalized like ice shards in my chest, replacing what used to be my heart.

I don't want to be that woman. I want to have hope, I want to believe.  I want to keep pursuing that carrot...even if it is an impossible dream, a mirage. Even if.

Phantom Pain

I know a bit about flesh-eating bacteria. M. had it, following an abscessed tooth. He spend two weeks in the hospital, half of it in the ICU. It's very scary stuff, and usually, it kills you. He was lucky.

So was this woman.

But there is some very, very small part of me that looks at that first paragraph: 

A Sanford mother says she will never be able to hold her newborn because an Orlando hospital performed a life-altering surgery and, she claims, the hospital refuses to explain why they left her as a multiple amputee.

And thinks... but her baby is alive.

Would I choose being a quadruple amputee over having birthed a dead baby? Yeah. I would. In a heartbeat. But we don't get to choose, do we? Life just hands us these things, here you go, this is yours now, like it or not.

Are we supposed to say "Thank you?" Are we supposed to "learn something" from these horrific experiences? Is this some sort of competition to see who can carry the most pain? Or does the person who experiences the least pain win?

I can't fathom a world that leaves one woman's arms aching for her missing baby, and another woman's missing arms unable to hold her live one.

They say you have phantom pain for years after you lose a limb. Can you imagine? A part of you severed, removed, taken, stolen away. Gone, but still, you can somehow feel it...your own secret torment, a torturous ghost reminding you every moment of what you've lost.

Honestly...I think I know exactly how she feels.

Six Months

William is still inside me, stuck, a lump in my throat I can't get past.

Today he feels unreal.

Did I really kiss the cooling forehead of my dead baby six months ago today? Did I really hand him back to a nurse? Did I give him to her, as if he were an empty plate and she a waitress clearing what was no longer needed from the restaurant table?

Here, we're done with this, you can have it now.

Was that me? Was that my son?

It couldn't be. If something so horrible, so heinous, so impossible had really happened to me, I'm sure I would never have given him away. I'm certain I would never have handed him over and gone home and watched American Idol and wondered why I couldn't breathe as I laid there in the dark and wished it all away.

If something so unbelievable had happened to me, I'm sure I would have died. I'm sure I couldn't have survived such a loss. I'm sure I would have slit my wrists or been locked in a padded room or been put on serious medication to keep myself from falling apart.

And if something like that, something so unthinkable, had happened to me once, and I managed somehow to make it through, I'm certain that another loss would truly crush me. Even the smallest potential of life, gone in an unexpected rush of blood and tissue, would surely bring me to my knees. I would spend days, weeks, months, completely incapacitated, unshowered, undone.

I did laundry today. I washed dishes. I wrote a poem. I washed one child's face and kissed another's boo-boo.  How is any of that possible?

You're so strong. A rock. I would have died. I couldn't have handled it. I don't know what I would have done.

No. No, you don't. You don't know what you'll do, when you look into the dark, gaping, bloody mouth of your dead son and see the abyss looking back at you. You think you'll go crazy. You think you'll die. You think you will come undone.

But the horror isn't the reality of death, no bigger than a sack of sugar in your arms... the horror is in the living. The horror comes six months later, when you realize you're living your life, still shopping and cooking and laughing and typing and breathing and trying. And failing.

I wish I'd died. Or I wish I had been utterly shaken and changed and transformed into some sort of selfless human tribute to the precious lost life of my sweet, perfect baby.

But I am, still, and that's all. I didn't shatter, I didn't collapse, I didn't rise from the ashes of my dead son like a glorious phoenix. Six months later, I'm just here, and nothing much has changed, aside from the gaping hole in my chest I feel every minute but no one else can see. 

Game Over

I took a pregnancy test again, just because I'm crazy and like to see that reassuring line getting darker. Besides, I have a million of the things, and I wouldn't need them anymore... right?

So I peed on a stick one more time and waited to see the magic-line...

But there was no line.

Not even the faint line I'd seen a few days before. No line at all.

Stark. White. Nothing.

I told myself it was a faulty test. I would take another one tomorrow and it would be fine, nice and dark, and all the crazy-talk in my head about losing this baby would go away.

But now I'm bleeding.

And there is no more baby.

M. is installing a new stove today. Well, a new-to-us stove, bought from Craig's List after a power surge last week fried the control board in ours. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. He came into the bathroom, all frustrated and sad, where I was staring at that snow-white test, and said to me, "I think I just lost us $175."

I looked at him and said, "I just lost us a baby. I win."

And we all lose.

Game over.

YES!

I imagined what it would be like.

I fantasized about it, frankly, like a dieter with my jaw wired shut, obsessing about mountains of rich, gooey chocolate. What would be it like?

I thought about it. I did. A lot.

But I didn't know it would feel like this.

YES!

There's not a hint of "NO!" in me. No hesitation, no turning away. Is there fear? Yes. Anxiety? Yes. But I'm still saying "YES!" I can't help it. I've smiled so much my face hurts. I smiled through tears all day yesterday, after taking two tests and reassuring M. that yes, it was a line, it didn't matter how faint. I couldn't stop smiling as I told the kids: "You're going to be a sister (or a brother) again!" and seeing their faces light up like it was Christmas morning.

I didn't wait. I didn't keep my secret longer than a few moments, suspended, like my breath, waiting to be let out. Because every single moment is precious. This little bundle of cells is the oak in the acorn already, burrowing into the soft, nurturing home where it will grow and (please, god) bloom and be birthed sometime at the end of May or beginning of June... But that time is a long way off. Three seasons to go, although it's growing autumn-cool even now.

All I have is this moment, right now, cradling the potential of life in my womb. How can I not honor that? I have so much love for this baby already. I can't hold back, I can't say "No, I won't love you, not yet, not until I know." Because if William taught me anything (and oh, my sweet baby boy, you've taught me so very much) it's that we can never, ever know. This moment is all we have, and time stands still in our hearts.

My heart's steady rhythm brings life in every moment, and its beat is saying nothing but "Yes. Yes. Yes!"

Variations on a Theme

The first dream I had about William wasn't too long after he died. I dreamed he was born alive, but then he died. In my arms, he breathed his last breath, and I sobbed and sobbed... and then, shockingly, he came back to life in my arms. He gasped and opened his eyes, and my heart burst with joy. Then he died again, just as suddenly as he had woke, he was gone. That was a heartbreaking dream.

The next dream I remember was a month or so later. In this one, he was born alive, warm and wiggling, crying and thrashing, he was placed in my arms, and then he died. His eyes went wide - eyes I never saw open, but I saw them clearly in my dream. He was in pain, something was being taken, and then he was, taken. Gone. Another heartbreaking dream.

The next dream I had about him was a few weeks ago. William was stillborn, they said, and they sent him to the morgue. But he wasn't dead. They discovered he was alive, and they gave him back to me. I carried him around, wrapped in his newborn blanket, and showed him to my sisters, my mother. "How is it possible?" they asked as they cooed over him. I don't know, I said. A miracle. Indeed. That was a miraculous dream. Until I woke up.

Just last night, I dreamed I was pregnant, very pregnant, hugely pregnant. My midwives were looking for a heartbeat and they couldn't find one. Finally, they gave up, shaking their heads. The baby was gone. Gone. This baby wasn't William, it was another baby, a different baby, my rainbow baby, and this baby, too, was gone. I sobbed and keened, wailed and writhed... and then, the baby moved. I stopped, holding completely still, holding my breath. It couldn't be. Could it? But there it was again... and again... and again! My baby was alive! My midwives felt my belly, frowning, sure it was my imagination, but there was a bottom, a foot pushing, clearly pushing outward... a miracle!

In those early dreams, the baby died. Even if he was alive for a moment, ultimately, he slipped away. In the latter two, at least, the danger is clear, but life prevails. My early dreams left me with feelings of loss, regret, guilt, sadness. My latter two dreams, though... I woke with a feeling of hope.

Hope.

It's something I haven't felt in long time. Something, I think, I haven't dared to feel. Especially consciously. I keep "Hope" at arms length when I'm awake. But when I'm sleeping...for some reason I can't consciously fathom...my subconscious is clearly making room for it. I don't know why, and I'm afraid to ask what role "hope" might play in my life, in my future.

Awake, I don't dare think. I don't dare hope.

But when I'm asleep...when I cross over into the place where thinking stops and images and feelings hold sway...things are changing. The landscape, once barren and burned black, has started to show small signs of spring.

Hope is a thing with feathers...  in my dreams, I think, I just might be learning to fly.

Superstitions and Coincidences

Yesterday, M. came in yelling, "I ran over a black cat!"

My first superstitious thought, "Oh great! How many years of bad luck is that!?" 

Sure enough, I ran out and there was a dead black cat in the driveway. But I think he'd been dead a while and the running over part hadn't pained him at all. Rigor mortis had set in. I'm pretty sure he'd crawled under our car to hide and died there. I don't know who he belonged to-he didn't wear a collar or a tag. And I don't know any neighbor with a black cat. Poor guy. In a way, I hope he was a stray, that there isn't someone out there looking for him, wondering what happened.

Then today, the kids brought home two new friends. New neighbors across the way with two boys who bookend our littles in age. Their names? The older one is Blake. That's strange enough, since that's the name of my oldest son. The littlest one though... his name is William. Ouch. 

Sometimes coincidences really suck. :x

Jet

I had a post. It was all about how we'd failed to get pregnant this month and how I was so devastated, depressed, discouraged... I thought of posting it yesterday, on the four month anniversary of William's death... but I couldn't look at my blog, at his face, couldn't face my own pain yesterday... I felt so lost and alone in it, so disconnected from it all.

And then something happened. Something to pull me up short, shake me to the core, make me realize it's so not all about me all the time. My own little world is nothing, nothing.

The suffering and pain and cruelness of this world goes on and it affects all of us, every minute, every bit of human pain anywhere, every person drawing their last breath, everything, all of it connected, one long human chain of suffering and love and heartache and joy. My world, my pain, it's yours, and yours mine. I am not alone; you are me and I am you. A butterfly flies on this side of the world, and a baby dies on the other. We are one aching, blood-red beating heart, one magnificent ocean, each wave beginning, cresting, being reabsorbed...

I am sitting here alone but feeling the hearts of every woman who has lost the potential of knowing her baby, every life taken, and oh not just the babies but the heartache and horror of those dying in tortured silence, those twisted remains of war, those taken too soon and those taken without warning... and the pain of those left behind to live with the empty space... the veil is thin but it is impenatrable.

I am remembering one life, one brief, beautiful life.

Jethro (Jet) Craig Wilhelm

I wrote this poem for you, little man, and for your mama and your daddy who miss and love you so very, very much. I spent the morning reading every single comment left on your mommy and daddy's blog - all the love, so much love, pouring out of the hearts of strangers - and yet we are not, none of us, strangers - at the tragedy of your passing from this world into the next.

I read and I sobbed and ached and I took the words from those comments, and I wrote this poem using only the words that had already been expressed by hearts cracked open by your going. Because there are no new words, little one - we are all floundering in our attempt to express our love, our pain, our sorrow.

My small tribute to a beautiful, brilliant light, gone out too soon. I wish I could do, give, more.

In memory of Jethro (Jet) Craig Wilhelm

August 29-September 1, 2009

Swirling love holding you, precious,
this birth defied the impossible loss
of Freya, Kees, two silent hearts
and then

another

tragic hush -
a son hijacked -
a heavy day, an outrage.

My heart is weeping.

My sister is broken open in
a gutted black hole of love.

How can she carry this
burning torment
shaking, stumbling,
life lost, children silent?

The force of love
can't unwind time
with magic words.

Jet flies free
over the streets,
the rooftops -
light passing light -
we cannot
touch the void.

But...
We remember.
We love.
Always.

Vacation

We are home, sufficiently waterlogged, all fudged and taffied out. It was good to get away, but I had a strange feeling of being outside of myself most of the time. I watched the kids a lot and thought, "This will be a good memory for them," or "They'll remember the time when they watched how fudge is made" etc. I wonder if my capacity for experiencing joy has been dampened since William died. I didn't feel much of anything. A lot of going through the motions, before, during and after. I planned it all and executed it (without so much as a hitch, really) and still, I never felt like I was really there.

In case you were wondering, I decided to take his photo, which has been up in our room since the first week, and a beautiful handmade card from an online friend with his name cut out on the front. I put it on the dresser in our hotel room. I found a maid looking at it once, when I went back to the room. She half-smiled at me and went on with her business, but I was glad someone noticed. 

The hardest part, I guess, was looking around at the waterpark, seeing mamas splashing with their babies, putting them in the little baby water swings, and knowing I should be doing that with William. And knowing, too, that while it was a great vacation and made some great memories for the littles... we never would have gone if William hadn't died in the first place. Our first family vacation, thanks to the death of my son.

Not to say I'm not grateful. It was a lovely, generous gift. And the kids had an absolute blast. Our little three-foot pool seems like a puddle after the water park! They didn't want to leave. It was a kids' paradise-I don't blame them! But part of me is glad to be home. I'm not scared to go out, like I used to be. I don't feel so turned inside-out all the time like I did... but still, it makes me weary. I feel like I have to be "on"... I have to try harder when I'm not home. And trying gets...old. I just feel really, really tired.

There are days I just want to lay down and never get up. There was a time I was anxious, afraid. Afraid of life, afraid of death. I'm not afraid anymore. It would be nice to see, if there's anything to be seen, where my son went. And, too, when I'm so very exhausted, I just want to lay it all down and give up. I'm okay with it, my head says. Let's go. That, I sometimes think, would be the best vacation.

(p.s. no, I'm not suicidal. I'm really not. :)

Blue Day

Blue day.

Just one of those where every little thing feels overwhelming. I just want to cry. I did, a few times. And here I thought I was "functional" again. I thought I was over days like today. Then in comes the tide and I'm drowning again, fighting the waves and looking for shore.

We're going away for three days - Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. We're taking the kids to a waterpark. Two very good friends gave us a very generous gift card when William died, and since they're having a summer special, it was perfect timing.

I'm afraid to leave home. I'm afraid to leave my baby here. I haven't left this house overnight since I was in the hospital giving birth to him (technically, I wasn't gone overnight then, either). It's crazy. He's not "here." I know that. But all I have left of him is. His picture. His ashes. The clothes he wore. I don't want to take them with me - what if something happens to them? I don't want to leave them home - what if something happens to them? 

I walk this line, all the time, between worlds.

So yeah. A blue day. A decidedly blue day.

They're better than the mean red ones.

Just nowhere near as good as the yellow...

Doing It

I cut my hair. It's all gone. Shorter than it's ever been in my life, probably, since I was a baby.

I was scared, but determined. Made the decision. Cut it off. Make my life simple. I want to feel free.

So much weight lifted. And yet I still feel heavy.

We're trying again. Trying, trying. (Yoda in my head: "There is no try - only do!") 

And yet I'm feeling ambiguous.

Do I really want another baby? REALLY? I mean... all the practicalities... I'm old. And I'm not getting any younger. And the age span between the kiddos grows greater every month we don't get pregnant. And I'm working hard, a lot, and we're starting homeschooling in the fall. For pete's sake, I look around me now and wonder, how could I be doing this all if William were here? And how can I do it if we have another baby?

My mother always used to say, "Every baby is born with a loaf of bread." Meaning, you find a way. You make room in your life... or your life makes room.

But this is the first month since William's death that I haven't been desperate to be pregnant again. I think since the hormones have balanced and the grief has become... I guess "manageable" is the best word I can think of... that immediacy has passed and rational thought has (somewhat) returned. And fear, too, has set in.

Can I do another pregnancy? Oh my god, the worry, the wait. My stomach is in knots just thinking about it.

And what if it's a boy? What if it's not a boy? What if I miscarry? What if I don't? What if I carry this baby all the way to term only to have him/her die? What if I die, too? What if I don't?

And I know, I look around the baby-loss community and see mamas everywhere, bellies blossoming, babies just arrived and already looking so big...it's happening. So many have done it, are doing it again. There is life after baby-loss, rainbows after storms...

I want.
I don't want.
Yes, please.
No, thank you.

Okay, okay, yes.

Yes yes yes.

I'm saying yes, but it's with more fear and trepidation than I ever expected. Making the decision wasn't so hard... it's living with what happens. That's the unnerving part.

Like my hair - I just went in and did it. Please cut it all off. Make me free. And there it is - short as I wanted it, not exactly what I expected. Different. New. Exciting. Scary.

Day 13 of my cycle. We're trying every day and the eggie should arrive any minute now.

You make the decision, and it happens. Or not. And then you just have to sort of live with the results, whatever they might be.

William Reborn - Sleeping

The second "William Reborn" - the sleeping one - is home. We chose the Tamie Yarie "Kaelyn" sculpt, and I have to say, Marilyn Kangas, the artist who "reborned" (rebirthed?) William, did such an amazing job. I was simply speechless when I saw him. 

Slideshow

Here's my sweet little man...

And a picture of "William Reborn" sleeping... 

William

William Reborn

Z. looking at William Reborn

 Z. holding William Reborn

William Reborn

The term "reborn" is so bittersweet. Of course William can't be reborn...as much as I wish he could be. But holding this baby doll, this incredibly life-like vessel of my memory, the same weight, the same coloring, the same sweet tiny mouth and ears, in those moments, William is reborn to me in some way. 

I remember M. bringing William's ashes back from the funeral home, and his relief in that moment - that William was home. But that wasn't my baby. An urn was cold comfort to me. My baby was now ash and bone - what was left? What was left for me to hold?

Several amazing and kind friends gave me a memory necklace, bracelet, keychain... and I wear them, every day, I wear them. And still, it's just not enough.

Gana the gorilla wouldn't let anyone take her baby. Brave girl. Brave, brave girl. I wish I'd growled and threatened and run. But I didn't. My baby was taken. Mine was taken from me, and somehow I feel as if some process of mourning was interrupted. I needed my baby, I needed to hold him and grieve him, perhaps even see his body decompose, to realize the finality of my loss. I never got that - and I won't. Ever.

I can, however, cradle this William - reborn - and hold my memory in my hands. The weight of him - the weight of the world - all and nothing. He is so like William, and he is not. It eerily mirrors my experience of birthing William. I had him...but I didn't. Here...and gone. So real...but not. 

Such a painful paradox, holding both of those things at once, in my arms...in my head...in my heart.

Chasing Rainbows

Another mama gets her rainbow baby.

 I hope to join you soon, Gana.

Me, too. Me, too!

That's me. Chasing rainbows.

Messes

I went into my son's room two nights ago to get him up to pee. He's seven, and still sometimes wets the bed, so we like to get a "reassurance pee" in for him around midnight before M. and I go to bed. I'm almost always sleepy and lazy by then and if I bat my eyelashes and whine a little, M. will usually give in and do it (even if we have a somewhat worked-out schedule...) But that night, I made the trek upstairs and shook the little guy awake.

He's a deep, deep sleeper - like his mama. He's very disoriented when we wake him and will usually just roll over and go back to sleep unless we insist. I insisted, marching him to the bathroom and standing at the sink waiting - running the water for a little incentive. Finally, he peed, turned immediately  around and trudged back to his room. I didn't even make a fuss about him calling him back to wash his hands - I just quickly flushed the toilet and went to tuck him in.

I love them when they're sleeping. Even the big kids look so sweet when they're asleep... and he's still my baby. My youngest living child, now that William is gone. I snuggled up behind him for a moment, kissed him again and again indulgently the way I can only when he's sleeping now that he's a big boy, whispered my goodnights and I love you's, although I'm sure he was already out and beyond hearing me, and then went back downstairs to go to sleep.

In the morning, we woke to a flood. The toilet I had so quickly flushed had overflowed and continued running...all night long. From midnight until about seven in the morning. What a disaster... M. and I ran around, figuring out what had happened - not a burst pipe, okay, that's good; assessing the damage - one light fixture was completely ruined, and hot, so we had to turn the breaker off to that part of the house; and then of course, beginning the cleanup.

And it occurred to me, as I mopped the floor, that the night before, I'd gone to bed, thinking everything was fine. I'd gone to sleep with the image of my sweet boy in my head, lamenting how fast it was all going...and woke up to a flood. Not unlike finding out William was gone... one moment, everything was fine - sweet, even - and the next, disaster. 

But life is like that. Life is like that not just once, but over and over and over.

Still, floods I can handle. In fact, I handle them with much more patience and calmness than I ever have before. Floods are nothing. Messes? Feh! Whatever. Messes can be cleaned. At least...those kind can.

If only I could have just mopped up the mess after William died. If only it was that easy. 

Remembering Caleb Michael

Several weeks before William was stillborn, an online friend developed very very severe preeclampsia and delivered her little man too early. He was on the edge of viability, and they have been doing everything possible to keep him healthy in the NICU since. I have been following her journey and rooting for that sweet little boy... I want her/them to be a success story. My heart has a vested interest in that.

A few days ago, she announced that her sister's baby, nearly full term, was stillborn. Went in for an NST and no heartbeat.

I just stared up at the sky and said, "Really?!?!?"

I mean, come on, universe/God/whoeverorwhateveryouare... REALLY!?

How much grief and heartache can you heap on one family? That is just... all kinds of wrong. Where is the justice? Where does it end?

Hearing about another baby gone just brings it back, makes it so immediate again. I remember. I remember. And I want to reach out to that mama, so grief-stricken, in pain, or maybe numb and still in shock. There is so much I regret. She doesn't quite know what's coming yet. There is so much I want to tell her...to tell my friend to tell her sister...

Tell her to hold him. Hold him as long as she wants. If she's afraid, tell her its okay. Encourage her to hold him anyway. The fear is worse than the reality. The reality is soft and precious and hers. All hers. Tell her she's not crazy for wanting to hold him and love him. Tell her he's beautiful. Tell her to gently open his eyes and look at their color. Tell her to unwrap him, all of him. Talk to him. Sing to him. Remind her to look at everything, everything, every little tiny part, because this will be the only chance she'll have. Get pictures that way, too. Every detail. Hands and feet. Encourage her to give him a gentle bath, to dress him, to sing to him, to talk to him and tell him how much she loves him and wanted to meet him. Have pictures taken of him without all the wrappings, too... she may think she won't want to remember him that way, but she will regret not having them later. And get pictures of the tiniest things... the soles of the feet, the palms of the hands, the top of his head, his little spine and bum, all of him, as much as possible. And video, too, if someone has one and can do it. She will want it. She will. If he has a lot of hair, remember to cut some for her and put it in an envelope. Say his name out loud. A lot. Tell her how beautiful he is. She'll know it, and she'll feel it, but she may be afraid to say it until you do. Acknowledge how perfect and amazing he is.

If they don't do professional photos at the hospital, consider NILMDTS.

Help her with those decisions you have to make right away - funeral services or no? Cremation or burial? They're hard. I regret not having a service. I thought I couldn't face it, but I wish I had been braver.

You can give her a book to read later:

Life Touches Life
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
When Bad Things Happen to Good People
The Next Place

You can also make up a list of web resources for her. She'll probably want to connect with other mothers who experienced a loss like this - it becomes such a wonderful lifeline. I spent hours reading blogs of stories of stillbirth after my William was gone.

MDC Pregnancy and Loss Board
www.missfoundation.org
www.stillbirthalliance.org
www.babyangelpics.com
Glow in the Woods
Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss Directory
Missing Angels Memorial Pictures
Stillbirth in the News

Tell her you love her. Tell her you're listening.

And keep listening. And loving.

And always remember....

CALEB MICHAEL
JULY 29, 2009

William Sleeping v 1.0

The reborn artist has finished painting sleeping "reborn William."

Every time I look at their pictures side by side, I'm amazed at how much this sculpt looks like my boy!

Now she just has to root the hair and of course attach it all to a body.

He might be ready to come home as early as Saturday!

Under Cover

I can't do it. I can't be smiling and happy and chatty around people I don't know. I just can't do it.

I've never been an extrovert, one of those people who strikes up conversations with strangers at the playground. That's not me anyway.

 But now? Now it's more than being introverted and quiet. Now it's avoiding. Every time someone looks my way, I feel exposed. I want to hide or run away. I feel as if, every time someone opens their mouth to speak, their words are potential weapons. Anyone could say anything at any moment that could hurt me. Every interaction holds the possibility of pain.

I feel like someone who gets stuck with needles all day, constantly on the lookout for the next poke.

M. has been gung-ho lately about making "playdates" for the kids since it's now summer and we don't have any kids around for them to play with. I know it's selfish, but I have such a hard time with it. I don't want to talk to other mothers, women who have all their children alive. And I definitely don't want to be around other mothers who have babies.

Even normal conversation hurts.

"Hi, how are you?" Crappy, my baby died. "Fine. You?"

"Gorgeous day, isn't it?" No, not in my world it isn't. The sun might be shining on your side, but it's dark and raining over here all the time. "Yeah, the kids love it."

Smiling hurts my face. I wear dark glasses all the time, even inside, like I've been beaten and am trying to hide the bruises, when what I'm really hiding are my constant tears.

Although most of the time I do feel beaten. Beaten up and beaten down. I don't want to look into anyone's eyes. I don't want to have to pretend it doesn't hurt and I don't want to have to explain my pain. I don't want to see the pity in someone else's eyes. I don't want to know they're feeling sorry for me. I don't want to be afraid, holding my breath, waiting for the next unintentionally hurtful thing.

Because it's coming. I know it's coming. And the anticipation is always worse than the reality. When I'm out in the world, I'm always wary, watching, crouched and ready for the next blow. At least when I'm alone, I don't have to ward off attacks from anyone but me and my own conscience.

And I do a good enough job, I think, at beating myself up. More than good enough. I don't need it from all sides. I really, really don't.

An Open Letter: My Mental Health

An open letter to those of you who have inquired after my mental health, upon learning I'd commissioned a "reborn" doll that looks like my son... 

Clearly, this idea bothers you, or you wouldn't be writing me about it, inquiring about and fearing for my mental stability. And as a psychologist, I can totally understand why. I didn't enter into this decision lightly. My husband, too, is a psychologist, and we talked a long time about it, and what it would mean, and how we would handle it, if I decided to get a "reborn" of William done.

Anything, truly anything, can be done in the "right" or "wrong" way, a "healthy" or "unhealthy" way. Anything can become an object of obsession. I could become obsessed with one of my daughter's generic dolls and carry it around and pretend it's William.

So when you talk about something crossing a line, certainly, there is one, I agree. But the existence of a reborn doll, or even a mother having one made to resemble her baby, isn't on the "unhealthy" side of that line. What falls on the unhealthy side of that line is when it moves into obsession.

When you lose a baby to stillbirth, you have very, very little time with your baby. I have so many regrets, so many things I never got to say or do with him. Not as a "live" baby - he was born dead, and I accept that - but to love him and honor him after he was gone. I never opened his eyes, I never rocked him and sang to him, I never got to dress or undress him, and I certainly didn't get to hold him long enough.

For me, this doll is no different than having pictures of my son - which I do have. And some people think THAT crosses a line, that it's weird and morbid to have pictures of my dead baby. But that is where my memory resides... and having his picture helps me remember him, it helps me mourn. So does having this doll - it's like a picture I can cuddle. :)

As for my children, they are healing, and the reborn has actually helped them a great deal. They've talked more about William and their feelings about their little brother and his death more in the past week than they have in the past three months.

And you have to remember, this is just three months after my son's death. We're still taking baby steps in the mourning process. Some statistics say you don't fully recover from the death of a child for six to eight YEARS after they're gone.

I totally understand your hesitation, but I can reassure you that I'm very aware of the possibility of something like this (or anything, really) becoming an obsession, and I have plenty of safeguards in place.

Thanks, though, for your concern!

Death To All Bunnies!

I planted William's garden back in April, just after he died. I was looking forward to watching the little seedling grow tall, and they have! 

The past few weeks I've been waiting for the flowers I planted to actually bloom. I wasn't going to post pictures until we actually had flowers, because otherwise it's kind of just boring green stuff. :) I usually go out and check on it every day. The poppies have been our first bloomers. 

But today, I went to look, and guess who had been in the garden?

The left side of the garden was just as tall and lush as the right side yesterday! Apparently the bunnies have been feasting!


If I could get my hands on Peter Rabbit today, he'd be stew!

Rebirth - Part One

I did a lot of soul-searching when I first discovered the idea of “reborn memory dolls.” I saw someone else’s, actually, another baby-loss mama who’d had a doll made to look like her little stillborn girl.

If you don’t know about or haven’t heard of reborn dolls… well, there’s a wiki for everything isn’t there?

According to Wikipedia, “reborning,” as it’s called, started back in the 1990’s. At first, they used already-created vinyl dolls, stripped them down (took off all the paint) and then painted them again, rooted hair, and created a doll that looked incredibly lifelike and real. Nowadays, artists actually create pre-made doll kits, which include the vinyl doll head, arms and legs, and a soft body to be stuffed, that are designed to be “reborn.”

Here’s a picture of a reborn doll.

There is a very large market for these dolls among collectors, although if you look at the comments here, there’s also a lot of controversy. Lots of people clearly think they’re creepy and “wrong.” The media coverage has focused a great deal on people who use reborns for emotional or therapeutic purposes. Those people, usually, who have experienced some sort of infant loss, or perhaps struggle with infertility.

In my former life, even as a psychologist, I think I would have judged this as morbid and even a little unhealthy. Of course, that was before I had a dead baby.

From the outside looking in, I can still feel the judgment, even my own. But when I saw a reborn for the first time, I knew I had to have one of William. I didn’t know why I felt so strongly… and I struggled with the feeling. Was I crazy? Would I turn into one of those sad women who carry around a fake baby everywhere?

I talked about it with M, who was, thank god, totally supportive. I’m so loved. :) I also talked about it with a girlfriend, who collects reborns. (Okay, so maybe she was a little biased…) But she reminded me that if we still lived in close community or in tribal cultures, I’d be holding other mamas’ babies all the time,  probably even nursing them, and it would be part of the mourning process.

My arms ached to hold a baby. And if I couldn’t have William… of course, I couldn’t… why not have a facsimile I could rock and cry over now and then? Something tangible to remember him by?

So I started looking into it, doing research, and found an artist (Marilyn Kangas of "Miss Marilyn's Orphanage) who had experience doing "memory" or "portrait" reborns. Basically, you submit pictures of the baby you want “reborn” and then together you look for kits/sculpts. The reborn artist suggested some, and I looked for some myself, searching for the best sculpt to match William. I found one, with the eyes closed, that I thought was very close. I spent hours comparing the pictures side by side, and meticulously chose this one.

But it wouldn’t be available for two months (it was still in production.) Still, I decided to wait. Because it reminded me so much of the pictures we have of William.

Then I found this sculpt, and I knew it was William... with his eyes open.

I’d never seen him with his eyes open, but my heart melted the moment I saw it and I knew I had to have him.

So now I was in it for not one, but two reborn dolls of my dead baby. Was I crazy!?

The artist was totally understanding… she ordered the eyes-open kit and started on that one right away. She sent me pictures of the progress as things went along, and I chose his eye and hair color.

There are all sort of extras you can purchase with these dolls - things like beating hearts, a magnet inserted so baby can have a pacifier, a spine, a "squishy belly" that feels more real, a belly or bottom "plate" for posing for pictures (reborns generally have soft suede bodies which makes for better cuddling.) They also have voice boxes, breathing mechanisms, heat packs, magnetic umbilical cords... it’s amazing.

The artist took about a month to finish the eyes-open sculpt, and it was just in time – the eyes-closed sculpt had just come in. She had intended to send them both to me at once, but I couldn’t wait, and had her ship him.

Here he is, home in my arms:

I have a slideshow of pictures I took, but they honestly can't do this doll justice. 

SLIDESHOW

You truly have to experience it. My husband and my oldest son (fifteen) were just wide-eyed at how real he looks and feels. (I could barely get him away from my eight year old daughter!) He is totally like holding a real baby. I felt weird leaving him alone in a room, he's so real-looking and feeling. I actually ordered a (much much cheaper) reborn on Ebay for my daughter so she could have her own to carry around. But already, so much healing has happened just in the time she's held our reborn William.

I know it's not for everybody... and I know lots of folks both in and out of the loss community might think it's creepy... but I'm glad I did it. I've already done a bit of mourning with him, and I imagine I will do a great deal more. It's almost shamanic in a way... very symbolic.

My friend who collects them warns that they're addictive! They actually use them therapeutically with folks who experience anxiety and depression... and artists have donated them to senior centers, too... just holding a reborn can lower the heart rate and calm your breathing and it releases natural oxytocin and seratonin in the brain.

I look at this reborn, and I know it’s not William, but just a memory doll. But my fears definitely resurfaced when I saw him. I wondered if I wouldn't be able to resist him, constantly, that I would project all of my feeling about William onto him, that I would pretend it really was William and that William wasn't dead.

But the truth is I don't find myself doing that. What I do find is that it brings William back into focus for me. Over time, I've found William fading around the edges, and I hate "losing" him like that.

I think the less we remember over time, the less we will be able to remember, at least that's been my experience so far. I can still recall William and my memories of him, but they're nowhere near as clear as they were, and I know they're going to fade even more.

My mother lost a child - it was before I was born, and my sister was three when she tried to cross between two parked cars and was hit and killed. So a few weeks ago, we were talking about William and she said, "I got lucky with you kids, really." I was just stunned by that. "But Mom, what about D.?" She was quiet. "Well... I mean... all of the rest of you survived." Again, I said, "But Mom, how can you say you're lucky, if you lost one? There are women who have eight kids and get to keep them all. That's lucky... losing one... that's not so lucky."

I think she just forgot her for a minute, or maybe she didn't want to remember.

But I don't want to do that. I don't want William to ever not be a part of our family and not be remembered. That's all I have of him is that memory, and if this little doll will help me keep him close in my heart, it's so worth it to me. I know there are lots of women who wouldn't "need" it... I've heard some say they don't even want or need pictures, that the memory of their baby is clear as day and won't ever fade.

But I think because of my mom and watching her dealing with the loss of her child the way she has, I'm defended against that sort of forgetting or denial. I want every bit and piece of him I can manage to hold onto. I don't want to do it the way my mom does, and if I have things that are physical and tangible, it will be harder to push away like she does.

Now, if I need to, I can pick this doll up and remember him exactly, down to the weight of him in my arms and the cradle of his soft, downy head in my hand. And it's a comfort to know he's here, just like having his urn here in my room. I have a little doll cradle he now "sleeps" in at night next to the bed, and it's really kind of calming to look over in the morning and see him there.

Crazy as it all sounds in this "new normal" world...

I know I would have passed judgment on me at one time. But once you’ve held your dead baby in your arms, your new normal doesn't differentiate anymore. The "line" you thought you wouldn’t cross just doesn't exist. I'm the crazy woman who was desperate to run from the funeral home with my baby, dead as he was, I could have cared less. I think we all know, once we've held the lifeless bodies of our babies in our arms, that the line between what's "okay" and what isn't just isn’t clear.

Having some tangible thing to remind me of William is what always sends me immediately back into the grip of grief. Sometimes I open the tiny little Ziploc bag of his hair and I can still smell him, and when I touch his hair... I know, he was real, he was here. It's the tangible things, the stuff I can see and smell and touch, that bring him back to me.

This reborn is that, for me. Not a way to bring William back, but a way to keep his memory, to bring it back to me when I need it - not the rebirth of my baby, which is impossible, but the rebirth of my memory...a sweet and longed-for touchstone.