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.