I have an online friend from many-moons-ago who wrote me after William’s death and, like many here, have followed this blog and my ups and downs since his passing. I recently received this email from her. I thought I would share it with you, both because it was so moving to me, and because so many of you have done similar things to remember my William, and what I say in response is meant for her, but for all of you as well:
"The real reason I am writing to you tonight is because I wanted you to know about the unique way I am honoring William in my heart. I may not ever have shared this before, but I am an actor and occasionally do plays when I can find the time. Right now I am doing a musical called "Quilters" which is about pioneer women and how they got through the good times and the bad, and it uses quilts as a metaphor for making do with what you had, for community in helping each other through, etc. It's an all-woman show and is a charming (and emotional) show. (I don't really recommend you see the show right now, as some parts might be too emotional or strong for you right now. Perhaps someday.)
There is a scene in the second act about the large families women had back then, and how childbirth/pregnancy was both a bane and a blessing at times. The actors say things like, "My eighth was Nan; she was always the quiet one" or "My second was Elizabeth. She was the light of her daddy's eyes," etc. Each actor takes multiple names for babies, and has multiple experiences with pregnancy, both good and bad. My character has 16 children, as some women did back then.
As in real life, there are miscarriages and stillbirths represented. I happen to have been assigned the stillbirth. My line is simply, "My third baby was stillborn" and with such a simple line, could easily be lost in the play. But we have taken the opportunity to give this line real meaning and time. I come in carrying a cloth folded to symbolically represent a baby. I say, "My third baby was stillborn," and then I hand the baby to the oldest actress in the show. Very simple, but I take time to kiss the baby tenderly and have great difficulty handing the baby over, giving the baby one last caress, and having difficulty moving on. It's only a minute or so in time, but it gives a lump in the throat of everyone in the cast, and no one more so than me.
The moment is so meaningful to me because I am thinking of William. In my mind, it's William I am speaking of, William whose little face I see, and William who I have such trouble letting go of. Every night I dedicate that little bit of the play to William's memory and to you, in honor of your grief and that of grieving mothers everywhere. Chances are there will be a mother in the audience sooner or later who has experienced a miscarriage, perhaps even one with a stillbirth, and I want to make sure that moment is treated with dignity and deep sorrow and the respect it deserves.
Anyhow, I wanted to let you know that each night we perform, a little bit of time and love is going out to William and to you, and each night we perform, William and you are remembered again, with love and sorrow and tenderness."
This was my response to her:
I just can't tell you how moved I am by your remembering William in your play. It's so comforting to feel his light shining on still, in some way, after being so quickly extinguished in this world. More people "know" my stillborn son than ever would have "known" him in life. If he were alive, he would be just another child, another smiling little face lost in the sea of our growing children. But because he's gone, because his going was such a heartbreak, we all remember, forever, his little baby-face. Strange, to say that, but it's true. And of course, I would take his growing, breathing, alive little body over 1,000 people remembering him any day...
But because I don't have him, because he is gone, I cherish what I have, and the truth is, my memory isn't big enough to hold him. He will never grow up or grow old, but he will and does go on, in your actions and thoughts, in so many other of my online friends' thoughts and actions and words. And in remembering him, we are remembering all of those lost babies - one sibling of sixteen, born still and lost to us all.
And thank you for thinking of me, warning me against "Quilters" because it might be too difficult. I'm at a stage in my grief, though, where I'm almost seeking out experiences like that. It's painful, but I'm not quite as raw as I once was, and watching/seeing loss like my own brings it back for me in an almost familiar/comforting way. It's validating, I guess. It happens, it happened to me, it really exists and it's as sad and heartbreaking to everyone else on the outside as it feels from the inside.
Thank you again. You are such a gift.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Easter Reflection
I can't do Easter without thinking of William.
We colored eggs and I remembered doing them last year, trying not to cry the whole time. I was only days into my losing him. I also remembered how I didn't buy him anything for Easter. I sat there and thought to myself... did I know somehow that I wasn't going to bring a baby home?
But the hardest part of Easter to me is the "He is Risen!" part. Because while I get the whole metaphor of eternal life... the point is, Jesus got to come back. According to the story, he rose again, walked around, talked, ate, slept, and did all-things-human after his death.
God is such a tease.
And when I think about communicating with "God" or whatever energy is out there, as my extended family is wont to do on this holiday... I just want to say, "Dude, don't talk to me. YOUR son got to come back."
How fair is that?
Not.
We colored eggs and I remembered doing them last year, trying not to cry the whole time. I was only days into my losing him. I also remembered how I didn't buy him anything for Easter. I sat there and thought to myself... did I know somehow that I wasn't going to bring a baby home?
But the hardest part of Easter to me is the "He is Risen!" part. Because while I get the whole metaphor of eternal life... the point is, Jesus got to come back. According to the story, he rose again, walked around, talked, ate, slept, and did all-things-human after his death.
God is such a tease.
And when I think about communicating with "God" or whatever energy is out there, as my extended family is wont to do on this holiday... I just want to say, "Dude, don't talk to me. YOUR son got to come back."
How fair is that?
Not.
Friday, April 2, 2010
April Fools
My children, especially Miss Z., all LOVE to play tricks and today they were in April Fool's Day heaven. "Mom, you dropped your pocket on the floor." I look... April Fool! "Hey, Mom, look at that, it's a dry puddle!" Ha. April Fool!
But I have been an April fool since William was born, exactly on the day M. didn't want him to be. It's been a year of the coyote, the raven, the trickster. You thought you were going to have a baby? Ha! You thought you would get pregnant again after losing that baby? Well, okay... we'll let that happen... twice... and then say - April Fool!
I have watched women who lost babies after mine conceive again, and even give birth. I am watching bellies grow from afar while mine remains empty. I knew today would be too hard, knowing, not knowing. I could have taken a pregnancy test today. But I decided not to. Not today. I didn't want another horrible April Fool's joke.
Today I had to answer the question, "Are you pregnant?" on the tattoo form. I didn't know, of course, but I checked, "No." Tonight, right about the time William was born at 10:13 pm, I went into the bathroom and that question was answered for me.
Once again it all ends in blood and tears, just like last year. Full circle.
April Fools.
But I have been an April fool since William was born, exactly on the day M. didn't want him to be. It's been a year of the coyote, the raven, the trickster. You thought you were going to have a baby? Ha! You thought you would get pregnant again after losing that baby? Well, okay... we'll let that happen... twice... and then say - April Fool!
I have watched women who lost babies after mine conceive again, and even give birth. I am watching bellies grow from afar while mine remains empty. I knew today would be too hard, knowing, not knowing. I could have taken a pregnancy test today. But I decided not to. Not today. I didn't want another horrible April Fool's joke.
Today I had to answer the question, "Are you pregnant?" on the tattoo form. I didn't know, of course, but I checked, "No." Tonight, right about the time William was born at 10:13 pm, I went into the bathroom and that question was answered for me.
Once again it all ends in blood and tears, just like last year. Full circle.
April Fools.
William's First Un-Birthday
Pictures of what we did on William's first "unbirthday," as M. calls it.
William's cake
Z&D playing at the park where we'll do the balloon release
Writing messages on our balloons
Ready to let them go
Off they go!
D. - reluctant to let it go...
M. getting his tattoo
Almost done!
All done!
My tattoo - William's hand, actual size
My heart in his hands...
Thursday, April 1, 2010
My Dear Sweet William
My dear sweet William...
There aren't words to tell you how much we miss you. I wish we were gearing up for a crazy, hectic one-year-old's party, something that would disrupt your whole routine and make you good and cranky and more than ready for your usual nap. I want that child, the boy turning one who would be taking his first toddling steps toward a lifetime of walking away.
I wanted to be the one to let go first.
I took your memory box down today from the shelf for the first time in six months. I said, the day we knew you were dead - the day you were born - that I didn't want to be that woman, the one who had a cardboard box instead of a baby. But I am that woman, and I have a box instead of a son. I have pictures and a stuffed bear and a blanket. There are drops of your blood on the little outfit you wore and I smelled it, hoping to find any lingering scent of you, but there was none. I left my tears there. Your DNA and mine.
I found the lock of your hair, so dark and fine and beautiful. It's the thing I cherish most, that reminds me, yes, you were here, you were alive inside me, floating in a waiting darkness. You heard my voice, were rocked to sleep by my movements, and felt my love, thick as blood and pouring through that lifeline, the one that failed us both. You were here, and then you were gone.
I can't tell you not to pull the dog's ears or listen to you talking to yourself in that sweet baby-babble in your crib across the hall in the morning. I can't complain that you're growing out of everything so FAST and how running after a little one at forty is a lot more tiring than it is at twenty. I can't give you anything, anymore. I had one shot - that oblivious nine months you spent in my belly - and it's past.
You will forever be my future-child, a projection on the screen of my mind. I don't turn that movie on daily anymore, like I once did. But days like today - your first year! - I imagine you forward, and I probably will do it until I, too, am gone. Your first smile, your first words, your first steps, your first birthday. Your first lost tooth, your first skinned knee, your first day of school, your first heartbreak.Your first date, your first car, your graduation, your wedding. But I know, I will never have those firsts. It's all a mind-movie, a bit of future-projection to help ease my presently aching heart of the heaviness of past regret.
I will never know or have you again. You are just paper and wisps and ash.
But I can still close my eyes and feel you. I held the weight of the world in my arms the day you were born, and you...just barely a five-pound bundle of bittersweet love. Your skin was as soft as flower petals, your mouth a little rosebud. I remember those things. Your spine was perfection - I felt it with my hand, every groove, just like the string of pearls we'd seen on the screen. Your fingers were long and delicate. They were my hands, not your father's. I remember the wet smell of your birth, the doctor asking, "Do you want to see your son?" and reaching my arms out because yes, yes, of course I wanted you, I'd never wanted anything more. I remember rocking you and sobbing and asking you, "What happened, baby? What happened?" As if you could open your eyes and tell me. I remember the blood that ran in a trickle out of your nose that I wiped delicately away with the edge of the blanket like I would have wiped your tears had you been born alive.
And I remember most how much I loved you, how much that feeling consumed me.
It still does.
Today would have been your first birthday, and for me, there's not a lot of "happy" in it. But there is a lot of love. I may not be able to kiss your forehead and wish you happy birthday today, but my love for you knows no bounds. There are no edges to it; there is no end. I know you felt it, when you were inside of me, how loved and wanted you were - and just like I know my love crossed that placenta-barrier and fed you, like the blood in my veins...I know it crosses over to wherever you are now.
I love you, William, today on your first birthday and every day.
There aren't words to tell you how much we miss you. I wish we were gearing up for a crazy, hectic one-year-old's party, something that would disrupt your whole routine and make you good and cranky and more than ready for your usual nap. I want that child, the boy turning one who would be taking his first toddling steps toward a lifetime of walking away.
I wanted to be the one to let go first.
I took your memory box down today from the shelf for the first time in six months. I said, the day we knew you were dead - the day you were born - that I didn't want to be that woman, the one who had a cardboard box instead of a baby. But I am that woman, and I have a box instead of a son. I have pictures and a stuffed bear and a blanket. There are drops of your blood on the little outfit you wore and I smelled it, hoping to find any lingering scent of you, but there was none. I left my tears there. Your DNA and mine.
I found the lock of your hair, so dark and fine and beautiful. It's the thing I cherish most, that reminds me, yes, you were here, you were alive inside me, floating in a waiting darkness. You heard my voice, were rocked to sleep by my movements, and felt my love, thick as blood and pouring through that lifeline, the one that failed us both. You were here, and then you were gone.
I can't tell you not to pull the dog's ears or listen to you talking to yourself in that sweet baby-babble in your crib across the hall in the morning. I can't complain that you're growing out of everything so FAST and how running after a little one at forty is a lot more tiring than it is at twenty. I can't give you anything, anymore. I had one shot - that oblivious nine months you spent in my belly - and it's past.
You will forever be my future-child, a projection on the screen of my mind. I don't turn that movie on daily anymore, like I once did. But days like today - your first year! - I imagine you forward, and I probably will do it until I, too, am gone. Your first smile, your first words, your first steps, your first birthday. Your first lost tooth, your first skinned knee, your first day of school, your first heartbreak.Your first date, your first car, your graduation, your wedding. But I know, I will never have those firsts. It's all a mind-movie, a bit of future-projection to help ease my presently aching heart of the heaviness of past regret.
I will never know or have you again. You are just paper and wisps and ash.
But I can still close my eyes and feel you. I held the weight of the world in my arms the day you were born, and you...just barely a five-pound bundle of bittersweet love. Your skin was as soft as flower petals, your mouth a little rosebud. I remember those things. Your spine was perfection - I felt it with my hand, every groove, just like the string of pearls we'd seen on the screen. Your fingers were long and delicate. They were my hands, not your father's. I remember the wet smell of your birth, the doctor asking, "Do you want to see your son?" and reaching my arms out because yes, yes, of course I wanted you, I'd never wanted anything more. I remember rocking you and sobbing and asking you, "What happened, baby? What happened?" As if you could open your eyes and tell me. I remember the blood that ran in a trickle out of your nose that I wiped delicately away with the edge of the blanket like I would have wiped your tears had you been born alive.
And I remember most how much I loved you, how much that feeling consumed me.
It still does.
Today would have been your first birthday, and for me, there's not a lot of "happy" in it. But there is a lot of love. I may not be able to kiss your forehead and wish you happy birthday today, but my love for you knows no bounds. There are no edges to it; there is no end. I know you felt it, when you were inside of me, how loved and wanted you were - and just like I know my love crossed that placenta-barrier and fed you, like the blood in my veins...I know it crosses over to wherever you are now.
I love you, William, today on your first birthday and every day.
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