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. 

Hovering

I've never been a helicopter parent - you know, the kind that hover around their kids constantly, making sure nothing bad ever happens? I've been pretty okay with letting the kids learn by making their own mistakes, falling down, getting scrapes.

And I don't hover even now... but I do push my inner panic button a lot faster than I ever used to.

A few days ago we went to a picnic, and the kids were off playing with all the others on the equipment, in the sandbox. At eight and almost-seven, they're pretty self-sufficient in those situations. We give them clear boundaries, and they've learned over the years to respect them. So when I did my every-five-minute cursory look-over of the playground and couldn't find my son, I didn't panic. I just kept looking, my eyes sweeping over the playscape, the sandbox, looking for his striped shirt. 

"Honey, have you seen D.?" I asked my husband. Was my voice as scared as I felt? My heart was beating fast now, visions of him being snatched dancing in my head. Before William died, thoughts like that might occur to me - but the physical reaction, the sheer panic rising in my throat within moments of discovering him missing, that was new. Because now I knew - we weren't in some plastic bubble. Bad things happened, and they could, indeed, happen to us. They could, in fact, happen to us again... and again.

My husband stood up, doing what I'd done, scanning the park, his brow furrowed, and I knew I'd pushed his panic button, too. We both have hair-triggers lately. 

"No," he replied after a moment, shaking his head. "Where did you see him last?" 

Last... the last time I saw him. That phrase made me turn cold. It couldn't possibly be, and yet the fear catches you, freezes you, makes it hard to breathe, like sucking in broken glass. Please, god, let there never be a "last time" I see my child, ever again, unless I'm the one whose number is up, okay? 

A friend of ours started looking too, sensing my panic, I think, and my husband took three steps toward the playground before he stopped, pointing, "There he is!" as my son stepped out from behind the huge tree trunk that had hidden him from our view. Oh my god, the relief. I sagged against the picnic table, my heart still in my throat. 

"Like I need another thing, right?" I joked to my friend. 

She smiled sympathetically and nodded. "Right."

But I knew better... I didn't get a free pass. Just because one child was dead didn't mean I couldn't lose another one. 

Then, last night, the girl-child was playing with her brother's Legos and decided to try to take one of the pieces off with her teeth. Suddenly she stood up, her face a mask of fear: "I can't breathe!" she choked and then nothing... 

My husband and I both lunged for her at once and she coughed and gasped and spit a yellow Lego brick into her hand, "I got it!" 

M. yelled, "If you ever put anything like that in your mouth again, I'll kill you myself!" 

He was scared, and I think trying to scare her a little. But he didn't need to scare her - she was already pretty scared. He didn't really need to scare any of us. We don't need events like that, anymore, to tip the scales. We're already scared, all the time. We're the walking horrified. The risk is real, too real, the fear beating like a pulse at our throats. We check on each other more often, get panicked when we're home late or things happen that are out of the ordinary and out of our control.

William taught us that life is both precious and precarious. And still, I wish we'd never had to learn that lesson. I wish William were still alive and we were still blissfully ignorant, solid in our belief in that invisible force field surrounding us that never really existed. I don't know if William is watching - it's a nice thought, but I don't quite really believe it, just as I no longer have faith that we're all gonna be okay. It would be sweet to think he's an angel protecting us now... but that thought goes logically out the window for me when I wonder... where was his angel, then? What lazy-ass slacker angel was on watch the day William died, huh? I'd like to get my hands on that fella...

So no... I'm not sure we have an angel watching over us in the form of my infant son. But I am sure that we don't take each other for granted in the same way we used to. Life's moments are bittersweet now but we taste them fully, appreciate them a great deal more. And our eyes and ears are sharp, tuned in to danger, as much as they can be. Even knowing we're not in control. Even knowing we can't always prevent tragedy.

I don't know if William's spirit is here and hovering over us. Sometimes I wish it were true. Days when my children defy the laws of physics or nearly send me into heart failure, I wish I could rely on some guardian angel protecting us. But I can't know that. 

There may or may not be someone or something looking out for us, I don't know. It's the not knowing that keeps me watchful and wary. It's the not knowing that pushes my panic buttons. Because if there are such forces, well... there was clearly no one on watch when William died. Someone fell asleep at the switch and my son paid the price. It's hard to rely on such arbitrary protection. I'd rather keep my eyes and ears open and do what I can... even if it's not enough.

And hold my children close. I've been doing a lot of that lately. We all hold each other tighter these days. A lot tighter.

Knowing

I've been pregnant five times. And all five times, I knew. Somehow, I knew the moment I conceived that there was a life forming. I have no idea how. But all biology obviously aside - the sperm hadn't had anywhere near enough time to travel to meet the egg yet, and there was still fertilization and implantation to contend with - still, I just knew.

There have been times that I've been hopeful that I was pregnant and times when I was paralyzed by the thought and dreaded the possibility, but those feelings are different from this "knowing." Those thoughts and feelings were rooted in space and time, contingent upon one thing following the other in linear progression. My conception "knowing" feels outside of that. (And yeah, it sounds weird and woo-woo to me, too... but after five times, it's hard to deny!)

It reminds me of my knowing William was going to die. Of course, I didn't believe it. Of course I mistrusted myself, that feeling. I told myself that internal gauge was just off. Nothing bad was going to happen. There was nothing to be anxious about. That's what I tell myself when I get that "knowing" feeling when I conceive. It's silly, I can't possibly know I'm going to get pregnant. I have to wait to weeks for my period, I have to take a test. But in reality, those things just end up proving what I already know. Like the Doppler and ultrasound were just final proof of what my heart already understood.

I knew I wasn't pregnant this cycle. Because I didn't have that "knowing." I remembered and realized the lack of that feeling a day or two ago, and I knew this wasn't going to tbe the month. My cycle rebooted this morning, and while the blood in my hand was disappointing... it wasn't, really. Because I already knew. There had been no spark, no divine touch this month. I had known already and forgotten. Hoped against hope, like I always do, that my feeling, my intuition, was wrong.

Just like I hoped that William would make it. I hoped he was fine, that my worry and anxiety and completely-irrational-outside-the-context-of-the-coming-circumstance-fear, were just silly mama thoughts. I hoped my feeling was wrong. I hoped. But I knew different. Somewhere, somehow, I knew.

And speaking these feelings out loud, well... it's hard to tell yourself or someone else what's going to happen in the future and get any measure of belief. And it's anticlimactic and just elicits disbelief again to look back and say, "I knew it." It's quite a catch-22.

Sometimes I really hate already knowing. 

Babies, babies, everywhere...

I didn't mind babies at first. Pregnant women either. I saw my neices' babies during the first holiday (Easter) just weeks after we lost William, and I was fine. It didn't bother me. I didn't begrudge them their babies. I didn't want their babies - I wanted my baby. If I couldn't have William, nothing else mattered. I could hold someone else's baby forever and it wouldn't make a difference. That baby wasn't William, and William is who I wanted. 

But now... now babies bother me. They bother me a lot. I took D. to wrestling today and there were two babies there, one a little younger than William would be right now, one just a little older. I was surprised by the wave of sadness that overcame me as I stood there looking down at someone else's baby sucking on his little hand in his carseat. That should have been me - although my baby probably would have been in a sling, and I would have been trying to figure out how to discreetly breastfeed in the midst of a room full of wrestling boys instead of bottle feeding... but still. 

I should have a baby, and I don't. I really don't. There's no going back, no do-overs. I will never ever get that time back. And I stood there, looking at that baby's chubby little feet, wondering what William would look like now - another thing I'll never know - and I realized how angry I was. He almost made it - someone wrote that in a letter to my husband the other day, and the phrase made my heart just ache. He almost made it! It's like running a marathon, getting two inches to the finish line and then falling down dead of a heart attack.

Oh the irony. The horrible, bitter irony. Every time I think about it, I feel like I'm chewing on tinfoil. It leaves a terrible taste in my mouth. 

So I stood there at the wrestling practice looking at other people's babies, filled with jealousy and longing, and I realized I didn't want William anymore - I wanted a baby. Somehow the awareness had finally settled into my consciousness that I could never, would never, hold William again.  He was really gone from me, forever. I don't know that I'd ever wholly accepted that fact, or realized I had, until that moment. And of course, if someone came in and slapped me on the back, laughing and saying, "Just kidding! Here's your baby! Here's William, it was just a joke!" I'd take him back in a heartbeat. It's a fantasy I've unconsciously entertained, I'm sure. 

But my son is dead. There's no monkey's paw to make wishes on. He is ash and bone and memory.

And still, my womb aches. I want another baby. I can't have William, I can't ever replace William, but the longing for another baby is agonizing. It's so great I can barely stand it. I keep thinking of those fibromyalgia commercials - have you seen them? "If I looked how I felt, then would you believe me?" If my face and body reflected my pain and longing, I'd be writhing on the floor, screaming in agony.

So while before, facing a baby didn't bother me because I wanted William, who couldn't be brought back to life, no matter what I or anyone wanted or did... now, looking at someone else's baby reminds me not of the unrecoverable past, but of the potential future... of the possibility of some future child, someone not yet here, someone waiting to be born. It reminds me of my empty womb, my empty arms. It reminds me that I've lost one and don't yet have another.

Maybe this feeling will ebb a little, when I get two lines on a pregnancy test. Even knowing what I know, that there are no guarantees... I want to feel alive. I want life growing in my womb again. I want to share my body and my life with someone new, some unknown but so very wanted and already loved presence, some impossibly beautiful and mysterious conglomeration of our genetic soup cooking in my belly.

I don't know. Maybe I'm being selfish. I don't think this is the month, although I'm 9-10 days past ovulation and due to start cycling again in two to four days, if I don't get a positive test, anyway. Frankly, I'm feeling discouraged and I don't think a + test is likely. Aside from all the pre-period symptoms I'm having, I think the universe just doesn't think it's time.

The universe has pinned me and now just seems to think turning the screws - making me wait 11 weeks for my cycles to return, forcing me to sit in a room with other people's newborns, and this time, most likely, a negative pregnancy test right out of the gate - yeah, that will teach me, that will really send the message home.

I'm not in control. It's not up to me.

Thanks for the reminders, universe.

Thanks a lot.

Washington Post Brings Awareness to Stillbirth

Washington Post staff writer Alan Goldenbach lost his baby to stillbirth, and hosted a Q&A session about stillbirth today. One of my questions was featured! 

(And just an aside, I love that William's name was mentioned... okay so I was the one mentioning it, but still... ;)

Results

Well... everything came back within the normal range. So, no real answers. The only not-really-elevated but just-in-case was a homocysteine of 11. (Normal is anything under 13) So extra folic acid and B6 and B12 for me - "just in case."

The uber-OB didn't think it had been a factor with William... but a study I found said:

The researchers found that women with the highest levels of homocysteine (greater than 10.7 micromol/L) had an adjusted risk for preeclampsia (pregnancy-related hypertension) which was 38 per cent higher than the risk among the women with the lowest levels of homocysteine (3.6-7.5 micromol/L). The risk of giving birth to a very low birth weight baby (weight less than 1500 grams) was 101 per cent higher among high homocysteine women and the risk of stillbirth 103 per cent higher.

So who knows?