Sacrifice

The bills are rolling in.

First there was the bill from the ultrasound. The dead baby ultrasound. Then there was the pathology bill. The one for the examination of the placenta of the dead baby. Yesterday it was the bill from the obstetrician. For the delivery of the dead baby. Everyone wants payment for services rendered. And I truly can't imagine anything I'd resent paying for more than any of the above.

Oh, well, there was my son's cremation. Fifty dollars to cremate a five pound baby. I think it was somewhere in the neighborhood of $800 to cremate my father. M. stared at the $50 bill and then asked, sarcastically, "What? Do they charge by the pound?"

The injustices don't seem to end.

I recently discovered that, although we were required to fill out all the paperwork for William's death certificate, he will not be issued a birth certificate. According to the government, he was never born. He never lived. All those kicks and rolls and hiccups inside of me... what? Never happened? I imagined them? I imagined him?

Apparently, it's a pro-choice/pro-life issue. If a state issued a birth certificate for a 39-week-old "fetus" - they might have to issue a "birth" certificate for a 10-week-old one. You can imagine the disaster of an argument that might make, I'm sure.

So William has to pay for someone else's political argument. He is their sacrifice. Sweet, perfect baby, most certainly "alive" only twelve hours before his birth, perhaps twenty-four. 

So instead of being issued a birth certificate, I had to pay for two - a stillbirth certificate (the state's consolation - I'm lucky to live in a place that offers one as most don't) and a death certificate.

The list of horrors we've had to pay for over the last six weeks, the cost of my son's death,  just keep mounting.

And I'd give every damned penny I have or will ever have again, just to have him back.

Yellow Day

A good day.

Beautiful, bright. 

A full breath day. 

Most days since William died it feels like I can't take a full breath. Everything is shallow, fragile. Mostly, it feels like I have to move carefully or things will just fall apart.

Today was a long drive, loud radio, singing at the top of our lungs day. M. and I held hands and laughed and talked about silly things. Jack Johnson on the Ipod. Upside Down: 

I want to turn the whole thing upside down
I'll find the things they say just can't be found
I'll share this love I find with everyone
We'll sing and dance to Mother Nature's songs
I don't want this feeling to go away 

We played "yellow" - a car game where you keep track of all the yellow cars you see on the trip - every yellow car is one point. School busses and construction vehicles are exempt. Yellow motorcycles are two points. Yellow slugbugs (VW beetles) are three points. Yellow Mustangs and Chargers aren't extra points but they make M's eyes light up anyway.

A yellow day. 

A mellow, yellow day.

And when Cats in the Cradle came on the radio, I was quick to change the station this time. (It did... I'm not making that up. It really did come on the radio... ;) 

It was the first time I'd made the conscious choice since William died not to be sad. 

I said "no" to sad today. 

It showed up in that moment, but I gave it quick once-over and sent it back out the door. 

Not today.

Today I want to breathe and be something other than blue.

Yellow. 

A million points for yellow today. 

A million points plus infinity.

The Land of Milk and Tears

I heard a baby's heartbeat for the first time since William died.

I thought my own heart would stop.

There we were, sitting and waiting for the OB to come in, and in the next room, there it was, a sudden racehorse gallop... It didn't last long. Twenty seconds, maybe thirty. I froze. I felt like someone had plunged me into ice water. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move. The nurse came in a moment later and I blinked it away.

Last night I dreamed of that sound, like a drumbeat calling me. I was searching in the darkness, and every breath I took felt as if I'd swallowed glass. Then the sound stopped. It just stopped, and I stood there, paralyzed, unable anymore to follow the sound of his beating heart.

There was just the silence, a stillness beyond measure, and I stood alone, unable to go on. Frozen. Directionless. Lost.

I was crying when I woke up - already crying, my pillow wet.

It was that instant, when we looked for his heartbeat and found only silence, that will forever mark the moment in time I fell, tumbled, was pushed into this land of the lost. Mothers wander here, calling for their babies. The land of milk and tears. We search in vain for the sound of our child's beating heart as a guide. But they are gone from us, silent, behind the veil, no longer in the place where hearts beat and lungs draw breath. They were born into silence, into this world but not of it, their time here spent only as an empty vessel, a tiny boat sailing onward toward infinity.

Like my dream, I cannot follow, but I cannot move forward yet without my heart, the heart that was William, the heart that was supposed to go around my whole life beating outside of my body in his.

I am stuck, frozen in this liminal space, unable to follow the sound of his silent heart and unwilling to leave this place I knew him last.

For me, now, this place is all there is.

This is where I live now.

The land of the lost.

The land of milk and tears.

Postpartum Appointment

Six week postpartum checkup today with the doctor who delivered William.

She wasn't "our" doctor - not the doctor I went to up until week twenty to get tests and ultrasounds. After that, we switched fully to our home birth midwife for prenatal care. This doctor happened to be the one on-call when we walked in the door on April 1 saying, "We can't find a heartbeat."

I'm really glad she was.

Although the appointment was rather strange up until she came into the room. The nurse who weighed me and took my blood pressure was very nervous. She couldn't look me in the eye for two seconds, she was incredibly fidgety, and after she went to get the blood pressure cuff, she came back and started apologizing profusely for putting me in a room that had a picture of a pregnant woman on the wall. Do you have a room without one, I wondered? It was an OB's office, after all!

M. and I tried hard to put her at ease, but I've never seen anyone react quite that way to our situation before. I think she was glad to get out of there. 

The doctor, on the other hand, was very kind and compassionate and matter of fact. I gave her my "list" of questions and the blood tests I wanted run. She suggested, because of insurance (stupid insurance) that I get a referral to perinatalogist, who could justify and run all of the tests I wanted. So, that's the plan. Another few weeks before I get any blood tests and maybe some answers, I guess. 

I know nothing can bring him back but I don't like living without knowing. And the worst part is... even if we run all the tests, we still may never know. But at least I can say I did everything I could to find out. I think I owe that to William. I suppose it's the least I can do now.

More of Mother's Day...

This is what William's ashes came in. We kept them close to us, in our room - because that's where he would be right now, if he were alive, sleeping with us every night. His ashes are barely enough to fill the corner of a plastic bag. It's a huge container for the amount it holds.Then again... I don't know if any box could possibly contain what that one really holds - which is all that's left of our dreams, our hopes, our future for our son.

Over the past month, we've created a sort makeshift memorial on top of the box his ashes came in. M. put the knife he would have cut William's cord with on it. I added my birthing statue, and the kids chose a shell. I love the shell because the top of it reminds me of the top of William's head, the sweet whorls of his hair...

And several people gave us "angels" as gifts.

M. ordered a beautiful urn for his ashes, and a gorgeous cedar box to place his other keepsakes in.

The velvet heart box opens to display the urn.

Although we will probably keep it in the box, along with his other things, like the knife, and the bracelets we made and wore, intending to cut them off when he was born and his cord was cut. They're here, still whole.

To give you an idea of how small this urn is, how little of my sweet William there is left in the world - those are my daughter's hands holding him. She's seven.

 

We bought matching urns for each set of grandparents to put a bit of William's ashes in.

M. is going to order a tag and chain to hang around them with William's name and birthdate.

Today, we went to give these to each set of grandparents. 

William's ashes joined my father's in my mother's livingroom. 

I thought there couldn't possibly be a more horrible feeling in the world than seeing my live child holding the body of my dead one. But I was wrong. Seeing her holding his ashes was worse.

 

But I can think of worse things I could have been doing on Mother's Day.  It's true. Thanks to the death of my son, I can imagine a lot of worse things in the world. 

M. said to me this morning, "Well, you've experienced more of motherhood than any mother should have." Maybe so. But while the "happy" in my Mother's Day was relative today... I think it always was. I just didn't know or understand it in the same way I do now. Now that I've experienced more of motherhood than I ever should have...

 

We passed an accident driving to the grandparents' today, and M. and the children were annoyed by the delay, but all I kept thinking was, "It could be worse. That could be us." And I hid my tears as we passed the wreckage, knowing on a visceral level now in a way I never had before, just how much worse it could get on Mother's Day, or any other day.

 

The day William died, the heart of the world cracked open, and I saw its beating red pulse. It opened me up to all the pain in the world, the ache of potential loss of everything in every moment. It also opened me up to all the love there, too, just as vast and infinite and beyond comprehension. 

 

Thank you, William.

I love you.

Baby Story

I must be a glutton for punishment.

I've started watching "A Baby Story" on TLC again. I'm tired of the "judge" shows, and I can't stand the soap operas. (Besides, it seems like everyone on those is pregnant or just had a baby, too!) But I'm not quite ready to turn off the TV and do something else, either. The TV brings a little bit of normalcy during the day, and the noise, if nothing else, is a good distraction.

When I was pregnant, I watched birthing shows like Deliver Me and A Baby Story all the time.  I watched babies being born every day - babies were delivered in hospital beds, in birthing tubs, on birth stools, in bathrooms, even in cars. Some women didn't even know they were pregnant before, oops, look at that, I just had a baby! (I glanced down at my gi-normous belly at the time and wondered just how that was possible? Denial isn't just a river in Egypt?)

I watched so many births, it actually got a little boring, even as varied as the stories were. Some babies came easy, some came hard. Some came fast, some came slow. Some required more help than others - from inductions to forceps to c-sections. Some babies had trouble breathing at first or were jaundiced or had problems breastfeeding. But there was one important thing all those babies had in common - they lived. It was something we all took for granted, me included. I just assumed, whatever complications might come up during my birth, that I would have a living, breathing baby at the end.

Of course, we know how my baby story ended. 

So I've started watching A Baby Story again, but I watch it now for entirely different reasons than I did before. I watch it now because I know the ending to these stories is going to be happy. They wouldn't dare show an outcome like ours, where a baby was born dead, lifeless, gone. We never got to the happy ending, but at least I know there will be one on TV.

Now I watch, and I wait for it, on the edge of my seat as if I don't already know what's going to happen. It's not boring to me at all - not anymore. Not in the least. Because I've discovered that happy endings don't feel quite so good if you don't know how badly it can end, and I know now just what it's like to not get that happy ending. So when it comes, that moment when the baby flings its arms and legs wide, startled to be in the world, when the eyes open and a baby draws breath and cries - I cry now, too...every single time.

Maid for Mourning

The good thing about my sister coming to visit: I cleaned my house. 

It was a three-hour power-clean, but it felt good not to walk on the floor in bare feet and stick to it.

Yeah, I know... ewwwww! But it had been a month. I hadn't done anything except laundry and dishes for a month. I didn't vacuum, sweep, mop. I didn't clean the tub. Or even the toilet. Yuk.

Problem is, it's getting dirty again. *sigh*

I wish I had a maid.

Okay, if we're wishing for things, I wish I had my dead son back to life, or I could turn the clock back and make him not die, or any various and sundry magical-thinking wishes.

But wishing for a maid seems more...reasonable. Just someone to take over all the mundane everyday stuff that needs to be done, so I can do the real work. The mourning.

And it is work. I had no idea. When you're up every night, replaying everything in your head, trying to swallow around the huge lump in your throat and crying, even screaming silently into your pillow so you don't wake your poor husband, who has to work in the morning... when everything you see, touch, taste, smell or feel reminds you of what you're missing... when nothing, not even sleep - where you dream him alive and dead all over again and again - brings relief... you become so tired. I thought labor was hard? Ha. Mourning is utterly exhausting. At least there's an end to labor!

I should be in some woman's hut somewhere, surrounded by other women, rocking and chanting. I should be rending my clothes, wailing at a wall. I should be focusing on nothing but this pain...but there's no time. There's just no time. I need to make dinner and clean the peanut butter off the counter and reply to emails and make sure the kids are doing their homework.

What I need, really, isn't a maid... it's another mommy. A doppelganger maybe. Someone who can take my place and go through the motions - because really, that's all I'm doing here, on the outside, anyway. I want to slip out of my skin, shed the weight of the world and all of its ties, and just give myself time to breathe, time to heal, time to unwrap his memory, to unfold it and explore every moment before I put it away again.

Somehow I have this belief that if I could do that... then I'd be done. If I could have that time, then this pain wouldn't be so constant. So what I really want isn't a maid, or a dopplerganger... what I really want is to be done with this already. I want to be past this part. I want to skip to the end. A happy-ever-after one, thankyouvermuch.

But I can't. I can't turn the clock back, and I can't turn the clock forward. I'm stuck in the middle, in this horrible place of darkness, pain, not knowing. I hate it here. I absolutely hate it.

And it's dirty, on top of everything else.

I guess I do still wish I had a maid.

But, as my mother always said, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

So I guess I have to live with it. I'm the mommy. This is my life, and it's gonna keep on going. There's no "other" mommy, no way to wrinkle my nose and make the house clean or the baby un-dead.

In the meantime, I'm dying inside and the dog has ketchup on her ears and the oven smells like burnt toast every time you turn it on and there's something unidentifiable growing in a container at the back of the refrigerator and I'm still dying inside...

Aside From The Obvious

Before William died, "How are you doing?" or "Are you okay?" were pretty simple, face-value sorts of questions. If I looked sad or mad or like something was wrong, M. would ask, and I would answer. 

Now, he asks, "Are you okay... aside from the obvious?"

Because it is. It's very obvious to everyone, not just people who know what happened. Even now, a month later, when I can go out into the world without overwhelming fear and panic gripping me, people know something is wrong.

I was at our little local post office, and the woman there did a double take when she came to the counter. Now, I'm not the chatty type. I'm pretty introverted, I don't strike up conversations and tell people everything - or, really, anything - but I did see this woman a lot before William died, because we have a P.O. box for business reasons that I went in to check about once a week.

This was the first time I'd been back.

"Are you okay?" she asked. I was surprised by the question - and I think she was surprised and even embarrassed that she asked it.

In my head, I heard M's follow-up to that, "Aside from the obvious?" 

But there was nothing wrong, really...just the "obvious." And I didn't want to go into the story, I didn't want to cry in the middle of the post office, so I gave my standard answer:

"I'm fine."

Yep. Fine. 

Aside from the obvious, of course.

Passage

I talked the other day about "signs." Those things that happened in the past which might have pointed to my loss of a child at some time in my life. And then I remembered my Masters thesis.

Before I became a doula and birth photographer and childbirth educator, I got my degree in counseling psychology, and my thesis title was The Archetypal Midwife. I've always been interested in childbirth, since my first baby was born in 1990 - probably even before. It was a natural subject for me to explore, and the journey to the completion of my thesis was long but fruitful. 

In the midst of exploring my thesis topic, a classmate became interested in my theme, and he passed me a note, asking me a question: How does the archetype of the midwife respond to the loss of a child, to a miscarriage or stillbirth? 

I wrote out a very thoughtful response to his question that night and gave it to him the next day - part of which ended up in my thesis. And later, when he tearfully told me his wife had had a stillbirth a few years earlier (I hadn't known, before I wrote my response) we hugged, and I told him how sorry I was. But, of course, I couldn't know. I couldn't have really known.

But I remembered him, and how much what I'd said somehow touched him, and so I went back and read that part of my thesis recently, and I was both humbled and awed by my own words. It was as if they had come through me, instead of from me: 

It is difficult for human beings to accept, but from a larger perspective the value of a human is not based on chronological age or time spent.  What the heroic medical profession refuses to accept, and what the midwife honors in her practice, is that the promise of birth is only dying, not life.  In birth, shape and form are given to something that will die, and midwives understand that mothers grieve at birth the dying of their child whether the child takes only one breath or if the child lives long after the mother.

Birth is a way into the world, but in its very nature leads to the way out of the world. Life, death and fate are interrelated, and childbirth is a passage, a transition of maiden into mother, a transition of birth into life, or into death, if fate so decrees.  The archetypal midwife honors this transition and understands that human beings are on a continuum, a small part of a whole.  Human beings are first and foremost in relation to the mysteries of birth and death and life.  Unlike the medical world and the heroic masculine, the archetype of the midwife does not see these as puzzles to be solved but mysteries and enigmas never to be answered, only honored, respected and participated in.

Human concerns are fragile, humble, profound and precious, but when seen in a greater context, with an archetypal backdrop, human suffering is seen on a continuum, with meaning and context.  Western culture has reduced suffering to only the individual, human, and personal level, and as such, it becomes unbearable in its singularity.  The pain of a laboring woman is too much for her and for those around her to bear if it is not seen in the context of something greater.  The archetypal midwife understands a woman’s suffering as a connection to a larger mystery, and does not reduce birth to “stages.”  Birth is greater than the sum of its parts, and women come into connection with something deeper and grander than themselves during childbirth.

Women have been both honored and feared for having such power, but women themselves have understood throughout history that their honoring of something greater than they are is what keeps them grounded through the process.  There is an aspect of surrender that the archetypal midwife demands.  Women must ultimately give into the elemental forces surging through their bodies, and it has traditionally been women who have been able to help other women understand this.

The archetypal midwife guards women during the birth process, but also the boundary between life and death.  She is not a warden, and is not guarding against, or acting as a protector.  She is rather truly a gatekeeper, witnessing the passage through a gate, watching the movement of women from maidens into mothers, seeing the passage of life as it moves between worlds.  The archetypal midwife exists in this liminal space, and while humans look to her for protection, they certainly can only offer only as much reassurance as fate allows.  She has a respect for the uncertain transition from birth into life, but also honors the process as natural, fundamental, and indelible in human existence.  The archetypal midwife serves as a witness to birth as a soulful process and process of soul. 

I have been witness to countless births through that gate - and all of those souls moved from birth into life, until my own birth with William. He passed straight from birth to death, and for the first time, I was a witness to that part of the process. In my grief, it was hard to honor his passing through, but my own words come back to me: the value of a human is not based on chronological age or time spent. 

How did I know? How did I know to say that, to tell that father - your baby mattered. Your baby had value, no matter how long he spent, no matter whether or not he took his first breath. He was honored, someone was there to witness his passing through the veil - the archetype of the midwife was present. She held the door for that soul as it passed from birth to death. She held it for my William, too.

I didn't know then, what I know now. But somehow... I did know. Somehow, the archetypal midwife, the great feminine, spoke to me, through me, from the place of the soul. Those words are mine, but they didn't come from me. They came to me, and they were meant for me, although I didn't know it at the time... and I'm reading them years later in grateful, humbled tears.

Not Fair

My father passed away February 13, 2009, six weeks before William was born dead. My dad's one regret was that he wouldn't see his last grandson born. Today is my dad's birthday. 

M. said he was almost glad my dad wasn't here for the birth, considering what happened. 

My sister said, "Dad was so excited about that little baby, and he got to see him first, up in heaven." My other sister agreed, "Well, at least that's a blessing."

I guess I'm a little more selfish than they are. I wanted my dad to see William. And after my father's stroke, and that particular dream disappeared with my father's last breath, I wanted William to live on, a little legacy named after him. That dream, too, died before little William even took his first breath.

No, I can't count my blessings. My baby is gone. And I can't even momentarily turn back into a little girl and cry in my father's arms, "It's not fair!" 

Not fair. 

No. Not even close. 

William Aries

William's Astrological Chart

Rising sign: (persona) Scorpio
You are quiet, reserved, secretive, with deep emotions and feelings. You are very resourceful and formidable when you're upset. You enjoy living life at the cutting edge - for you life must be experienced intensely and totally. You're quite courageous and are willing to take calculated risks. Sensitive and curious, you are concerned with the deeper mysteries of human psychology, and you pursue subjects you're interested in with total fanaticism.

Sun: (character/identity) Aries
You are energetic, high-spirited and fiercely independent. You are the one who will rush in where angels fear to tread. You are an enthusiastic leader and a reluctant follower.

Moon: (emotional nature) Cancer
You are very strong and emotionally secure. You intuitively know what to do to make others feel comfortable, loved, accepted and needed.

Mercury: (intellect) Aries
Very quick witted, you're known for being an independent thinker. You love to debate and argue, and are excellent at repartee and battles of wits.

Venus: (love) Aries
You are affectionate, but hate to be tied down.

Mars: (energy/drive) Pisces
Very sensitive and vulnerable. You are at your best when you act without your ego being important. You can be very unselfish and considerate of the needs of others.

Jupiter: (society/philosophy) Aquarius
Your personal growth occurs when you have the freedom to do things in new and interesting ways. You are an individualist, but you are also attracted to mass movements that emphasize social betterment and you will devote much time and energy to their efforts.

Saturn: (work) Virgo
Your life must be orderly and practical and full of known and familiar routines in order for you to feel comfortable.

Uranus: (change/individuation) Pisces
You are extremely idealistic and want to change society by completely reorienting its highest religious goals and aspirations.

Neptune: (ideals) Aquarius
You will idealize and even venerate the ability to remain detached as well as the ability to objectively analyze any given situation. There will be a concerted effort on your part to cure the ills of society as a whole.

Pluto: (transformation) Capricorn
For your entire generation, this is a period of intense change in the fabric of society. Many accepted institutions may pass away or be born anew. The good of the community as a whole will be stressed and individual rights may come under attack.

Psst: You can do a free chart here.

William's Numerology

You entered: william george xxxxxx
There are 19 letters in your name.
Those 19 letters total to 87
There are 8 vowels and 11 consonants in your name.

What your first name means:

German Male Resolute protector
French Male Determined protector
English Male Resolute protector; will

Your number is: 6

The characteristics of #6 are:

Responsibility, protection, nurturing, community, balance, sympathy

The expression or destiny for #6:

The number 6 Expression provides you a truly outstanding sense of responsibility, love, and balance. The 6 is helpful and ever conscientious, making you quite capable of rectifying and balancing any sort of inharmonious situation. You are a person very much inclined to give help and comfort to those in need. You have a natural penchant for working with the old, the young, the sick, or the underprivileged. Although you may have considerable creative and artistic talents, the chances are that you will devote yourself to an occupation that shows concern for the betterment of the community.

The positive side of the number 6 suggests that you are very loving, friendly, and appreciative of others. You have a depth of understanding that produces much sympathetic, kindness, and generosity. The qualities of the 6 make the finest and most concerned parent and one often deeply involved in domestic activities. Openness and honesty is apparent in your approach to all relationships.

If there is an excess of the number 6 in your makeup, you may exhibit some of the negative traits associated with this number. There may be a tendency for you to be too exacting and demanding of yourself. In this regard, you may at times sacrifice yourself (or your loved ones) for the welfare of others. In some cases, the over zealous 6 has difficulty distinguishing helping from interfering. You may have difficulty expressing your own individuality, because of involvement with responsibilities and causes. Like all with the Expression of the number 6, it's quite likely that you worry much too much.

Your Soul Urge number is: 1

A Soul Urge number of 1 means:

With a Soul Urge number of 1, you want to lead and direct, to work independent of supervision, by yourself or with subordinates. You take pride in your abilities and want to be recognized for them. You may seek opportunities to display your strength and usefulness, wanting to create and originate. In your desire to manage the big picture and the main issues, you may often leave the details to others.

The positive 1 Soul Urge is Ambitious and determined, a leader seeking opportunities. There is a great deal of honesty and loyalty in this character. If you possess positive 1 Soul Urge qualities, you are very attainment oriented and driven to success. You are a loyal friend and strictly fair in your business dealings.

The negative side of the 1 Soul Urge must be avoided. A negative 1 is apt to dominate situations and people; the home, the spouse, the family and the business. Emotions aren't strong in this nature. If you possess an excess of 1 energy, you may, at times, be boastful and egotistic. You must avoid being too critical and impatient of trifles. The great need of the 1 Soul Urge is the development of friendliness, and a sincere interest in people.

Your Inner Dream number is: 5

An Inner Dream number of 5 means:

You dream of being totally free and unrestrained by responsibility. You see yourself conversing and mingling with the natives in many nations, living for adventure and life experiences. You imagine what you might accomplished.

Psst: You can enter a name for numerology here.

***

There are several things here that speak to me - the protector, sacrificing himself for others, looking to give help and comfort to those in need. A leader, an idealist, someone who looks to reorder the world... If I believed in angels - I just might think God took him to be one. ;)

But the phrase that resonated most:

You dream of being totally free and unrestrained...

He is now.

Hindsight

I wanted an April baby. I kept rubbing my belly and whispering, "Wait 'til April, little one..." I don't even know why. Silly, superficial reasons. April is a brighter, prettier month. I like April's birthstone better. (Diamond!) I like 4's (even number) better than 3's. So I wanted an April baby and I asked him to wait.

And he did. He waited until April. But by then, he was dead.

I never thought I'd be looking at a calendar with "May 2009" at the top and not be holding my baby.

It never even crossed my mind - at least, not consciously.

But hindsight is 20/20, and now I can see the signs. I know they weren't predictive, and I know, at least intellectually I know, that I probably couldn't have consciously heeded them and prevented William's death. But they were there. So very many of them. Not just current ones, either. There have been signs I would at some point lose a child going back to... well, as far back as I can remember.

The first thing was the loss of my sister, Denise. She was three when she was hit by a car. From the time I was young, I was fascinated with the story, and horrified with my mother's loss. How could she bear it? I'd never known my sister, she died before I was born - but I truly couldn't imagine losing a child, how someone could actually survive the pain.

Then there was the recurring dream I've had since I was in high school. I used to sleepwalk, and go around looking through cupboards and under things, frantically saying, "Where's my baby? Where's my baby?" I never remembered them... but other people told me about them. My ex said at least once every 6 months I'd do that, in college. Eventually I stopped walking/talking in my sleep... but Michael has said I've woken up saying that phrase before. And even when I was awake, sometimes, that phrase would just "come" to me. "Where's my baby?" It made no sense at the time. But it does now.

In the past two years, I've written three stories centered around the death of a child. I even had another author say to me that they thought "playing the dead baby card" in a story was, in effect, cheating, a betrayal to the reader. I always defended my decision... babies die. It happens. People lose children, it's horrifying, it's awful. But in reality... I had no idea.

I was also worried about this pregnancy from the beginning. I had all the genetic testing done, concerned about my "advanced maternal age." Like most mothers, I breathed a sigh of relief after that twelfth week, when I passed the highest percentage risk of miscarriage. But that nagging worry never really left. I worried that he would be deformed, that something would go wrong during labor. I kept hitting the tree, but missing the target.

At about twenty weeks into my pregnancy, I remember the doctor putting the doppler to my belly and taking a little longer than usual to find his heartbeat. He looked worried at first and I commented on it. He said, "I found it pretty quick. It's when you put it on there and move it around and around for minutes and hear nothing but silence. That's just..." He shook his head, unable to express it, and I felt a stab of dread. Premonition? I don't know..

I was really extremely overly emotional at the end of my pregnancy, and I was especially sensitive to stories about children dying. There were two horrible, prominent news stories during that time, one about a father dropping his four year old daughter off an overpass and the other was Baby Grace. Both of them left me literally incapacitated for days. I cried all day long about them. I kept wondering what was wrong with me? Sure, these stories were sad, and in the past, I would have felt that, but this was different. It was as if I was mourning something for myself, as if these were my losses, somehow, and it made no sense. Not at the time.

I know it sounds like I'm saying, "It was meant to be" ... but I don't believe that either. I just know, there were signs. There were things pointing toward this, or something like it. I don't understand it, and I probably never will, but I don't want to leave these things unacknowledged either.

And I'm not the only one who had this happen. M. said he felt like he was "going through the motions" when getting ready for William to arrive. He got the birth tub ready, he picked up groceries, but there was just a feeling, like it wasn't going to be necessary. It wasn't conscious, and he couldn't have voiced it before William died... it only made sense after he was gone. And I understood that. I experienced M. as a little removed from this pregnancy, too. I thought it was because it was our third - we already had a boy, a girl, this was old hat. I would ask him, "Are you ready for this baby?" and he'd say, "Well, I don't really have a choice, do I?" I was a little hurt, at the time, by his response... but now...

I think part of him knew. I think a part of me knew, too. Neither of us could have said that out loud and we probably would have denied it or chalked it up to pregnancy-parental-paranoia at the time. But with William gone, looking back, I think M. was right. Ready-or-not, things were going to unfold, however they were meant to.

We didn't really have a choice.

Visiting Irony

My sister and her husband came over today. 

It was the first time they'd been here to the house, actually. They live a good hour and a half drive away, and we have been there for holidays (they have the biggest house) but they haven't been here. 

Just when I open my mouth and say something, right?

I could complain about a million different little things about the visit, but apparently, I can complain about anything, lately, whether people do call or don't, whether they come over or not. Nothing would make me happy or satisfied right now, clearly. Go figure...

The truth is, it was good to know it was important enough, that we were, William was... we are loved, and thought of, and however a hand is extended, it is, after all, reaching out.

Under the Harvest Moon

Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

One Month

One month.

Women who experience a loss like this seem to do it in stages - and they tend to coincide with the developmental stage their baby would have been in, had they lived. That's my current theory. At least, that's what I've noticed in the brief time I've been reading the journeys of others through this dark landscape.

My theory, at least anecdotally, seems to be bearing itself out.

Today I'm imagining my one-month-old. A one-month-old William. What would he be like? He'd still be a tiny little guy, but growing, nursing around the clock, keeping us awake nights. We'd be taking long naps together in the afternoon, he and I, and I'd be washing diapers constantly, too. (If he was big enough to fit into them yet!) I'd be carrying him in a sling most of the time, and tucking him into his car seat whenever we had to go out.

They change so very much that first month. What color would his eyes be now? Would they be lightening like mine or darkening into his Daddy's deep brown hue? And all that gorgeous hair he had... would it be falling out, like some newborn hair does, or would he have kept it, I wonder? He'd have his alert times - his eyes open and exploring our faces, memorizing us - and his sleepy times, probably sucking his thumb like his sisters and brother did, his breath like a soft breeze over sweet grass on my cheek when I rested beside him. We'd be just discovering his moods, his temperament. Fiery little Aries, most likely, just as lively outside as he had been inside.

I'm sure his daddy would have been walking him around a lot at night to give Mommy a break, like he did the other two between nursing when they didn't seem to want to sleep. I can see William's tiny body propped up on his big shoulder, while Daddy sang him the "Gone Fishin'" song and, eventually, any and every song he could think of... (strangely, Daddy singing his off-key version of "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC quieted both of the other two down... don't ask me!)

William and I would be spending every day alone together until the littles would come home from school and rush to see him and say hello. Z. would act the little mommy, asking to change and burp and feed him all the time. (Sorry, sweetie, only Mommy can do that last one!) I can see her natural mothering tendency just coming out, cooing and talking to him just like she did when she held him in the hospital, exclaiming over his every little perfection.

And Daddy would come back from work to find his little family, William and I snuggled together somewhere, on the couch or in our bed, his son nursing and his wife reading a book, or typing (one handed!) on the laptop, the other two kids jumping around him, as excited as our cocker spaniel to have him finally home.

Our days would be full of the sweetly mundane, and they would pass so fast that I would look at the calendar today, May 1 - and wonder where the time had gone, and exclaim over how big my baby boy had grown, how much he was changing, that he wasn't my "little newborn" anymore. And I would be taking lots of pictures so I could remember our last, sharing them, our precious little man, with friends and family, always the proud mama - don't I have the most beautiful baby in the world? Isn't he a dream?

A dream. Yes. Yes, he is.

He was.

A dream I dreamed for nearly a year before he was born still and I woke up into the nightmare my life has become since he died. Just a sweet, heartbreaking dream.

If he were alive, I might have glanced at the calendar today and smiled - a month! Time flies! But I would have probably been too busy to really think about it, to consider it more than just a little milestone, a brief marker of time as we moved through our day, our week, our life together, William and I.

But he's not alive, and hasn't been for a month. All the mothers who gave birth around the same time I did are doing all of those things with their one month olds that I imagined, but I'm not. They're lamenting how fast the time has gone, how much their babies have grown and changed, how their tiny newborn is now a developing little person, and I'm lamenting that all I have left of my baby is a memory box, an urn with his ashes, and some pictures.

Time goes on, but the image of William stays the same, fixed, unchanging. This is the image I will have of him forever, and nothing more. His lips and fingernails and face will always be red with pooled blood, his skin beginning to fill with fluid, to wrinkle and slough off.

He'll never grow and change over time, learn to track objects with his eyes, or to find his thumb for comfort. He'll never experience the beauty and joy of his first month in the world, the softness and nourishment of his mother's breast, the sound of his Daddy's sweet songs, the laughter of his siblings, the bright beauty of the afternoon sun streaming into our bedroom windows.

He's a month gone from me, and it might as well be an eternity. Today I woke with the weight of that knowledge hanging around my neck, so unbearably heavy I didn't want to move, now or ever again.

He Said, She Said

We always cast an astrological chart for each of our babies when they're born.

I'm not a "believer" in astrology as a tool for prediction. But I do think, like anything, it can be used to see patterns in our lives and personalities. And most people who aren't "into" astrology don't understand that your birth chart involves a great deal more than just your sun sign (Aries, Aquarius, Scorpio, etc.) Your birth chart is different from the simple horoscope you read every day in the paper. It's actually a very detailed thing, and provides a great deal of information about someone. In some ways, it's like a snapshot, an image of the soul - or an image of the potential of the soul.

I wanted William's chart. I wanted to see what type of person he would have grown up to be, what his soul looked like at the moment of his birth.

But there was one problem. We didn't know what to use for his "birth" time... because he'd died before he was born. So M. started asking some more experienced astrologers their opinions, and this is what he wrote to me...

*** 

HE SAID:  

The consensus is just about unanimous from the astrologers in the astrology groups I've joined.William's birth time is the best choice.  I feel really angry because, to me, the first breath is so important, like breathing in the world and breathing in your life and connecting with your life...breathing in and saying YES to your life...and he didn't...he didn't do that or he didn't GET to do that.  

I don't know why the breath is so important to me...I mean, aside from the obvious.  I just can't imagine the selflessness of a little soul coming into the world wholly and completely as a gift for us, for others...just as a gift, maybe not "for" anyone or anything...just as a gift.  Maybe we all do, maybe we all come in that way before we take a breath and get bound up in the whole bittersweet mess of it...maybe we get mixed up in the world and have to remember what we really are before we die.  Maybe there are other ways to say YES besides our breath, and maybe there are other ways to breathe, I don't know.  Sometimes saying YES to this, to life, just really hurts. 

And you told me to breathe and let go. 

Part of it is anger that some people don't feel he was alive, or even really "born," if he didn't take a breath.  As a father, I feel I failed him and I failed in general if he wasn't able to say his YES.  One of the first marks man ever left was his hand print...I am so incredibly grateful to you for giving me that drum. We have pictures and locks of hair and ashes...but the thing that holds the most of him for me, the most energy and  power, I suppose, is his hand print on my drum...and his feet prints.  He was here, in this world.  He made his mark.  Death didn't win.  Death didn't stop life.  He lived inside you...his full life...and he made his mark in the world...not the hand print, but his mark.  Death didn't stop life.  It's the best way to die for an Aries, doing that, knowing that.  There is nothing that can ever erase that YES. 

A lot of people have said and written a lot of things to me about William, but the one that has touched me the most has been something so simple...just this morning, one of the astrologers who responded to my question about stillbirth birth times in one of the groups simply wrote..."How very sad, M. "  Haven't been able to stop crying or swallowing down tears since. 

***

SHE SAID: 

He did breathe - through me. I was his breath. 

His YES was the moment you and I joined and said YES to one another. His YES was every moment he spent living and growing and exploring the inside of my womb. He made his presence known to me from his tenth week of life - I think he wanted me to know him, to feel him, as soon as possible. Nine months is an eternity on the outside. Three whole seasons. Why wouldn't it be, too, on the inside? What difference? He opened his eyes, he felt us poking him, massaging him, he heard our voices... all within me. He swallowed fluid, and "practiced" breathing - his chest rose and fell, even in the womb. 

And his heart did beat. For nine months. It did.

And he will, literally, always be a part of me. He's in my blood. 

I love you.

And it is sad, M. So very, very sad.  

***  

HE SAID: 

"His YES was the moment you and I joined and said YES to one another." 

That's the best answer.  That's a full circle...inhalation and exhalation.

Freecycled

I just Freecycled my entire living room set. Couch and loveseat.

Why?

Because I was lying on the couch and looking across at M. and the kids sitting on the loveseat watching while the midwife was checking for the heartbeat and not finding it. I'd had all my prenatals in that room, on that couch, and I couldn't stand looking at it anymore.

Every morning I sat there and felt him moving, waking up with me, his sharp little elbows poking me from the inside, making me gasp and shift, and prompting M. to ask, "What?" and me to just shake my head and smile and mumble, "Baby."

That morning was when I think I knew for sure, some part of me did, as I sat on that couch and didn't feel his little elbows. Quiet day, I thought, and tried to remember a morning when I hadn't felt him...and couldn't. My midwife appointment was that day, I rationalized. He's just tired from all the contractions last night...

Then we couldn't find his heartbeat, no matter how long we looked. He was gone.

And I hated that couch, hated that room, hated that suspended moment in time hovering above me forever. Now I sat there every morning, and I remembered. Maybe some childish part of me believed, if I got rid of the couch, I'd get rid of the memory. Totally crazy, irrational thoughts, more magical thinking, but I did it anyway - I posted on Freecycle, sending my couch and loveseat to a good home, bidding them a fast farewell.

Now the room is empty...but my womb is still empty, and my arms are empty, too.

It didn't change anything, not really, but for some reason, when I walk into that room now, I can take a full breath. For that first instant, I don't think about that horrible day we found out he was gone. It settles in mere seconds later, but for that one, brief moment in time, the memory is held at bay, a momentary reprieve - a short, bittersweet taste of freedom from the weight of my grief.

Even that, just that, is a relief.

Good Enough

I'm a horrible mother.

That's the reason he died. God or the universe or the powers-that-be figured he'd be better off dead than have me as a mother.

On my worst days, that's my secret fear.

Today, the kids are insane - screaming, throwing things, hitting each other, instigating, taunting, no matter what I do or say, the minute I turn my back, they're at it again.

I have no patience right now. I had little to begin with, frankly.

All right, kids, you wanna hear screaming...?

Oh I can scream. I can scream until my voice is hoarse and my throat is sore. I can throw things, too. Their things, my things, anything.

I told you, I'm a horrible mother.

When I was studying for my psychology degree (yeah, I actually have one of those, believe it or not... you might not, on days like today) we read books in the field of infant and child psychology by a guy named Donald Winnicott. This guy had the idea that a mother was inevitably imperfect, but that she could be a "good enough mother" - someone who could generally do a "good enough" job that her child just might have a chance to grow up normally.

I hated that guy.

What a thought, that your child might grow up to say, "Well...my mother wasn't perfect. She wasn't great. But she was... 'good enough.'" Is that what we aspire to, as mothers? Being good enough? At the time, I was offended by the concept. (And funny, how Winnicott never developed a reciprocal 'good enough' father theory... it was all about the mommy, and whether or not she was good enough, and the implication was, of course, if she wasn't, her children's problems were all her fault... *ahem* but I digress...)

Doesn't every mother want to be perfect for her children? Of course we know we can't. I suppose Winnicott was trying to take a little of the pressure off. You don't have to be perfect, mama... you just have to be "good enough."

Does 'good enough' include screaming? Throwing things? Collapsing, sobbing, on the floor and telling your kids, "I can't do this anymore," and later having to explain, "No, I didn't mean I couldn't be your mommy anymore, I meant..."

I meant... something else.
I meant I can't breathe without hurting anymore.
I meant I can't go to sleep without thinking about my dead son.
I meant I can't wake up in the morning without seeing his lifeless face in my head.
I meant I can't go anywhere or do anything, including parenting, without realizing he's gone.

I meant all of those things and said none of them.

"I meant I just needed a break for a minute. A mommy time-out. Think mommy should get a time-out? Want to put me in time-out?"

A chorus: "Yeah!"

There's the solution to sibling discord, right there. Turn the kids against their parents.

My "time-out" involved whatever they wanted, so popcorn and a Disney movie later, my son turned to me and asked, quite earnestly, "Mom, how come we don't get popcorn in our time-outs?" and I had to laugh.

Sorry, Winnicott. I'm not "good enough" for these kids. I'll never be good enough, for these living children, for my dead one, for any of the souls of any more babies out there that might be waiting to come into my life. No one could possibly be "good enough" - and I'm not even going to try anymore. What a strange thought, a silly concept.

What I am is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, very, very human mother...

who loves her children, very very much.

Out of Nowhere

Things come out of nowhere.

We went out to dinner and had a pretty good time. I didn't cry, even behind my menu, at the restaurant. It felt almost "normal" to be out, among people, again. We even took the kids to get ice cream. I could almost have convinced myself that I felt...not happy. Not that. But...okay. Functioning. Able to breathe without too much effort and pain.

Then, on the way home, Harry Chapin's Cats in the Cradle came on the radio, and M. and I were both in tears by the time we pulled into our driveway.

Things like that, they come out of nowhere and punt you right back.

***

M. read my blog for the first time in weeks yesterday. And if I say that I'm angry and resentful that he hasn't been reading it all along - would it matter? It will be weeks before he reads this, if he ever does. I'm trying to be understanding, I'm trying to make sense of his process of grief, and taking the advice everyone seems to give - "Be gentle with yourself, be kind to one another." I'm trying. But trying hardly ever works. (Ask Yoda...)

And I don't know why it makes me angry, but it does. And this anger, it comes out of nowhere... I know he's got a right to read or not read whatever he likes. I know it must be painful for him to read my blog. Hell, it's painful to write. After he read my blog, he said, "Every time I read your blog (me: all... what, three times now?) my neck and back get incredibly tight." His body's usual response to anxiety and anger. It was about all the feedback I got. That, and he said I was glad I had the community I did, and he wished that it was what he needed, too, since it was so readily available. And good for me for finding it.

Good for me. Right.

There are times when I can understand why so very many couples end up divorcing after the loss of a child. Even when you're trying (yes, Yoda, I hear you) to be gentle and kind, it just isn't easy. Even if you manage to keep the lines of communication open, there's a lot of static and it's hard to hear each other through it.

***

And now, out of nowhere, a new job has fallen into M.'s lap. Someone at his work was so angry about the way their company treated him following our son's death, that she gave him a name and number to another place and talked him up to this new company.

So, in the midst of all of this, he's cutting back on his hours at the place he's at now down to four days, and then picking up two more days at this new place, in order to begin building a caseload. That means he'll be gone six days a week, for as long as it takes for him to get enough clients to quit working his old job.

The timing is terrible. But I know he's unhappy where he is, and I do want him to get out of there. I just wish he could quit outright and start at a new place, but health care in America sucks, especially mental health, and there's so not much out there anymore that offers a psychologist a salaried position. Unless you want to work for the government. Or the place he's at, where they treat their therapists like used cars salesmen competing for the top position.

The world is a really twisted place.

***

So I'm paranoid. Can you blame me?

This swine flu thing is giving me anxiety attacks, and now they're reporting a possible case in our state. Like I don't have enough to worry about, now there's a pandemic! (Thanks, Wilbur!) The littles are in school today, but I think I'm keeping them home tomorrow. And the rest of the week. And maybe forever.

We had been considering going back to homeschooling in the fall anyway. I hate the school they're in, and I'm starting to see all the signs I did with the older two of school sapping their spirit and energy. And they, too, are beginning to hate it and dread going (a sure sign it's time!)

Of course, William's death decided me. I want my babies as close to me as possible for as long as possible.

But I was going to wait the school year out. Now? I don't know. This flu thing makes me tremble inside. What if? I know the odds are saying the risk of death is low... most flus kill infants and the elderly. (Should I be grateful I don't have a newborn in my arms right now? Ha. The ironies in this world can knock the wind out of you in an instant...) But I have been on the wrong end of "the odds" now, and my perspective has changed. Considerably.

Where did this thing come from? I feel like I'm being blindsided, out of nowhere, over and over. Maybe it's because I've begun this horrible journey into darkness. I can't see what's coming. And I hate being so afraid.

But just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you...right?

Body Memory

My hormones are shifting.

All the normal patterns are coming back. Migraines have returned, skin changes are happening, my weight is stabilizing. My breasts no longer leak milk every time I cry and think about him. Everything is slowly adjusting to pre-pregnancy levels. Pre-William levels.

I feel as if I'm losing him all over again. My body's mourning is coming to an end. When that happens...what will that do to my heart's grief? Will that dissipate too?

When I close my eyes and try to remember his face - so very clear to me just a week or two ago - the image is soft and bleeds around the edges. I keep his picture close now, not for the same reasons I did at the beginning - the instant relief and relaxation of every muscle in my body the moment I saw it - now I keep it near to remember, because I feel as if I'm beginning to forget.

I don't want to forget.

Last week I asked, horrified, how long anyone could be expected to walk around like this, with every nerve ending on the outside, exposed and raw and tender to the touch... today, I'm terrified at the thought that I might not feel his death this way forever. The pain of his immediate loss was better than this slow losing of his memory. I can remember little things still...the curve of his belly, the wet flop of his umbilical cord, the soft, dark remaining hair on his shoulders that would have fallen out as he grew outside of me instead of inside... but the whole becomes fuzzy in my memory when I try to put them together. I don't want William to deteriorate into a few details. I want him whole, I want to feel his weight, even if it means carrying him like an anvil in my chest.

I want my grief back, open and bleeding, like it was. Today, it feels muted, softer. I'm getting used to the hurt. My eyes are adjusting to the color in this world. I'm starting to be able to see in the dark. I'm no longer afraid of losing my way... I'm afraid of finding it. Yes, I know he will always be with me. But it's changing. The world isn't just moving around me anymore... I'm moving with it. That's disconcerting, after being so still for so long. My muscles ache from the stiff, aching posture of mourning.

Today, a friend offered me something in the way of comfort in this new phase of my grief:

"Did you know every time we carry a child, they leave their DNA in us? So if someone takes enough of our blood, they can find traces of every child we've carried within us, for the rest of our lives. I love knowing that. Because you were pregnant with William, he is part of you forever. You have your own indelible blueprint, your own map physically and permanently stamped inside you, of William. He will always be yours, you will always be his mama. Not even his death can take that away. Maybe we don't know it, but it's a way for them to come back to us sometime down the road..."

I had no idea. But it's true. It isn't just a story, something made up. It's a scientific fact. According to the article I read:

It's part of a process known as fetal microchimerism, in which the mother and fetus exchange certain cells during pregnancy that live on in each other's bodies for years and years.

The fear of losing him began to dissipate the moment I read that, no matter how much my body was changing, adjusting to a state of being without William inside of it. My hormones might be balancing themselves out... but there was a part of me that still held him. Would always hold him, for the rest of my life - he was in my blood, swimming in my veins, pumping through my broken but still beating heart.

The article also said:

One thing researchers have learned, Dr. Gadi said, is that we can no longer be so certain where one person's identity ends and another's begins. "There's no fine line dividing our identities," he said. "It's completely intermingled."

It also adds new meaning to the bond between mothers and children, Dr. Gilmore said. "The old saw is that mothers are closer to their children because they carried them, and in a way that's actually true, because mom is carrying a little of you and you're carrying a little of mom for the rest of your lives."

For the rest of our lives... and perhaps, just perhaps, beyond that. Maybe my friend's right - maybe he is part of me, and I am part of him, and we are all, in some sense, part of each other. And when we go on, however we go on, he will be me and I will be him, and we will be... we will be.

It might be. It just might.