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.
Showing posts with label reborn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reborn. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
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. :)
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. :)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
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...
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...
Monday, August 17, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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.
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
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.
Tuesday, July 28, 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!
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!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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