I dreamed he died.
The night before we lost his heartbeat, I woke up from a dream that William was born dead.
I dreamed I was in the birthing tub, in our bathroom, and I pulled the baby up and knew he wasn't breathing. The midwife reached for him, but the cord was still attached and I couldn't hand him to her. It was a very short cord. He was lifeless in my hands, floppy, and I knew he was dead, and she wouldn't be able to save him.
I woke up shaking and got up to pee. Just a dream, I told myself. Just a dream.
Now I'm dreaming the nightmare onward - wide awake.
Showing posts with label still. Show all posts
Showing posts with label still. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Missing Migraines
You don't know what you've got until it's gone. That's the phrase, right?
Well, sometimes you don't know what you've been missing, until it comes back, and you realized why you weren't really missing it so much...
William gave me the gift of being migraine-free for nine months.
Thank you, baby.
Today, the migraines are back - with a vengeance. I can barely move my head.
Might be the weather. Horribly dark and rainy here. But probably the hormone shift.
And crying - either from grief or physical pain - so does not help a migraine. I can't win.
So now I'm in a dark, quiet room, waiting for the meds to work. It's been an hour and if I could remove my head and hand it over to someone else at the moment, I would. Just to stop the pain. I forgot how bad it could get. And I forgot to appreciate being migraine-free when I had that time, in the three seasons I spent with William, and to thank him for the lovely hormone shift that left me blissfully without that horrible pain.
I miss being pregnant and pain-free (at least, in the migraine department...)
But I would give my head on a platter to have him back again.
Well, sometimes you don't know what you've been missing, until it comes back, and you realized why you weren't really missing it so much...
William gave me the gift of being migraine-free for nine months.
Thank you, baby.
Today, the migraines are back - with a vengeance. I can barely move my head.
Might be the weather. Horribly dark and rainy here. But probably the hormone shift.
And crying - either from grief or physical pain - so does not help a migraine. I can't win.
So now I'm in a dark, quiet room, waiting for the meds to work. It's been an hour and if I could remove my head and hand it over to someone else at the moment, I would. Just to stop the pain. I forgot how bad it could get. And I forgot to appreciate being migraine-free when I had that time, in the three seasons I spent with William, and to thank him for the lovely hormone shift that left me blissfully without that horrible pain.
I miss being pregnant and pain-free (at least, in the migraine department...)
But I would give my head on a platter to have him back again.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Alone
M. says life and death aren't opposites - birth and death are. The only guarantee of birth is death. And who gets to decide how much time a soul spends earthside? We certainly don't. Time is irrelevant. Who says William's life wasn't full, then, M. argues? Who says the time he spent wasn't the time he was supposed to spend?
We live life in the continuum. And can only see some things in hindsight I guess.
But me, I can't help but think of what his life "should have been." To imagine that his whole existence was "meant" to be spent in my womb... what kind of life was it, then, I wonder?
What was it like, living inside of me? Feeling my heartbeat, my emotional tides? I wish I’d laughed more for him – although there was one night I peed myself during MST3K. ;) I wish I'd been less distracted, more focused on the time we did have together. I didn't know it was going to be just that, just those three short seasons, that we would spend. I didn't know, and I guess that's the point isn't it? We never know. We just never know how much time we're going to have.
I did spend time every day with my hand on my belly, just feeling him, sending him love. I knew he was going to be my last, and I wanted to remember the lasts. Like the last first flutters. He let me know he was there very very early. The doctors and nurses and even the midwives looked at me doubtfully when I said I felt him at 10 weeks... but I did. There's no mistaking that sensation, not when you've had as many babies as I have.
Did he know somehow he wasn't going to get as much time with me, and so he wanted me to know he was there as early as he could manage?
I knew him from the very first. I loved him before the moment he was conceived. It sounds crazy, but I felt him one morning in bed, half awake, half asleep, about a week before I was even due to ovulate. This sudden warmth and peace and knowing came over me, and I knew it was our baby. I didn't know his name, I didn't know what gender he was... because he wasn't anything, and yet, he was. He existed, hovering, present.
Am I just telling myself stories now, to make myself feel better? I have no idea. I really don't know.
But I know that when he was with me, inside of me, I was never alone. Even when everyone else was gone for the day, the kids at school, M. at work, William was with me. And that relationship remains probably the most connected I'll ever be with another person. I felt him completely. I knew his waking cycles, his sleep cycles. I felt his little hands up by his face every morning as I sat on the couch while the kids got ready for school, his elbows moving sharply sometimes above my pubic bone, and I just knew he was sucking his thumb or his fingers. His older sister and his brother had, too.
Now I sit in the same place every morning and remember that time with him. It was my time, only mine and his. No one else could have understood it, or felt that same sweet connection, that knowing, that tender feeling of love and care, knowing he was comforting himself until I could comfort him skin-to-skin, flesh to flesh, finally on the outside.
I remember every ultrasound, ever peek I had into the window of my uterus. It was the only time I saw him moving, alive. I so wish M. had taken the time off work to be with me at the gender u/s now. I was the one who discovered we were having a boy - it was the ultrasound tech who laughed and agreed, "Yep, that's a boy." I wish he could have been there for that moment. I do have the video, though. I can see William kicking, turning, rolling, such an active little man. He was communicating with me, even then. He always was.
Then why couldn’t he tell me, at the end? Why couldn't he tell me he was going, going, gone? What happened to that stream of communication?
Did he try? Was he trying, all the way up until that very last moment?
I think he was.
I think I stopped listening, I was distracted by my own pain. I didn't listen to my intuition. I didn't trust my body, my own authority, my instinct. I lost that connection, I let it go, just for a moment, and I lost him.
I failed him.
I’m so sorry, baby.
We live life in the continuum. And can only see some things in hindsight I guess.
But me, I can't help but think of what his life "should have been." To imagine that his whole existence was "meant" to be spent in my womb... what kind of life was it, then, I wonder?
What was it like, living inside of me? Feeling my heartbeat, my emotional tides? I wish I’d laughed more for him – although there was one night I peed myself during MST3K. ;) I wish I'd been less distracted, more focused on the time we did have together. I didn't know it was going to be just that, just those three short seasons, that we would spend. I didn't know, and I guess that's the point isn't it? We never know. We just never know how much time we're going to have.
I did spend time every day with my hand on my belly, just feeling him, sending him love. I knew he was going to be my last, and I wanted to remember the lasts. Like the last first flutters. He let me know he was there very very early. The doctors and nurses and even the midwives looked at me doubtfully when I said I felt him at 10 weeks... but I did. There's no mistaking that sensation, not when you've had as many babies as I have.
Did he know somehow he wasn't going to get as much time with me, and so he wanted me to know he was there as early as he could manage?
I knew him from the very first. I loved him before the moment he was conceived. It sounds crazy, but I felt him one morning in bed, half awake, half asleep, about a week before I was even due to ovulate. This sudden warmth and peace and knowing came over me, and I knew it was our baby. I didn't know his name, I didn't know what gender he was... because he wasn't anything, and yet, he was. He existed, hovering, present.
Am I just telling myself stories now, to make myself feel better? I have no idea. I really don't know.
But I know that when he was with me, inside of me, I was never alone. Even when everyone else was gone for the day, the kids at school, M. at work, William was with me. And that relationship remains probably the most connected I'll ever be with another person. I felt him completely. I knew his waking cycles, his sleep cycles. I felt his little hands up by his face every morning as I sat on the couch while the kids got ready for school, his elbows moving sharply sometimes above my pubic bone, and I just knew he was sucking his thumb or his fingers. His older sister and his brother had, too.
Now I sit in the same place every morning and remember that time with him. It was my time, only mine and his. No one else could have understood it, or felt that same sweet connection, that knowing, that tender feeling of love and care, knowing he was comforting himself until I could comfort him skin-to-skin, flesh to flesh, finally on the outside.
I remember every ultrasound, ever peek I had into the window of my uterus. It was the only time I saw him moving, alive. I so wish M. had taken the time off work to be with me at the gender u/s now. I was the one who discovered we were having a boy - it was the ultrasound tech who laughed and agreed, "Yep, that's a boy." I wish he could have been there for that moment. I do have the video, though. I can see William kicking, turning, rolling, such an active little man. He was communicating with me, even then. He always was.
Then why couldn’t he tell me, at the end? Why couldn't he tell me he was going, going, gone? What happened to that stream of communication?
Did he try? Was he trying, all the way up until that very last moment?
I think he was.
I think I stopped listening, I was distracted by my own pain. I didn't listen to my intuition. I didn't trust my body, my own authority, my instinct. I lost that connection, I let it go, just for a moment, and I lost him.
I failed him.
I’m so sorry, baby.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Spring
Yesterday, I cleared space for William's garden.
Last year, we had vegetables. Last year, the kids helped me plant and water and harvest tomatoes and cucumbers, broccoli and spinach, zucchini and eggplant.
This year, since I don't have my babe in arms and I'm not too busy to dig in the dirt like I thought I would be, we're creating a forever garden for our William. I chose my favorite perennials - daisies, black-eyed susans, poppies, lupine, yarrow...and, of course, forget-me-nots and sweet william.Today was for digging, preparing. Next week, I'll plant flowers and leave room for a marker, something with my little man's name.
I can't choose what yet. Not yet.
Being outside hurts. Everything is coming to life, and watching flowers come up instead of watching my son grow is going to hurt, too, I imagine. But I want something for him, something that will remind me, when the pain begins to change (I hear it does, I'm holding onto that hope) that I did something to remember him. I want to have somewhere to go, a place to honor his memory a year from now, two, three...
Three seasons I spent anticipating this one. I got pregnant in late summer, and packed and moved our whole house last August. As the leaves turned, I finally unpacked the last box, and by the time the snow fell, I was growing big and playing "games" with my baby - poke and prod. I shivered my way through February and thought, "Spring will be here soon. My baby will be here soon." Just a few more months. One more turn of the seasons.
Now spring is here, and my baby is gone.
But the robins are everywhere. Everywhere. I saw the first one on the day William was born dead, hopping across our back lawn, cocking a curious black eye in my direction. Harbinger of spring. Messenger of death, now, at least for me.
I sat in a chair on the patio for over an hour yesterday, watching them. An hour. Still and quiet, I just sat. I didn't think about all the things I needed to do, or feel moved, even, to get up and do them, like I normally would. I sat and watched the wind move the trees, just starting to show the buds of their leaves. I sat and watched the robins searching for food - they were incredibly happy I'd unearth a smorgasbord of worms for them to choose from in the dirt for William's garden. I sat and watched the shadows change as the sun moved.
Nothing seems important now. All of the work I did in preparation for his arrival - keeping the house clean, just in case I went into labor that day, stocking the house with food, catching up and getting ahead with work - none of it mattered. Who cares now if the dishes are done? Who cares if the floor needs vacuuming? Who cares?
Now I just sit and stare and cry and wonder how I missed it before, how incredibly vulnerable we are, how fragile life really is. Nature wins. Now I can't do anything but breathe and feel alive, even if it hurts. I don't have a choice anymore. That veil has been pulled aside, and I can't unknow what I know now. I can't even keep the tears from falling, like rain to wet the soil.
Last year, we had vegetables. Last year, the kids helped me plant and water and harvest tomatoes and cucumbers, broccoli and spinach, zucchini and eggplant.
This year, since I don't have my babe in arms and I'm not too busy to dig in the dirt like I thought I would be, we're creating a forever garden for our William. I chose my favorite perennials - daisies, black-eyed susans, poppies, lupine, yarrow...and, of course, forget-me-nots and sweet william.Today was for digging, preparing. Next week, I'll plant flowers and leave room for a marker, something with my little man's name.
I can't choose what yet. Not yet.
Being outside hurts. Everything is coming to life, and watching flowers come up instead of watching my son grow is going to hurt, too, I imagine. But I want something for him, something that will remind me, when the pain begins to change (I hear it does, I'm holding onto that hope) that I did something to remember him. I want to have somewhere to go, a place to honor his memory a year from now, two, three...
Three seasons I spent anticipating this one. I got pregnant in late summer, and packed and moved our whole house last August. As the leaves turned, I finally unpacked the last box, and by the time the snow fell, I was growing big and playing "games" with my baby - poke and prod. I shivered my way through February and thought, "Spring will be here soon. My baby will be here soon." Just a few more months. One more turn of the seasons.
Now spring is here, and my baby is gone.
But the robins are everywhere. Everywhere. I saw the first one on the day William was born dead, hopping across our back lawn, cocking a curious black eye in my direction. Harbinger of spring. Messenger of death, now, at least for me.
I sat in a chair on the patio for over an hour yesterday, watching them. An hour. Still and quiet, I just sat. I didn't think about all the things I needed to do, or feel moved, even, to get up and do them, like I normally would. I sat and watched the wind move the trees, just starting to show the buds of their leaves. I sat and watched the robins searching for food - they were incredibly happy I'd unearth a smorgasbord of worms for them to choose from in the dirt for William's garden. I sat and watched the shadows change as the sun moved.
Nothing seems important now. All of the work I did in preparation for his arrival - keeping the house clean, just in case I went into labor that day, stocking the house with food, catching up and getting ahead with work - none of it mattered. Who cares now if the dishes are done? Who cares if the floor needs vacuuming? Who cares?
Now I just sit and stare and cry and wonder how I missed it before, how incredibly vulnerable we are, how fragile life really is. Nature wins. Now I can't do anything but breathe and feel alive, even if it hurts. I don't have a choice anymore. That veil has been pulled aside, and I can't unknow what I know now. I can't even keep the tears from falling, like rain to wet the soil.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
My New Normal
I can't think.
It isn't just time that's slow. My brain is, too. It's like watching television in some slow-mo without the sound. I go to say things, and my mouth won't form the words. My brain won't even make the connections to give me the right phrase. It's not even on the tip of my tongue - it's just gone, as if I never learned the language in the first place.
It's probably good I don't have to talk much. Although there are a few people I wish would call.
My midwife was supposed to be here Monday. Last Monday. We had an appointment at eleven. She didn't show, and she didn't call. I finally called her on Thursday to ask if she wanted to reschedule, and she still hasn't called me back. I'm pretty shocked by her lack of response, I have to admit. Is she blaming herself? Has she just decided to move on to her more important clients, the ones who are having live babies?
My older two kids are angry with me, I think. My oldest son cancelled coming here this weekend. When I asked why, he said, "I'm tired, and I can't sleep over there with the kids running around in the morning." Yeah, it sounded like a lame excuse to me, too. My oldest daughter, who was incredibly excited about the baby, hasn't called or returned a call since I initially told her what happened.
I'm pretty sure they blame me for killing their little brother. Not that I don't get that. I blame me, too. Some part of me would like to be angry at someone. Have someone to blame it all on. Someone besides myself, I mean. I think every mother in this situation takes that on. It's part of being a mother, that mother-guilt and regret. We do it with our live children, too... why would the response to a dead one be any different?
But I do feel abandoned - already. Two weeks out, and people have moved on. Even people whose lives were directly effected by William's death. Going on with life. Finding someone to hang it on or shrugging off any mantle of responsibility, and moving on.
But I can't move on.
I can't think, I can't speak. I can't function at any sort of human level. And this, they tell me, is my "new normal." I'm tired of being sad. Exhausted, in fact. But I don't have a choice. There isn't any "deciding to have a good day." The woman at medical records in the hospital had that posted above her computer. "You can decide to have a good day." Right. Maybe most people can. But I can't. I really, really can't.
I can't pull myself up by my bootstraps... I can't even find my boots.
According to the stats, people get over a loss outside of their own immediate family within two weeks. And even when the loss does involve immediate family, people get back to functioning after about 1-2 months. When the loss involves the death of a child? That period of time is extended... to 18-24 months.
Are you kidding me? Two years. I can't do this. I can't do this for two years. I can't go around unable to think, speak, function... how do people do this? How?
It isn't just time that's slow. My brain is, too. It's like watching television in some slow-mo without the sound. I go to say things, and my mouth won't form the words. My brain won't even make the connections to give me the right phrase. It's not even on the tip of my tongue - it's just gone, as if I never learned the language in the first place.
It's probably good I don't have to talk much. Although there are a few people I wish would call.
My midwife was supposed to be here Monday. Last Monday. We had an appointment at eleven. She didn't show, and she didn't call. I finally called her on Thursday to ask if she wanted to reschedule, and she still hasn't called me back. I'm pretty shocked by her lack of response, I have to admit. Is she blaming herself? Has she just decided to move on to her more important clients, the ones who are having live babies?
My older two kids are angry with me, I think. My oldest son cancelled coming here this weekend. When I asked why, he said, "I'm tired, and I can't sleep over there with the kids running around in the morning." Yeah, it sounded like a lame excuse to me, too. My oldest daughter, who was incredibly excited about the baby, hasn't called or returned a call since I initially told her what happened.
I'm pretty sure they blame me for killing their little brother. Not that I don't get that. I blame me, too. Some part of me would like to be angry at someone. Have someone to blame it all on. Someone besides myself, I mean. I think every mother in this situation takes that on. It's part of being a mother, that mother-guilt and regret. We do it with our live children, too... why would the response to a dead one be any different?
But I do feel abandoned - already. Two weeks out, and people have moved on. Even people whose lives were directly effected by William's death. Going on with life. Finding someone to hang it on or shrugging off any mantle of responsibility, and moving on.
But I can't move on.
I can't think, I can't speak. I can't function at any sort of human level. And this, they tell me, is my "new normal." I'm tired of being sad. Exhausted, in fact. But I don't have a choice. There isn't any "deciding to have a good day." The woman at medical records in the hospital had that posted above her computer. "You can decide to have a good day." Right. Maybe most people can. But I can't. I really, really can't.
I can't pull myself up by my bootstraps... I can't even find my boots.
According to the stats, people get over a loss outside of their own immediate family within two weeks. And even when the loss does involve immediate family, people get back to functioning after about 1-2 months. When the loss involves the death of a child? That period of time is extended... to 18-24 months.
Are you kidding me? Two years. I can't do this. I can't do this for two years. I can't go around unable to think, speak, function... how do people do this? How?
Justice - Not
My baby is dead, and she leaves hers alone to wander and play in traffic.
Great.
So much for justice in the world.
Great.
So much for justice in the world.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Bad Ideas
We have Netflix, and the last three movies we picked out and received in the mail arrived before William died (and then was born...)
One of them is Reservation Road. I went to put it in, and read this:
Ethan Learner (Joaquin Phoenix) and his wife Emma (Jennifer Connelly) are consumed with grief after their son Josh (Sean Curley) is struck by a hit and run driver.
Uhhhhh...never mind. Bad idea.
Bad idea.
I didn't realize how much it would bring things back. The memory of walking up to the main entrance, afraid of what they would tell me, my belly heavy with my baby - heavy in a way it had never been before, different, wrong somehow - was as fresh and dizzying as the smell of wet paint in a closed room. It literally made me nauseous.
At least I didn't have to go to labor and delivery. I didn't have to see or hear any babies. I just had to endure the tight-lipped smile of the woman who handed me the records and had me sign the form. The look in her eyes said, "I'm sorry, but let's not talk about it, okay?" And so we didn't. I thanked her, took the envelope, and slowly walked back to my car thinking that I never, ever wanted to go back there again.
Bad idea.
The pharmacist remembered me.
"Where's your baby?" he asked, noticing my empty belly...and my empty cart.
It was the first time I've had to tell someone aside from family and friends. What do you say? You know you're about to shock someone, you're already anticipating their reaction, their "I'm sorry" is a foregone conclusion. I felt bad having to say it - but I didn't want to lie.
"He...he was stillborn two weeks ago."
Everyone stared at me. The pharmacist, the other women behind the counter, even the people waiting for their prescriptions. Is it so shocking? Babies die. It really happens. Every single day. Why doesn't anyone want me to talk about it?
He mumbled "I'm sorry," I said an obligitory, "Thanks," and I didn't even notice how much I was shaking until I got into the car and tried to start it. My key kept missing the ignition.
When I got home, I went back to bed and had a long, exhausting cry.
That was the only good idea I've had all day.
One of them is Reservation Road. I went to put it in, and read this:
Ethan Learner (Joaquin Phoenix) and his wife Emma (Jennifer Connelly) are consumed with grief after their son Josh (Sean Curley) is struck by a hit and run driver.
Uhhhhh...never mind. Bad idea.
***
I went to the hospital today. I went to sign a release form so I could get the lab results, the pathology report, all the information that might tell me what happened to William, why he died. Bad idea.
I didn't realize how much it would bring things back. The memory of walking up to the main entrance, afraid of what they would tell me, my belly heavy with my baby - heavy in a way it had never been before, different, wrong somehow - was as fresh and dizzying as the smell of wet paint in a closed room. It literally made me nauseous.
At least I didn't have to go to labor and delivery. I didn't have to see or hear any babies. I just had to endure the tight-lipped smile of the woman who handed me the records and had me sign the form. The look in her eyes said, "I'm sorry, but let's not talk about it, okay?" And so we didn't. I thanked her, took the envelope, and slowly walked back to my car thinking that I never, ever wanted to go back there again.
***
Just a piece of advice, in case you ever have the awful opportunity to pick up your dead baby's pathology report - do not, under any circumstances, open the envelope and read it in the car. Trust me on this. It's a really, really bad idea. Reading phrases like, "Intrauterine fetal demise, denies pregnancy complications..." is just not conducive to driving.
*** I had a message on my phone. My prenatals were still at the pharmacy, waiting to be picked up. I thought about going to get them. It wouldn't hurt to keep taking them, I reasoned. So I stopped on my way home from the hospital.
Bad idea.
The pharmacist remembered me.
"Where's your baby?" he asked, noticing my empty belly...and my empty cart.
It was the first time I've had to tell someone aside from family and friends. What do you say? You know you're about to shock someone, you're already anticipating their reaction, their "I'm sorry" is a foregone conclusion. I felt bad having to say it - but I didn't want to lie.
"He...he was stillborn two weeks ago."
Everyone stared at me. The pharmacist, the other women behind the counter, even the people waiting for their prescriptions. Is it so shocking? Babies die. It really happens. Every single day. Why doesn't anyone want me to talk about it?
He mumbled "I'm sorry," I said an obligitory, "Thanks," and I didn't even notice how much I was shaking until I got into the car and tried to start it. My key kept missing the ignition.
When I got home, I went back to bed and had a long, exhausting cry.
That was the only good idea I've had all day.
Targeted Marketing Sucks
I've been doing lots of Internet surfing the past few weeks, and most of my searches have involved both pregnancy and birth...since they're inevitably a part of a stillbirth.
Yahoo, apparently, thinks this is an open invitation to bombard me with their advertising.
I don't know which is worse, this "First Reponse" ad:
Targeting marketing really, really sucks.
Yahoo, apparently, thinks this is an open invitation to bombard me with their advertising.
I don't know which is worse, this "First Reponse" ad:
Or this "March of Dimes" one:
Targeting marketing really, really sucks.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Unborn
The Unborn
By Sharon Olds
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.
Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing
In some antechamber - servants, half-
Listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
In the Dead Letter Office
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
Second sight I can feel just one of them
Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
In the dark, stretching its arms out
Desperately to me.
By Sharon Olds
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.
Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing
In some antechamber - servants, half-
Listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
In the Dead Letter Office
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
Second sight I can feel just one of them
Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
In the dark, stretching its arms out
Desperately to me.
Dear Abby: Bite Me
I haven't been here long in "dead babyland" (and if you haven't heard the term yet... don't ask) so most of you who've been here a while have probably seen Dear Abby's view on stillbirth baby photos.
My husband hadn't seen it, though. And when he did... well... let's just say I think he's entering the "anger" portion of the Kubler-Ross grief stages...
Here's his response:
Dear Abby,
Regarding your column entitled DESK PHOTO OF STILLBORN BABY CREATES AWKWARD OFFICE ISSUE:
For the record, I am a licensed pscyhotherapist and grief counselor with over a decade of experience, and also the father of a stillborn son. Although you were smugly well-mannered in acknowledging that a person's desk, in most cases, is essentially private territory, you were surprisingly presumptuous and uneducated in suggesting that the woman who kept the picture of her stillborn child on her desk should put the picture in a drawer or in her purse.
If the woman had a picture of her deceased husband or parent or cat on her desk, would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of her child with an unfortunate visible degenerative birth defect, or her sister who had been severely burned on her face, would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of her grandparents with tattooed forearms who were later burned or gassed to death in Auschwitz (yes, such pictures exist) would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of the starving, bloated and fly-specked child she sponsored in South America or Appalachia or Somalia, or a picture of her gay brother near death with Kaposi's sarcoma-ridden AID's, would your response be the same?
Shame on you for being primarily concerned about the shallow discomfort of the woman who feels awkward when faced with something that she is in denial and defensively offended about.
You and the woman who wrote you the note in question need more education about denial, defense mechanisms, respect, empathy, acceptance, grief, death, dying and stillbirth, and in humanity and compassion.
M.
Licensed Psychotherapist
Grief Counselor
Father Of A Stillborn Son
My husband hadn't seen it, though. And when he did... well... let's just say I think he's entering the "anger" portion of the Kubler-Ross grief stages...
Here's his response:
Dear Abby,
Regarding your column entitled DESK PHOTO OF STILLBORN BABY CREATES AWKWARD OFFICE ISSUE:
For the record, I am a licensed pscyhotherapist and grief counselor with over a decade of experience, and also the father of a stillborn son. Although you were smugly well-mannered in acknowledging that a person's desk, in most cases, is essentially private territory, you were surprisingly presumptuous and uneducated in suggesting that the woman who kept the picture of her stillborn child on her desk should put the picture in a drawer or in her purse.
If the woman had a picture of her deceased husband or parent or cat on her desk, would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of her child with an unfortunate visible degenerative birth defect, or her sister who had been severely burned on her face, would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of her grandparents with tattooed forearms who were later burned or gassed to death in Auschwitz (yes, such pictures exist) would your response be the same? If the woman had a picture of the starving, bloated and fly-specked child she sponsored in South America or Appalachia or Somalia, or a picture of her gay brother near death with Kaposi's sarcoma-ridden AID's, would your response be the same?
Shame on you for being primarily concerned about the shallow discomfort of the woman who feels awkward when faced with something that she is in denial and defensively offended about.
You and the woman who wrote you the note in question need more education about denial, defense mechanisms, respect, empathy, acceptance, grief, death, dying and stillbirth, and in humanity and compassion.
M.
Licensed Psychotherapist
Grief Counselor
Father Of A Stillborn Son
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
One of Those Days
He doesn’t ask me how my day was when he comes home.
He doesn’t have to.
He can tell just by looking at my night table.
If the Kleenex are piled high, he knows.
It’s been one of those days.
He doesn’t have to.
He can tell just by looking at my night table.
If the Kleenex are piled high, he knows.
It’s been one of those days.
Two Weeks
Grief makes one hour ten. ~William Shakespeare
Time.
Goes.
So.
Slooooooooooooooooooooooow.
Yesterday was my first day alone, really alone, and it wasn't a good one. Z. and D. went back to school, M. went off to work...and I stayed in bed all day. I ate something around noon. I brought it back to bed with me. Finally, around 3pm, I took a shower. The kids were due home around quarter to four.
And still, I didn't really get out of bed. I stayed there while they went to play outside. I got up to get them snacks, dinner. I forgot to eat again. Drank a glass of milk. That was good enough. Stopped the gnawing. Then back to bed. Listened to the rain. Watched TV. Flipped channels, mostly. Surfed online, reading more blogs, doing more research on stillbirth.
And every time I looked at the clock, I was surprised how little time had gone by. A minute. Two. Ten.
And today, William would have been two weeks old. How can two weeks have passed? How can it feel like an eternity and yet like yesterday, all at once? It's been two weeks since I held him, kissed the soft spot on his head. Just two weeks since the dreams of our last baby were born and died all on the same day.
His ghost is everywhere, all around me. I wake up in the morning and see the shadows beside my bed and think it's his cosleeper, and he must be sleeping in it. I stand at the sink doing dishes and my belly doesn't bump up against the counter anymore...but there's no baby in a sling there, either. In the morning, as the kids are getting dressed and ready for school, I sit on the couch where I found out he was gone, and remember how he used to kick me every morning. I think about how I used to imagine nursing him there on the couch while they got ready, but there's no baby in my arms, at my breast. He's just a mirage, a flicker, a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.
Two weeks gone. I don't know how I've managed to get here. And I have no idea how to get through the next minute, the next hour, let alone the next day, the next week, the next year... the rest of my life... without him. I don't know how I'm doing it. It defies all logic and reason.
Addicts say recovery is one day at a time. Grief isn't like that. It's more immediate. It's one breath at a time. And every single one is like sucking in razor blades.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Startastic
My seven year old daughter knows me pretty well. Whenever I make some wry comment, she turns to her six year old brother and says, "Mom's just being 'startastic!'"
Yeah. That's me. Always appreciating life's little ironies.
Today, I was sitting on my bed, packing away all my maternity clothes, and I happened to look over at the box with William's ashes in it. For the first time, I noticed the word there:
Oh, isn't that just the cutest thing you ever heard? Right up there with "Bollywood" and "Mockumentary." How quaint.
*ahem*
And then, I was researching something about stillbirth, and came across this little fact:
Aren't they soooo lucky in Arizona?
Oh don't mind me... I'm just being "startastic"...
Yeah. That's me. Always appreciating life's little ironies.
Today, I was sitting on my bed, packing away all my maternity clothes, and I happened to look over at the box with William's ashes in it. For the first time, I noticed the word there:
CREMAINS
Oh, isn't that just the cutest thing you ever heard? Right up there with "Bollywood" and "Mockumentary." How quaint.
*ahem*
And then, I was researching something about stillbirth, and came across this little fact:
"Because many families invest thousands of dollars to prepare for the arrival - then, sadly, the funeral - of their stillborn baby, Governor Janet Napolitano signed into law SB1003, a one-time tax exemption for families who experience stillbirth during the year in which their child was born."
Aren't they soooo lucky in Arizona?
Oh don't mind me... I'm just being "startastic"...
Mars and Venus
I don't understand men.
I don't mean I don't love them, or deeply appreciate them and their differences from women - I do.
But sort of in the Venus/Mars tradition, I often feel their masculine viewpoints are so alien from my feminine ones that they're actually as unrecognizable to me as hearing someone speak another language. I just don't get it.
My husband told me last night how he looks at William's death, and I was left literally speechless.
"I've never been a believer in 'shit happens,'" he said. "To me, that's the coward's way out. To say that William's death was an accident... well, there are no accidents. I have to take responsibility for the worst possible scenario, and that would be the fact that I could have done something to prevent what happened. Not to take responsibility for that would make me a coward."
woppitywoppitywoppity < --- sound of my head shaking in disbelief
"So, you think you could have done something to prevent his death?"
"I know I could have," he said. "We all could have. You could have, the midwife could have, the doctor we saw for the ultrasounds could have. For example, you could have spent the entire nine months on a fetal monitor, and it could have prevented his death."
Okayyyy...
Any men out there who can explain this perspective to me? Because I go immediately to believing that a) I did something to kill my son (which is, as he says, the worst case scenario and a possibility) and b) my husband blames me for killing my son (which is an even worse case than the first, and a possibility...)
He obviously blames himself on some level - and believes he could have done something to prevent it. His "taking responsibility for that" probably does make him more courageous than I am. The thought that I could have prevented William's death leaves me shaking and paralyzed with regret.
His logic went on to say, all death is preventable, except for death by old age. Every death, he argued, could be prevented by a different choice. A differently lifestyle, a different diet, a different way to work. But of course, we can't always live our lives that way. We'd end up like the boy in the bubble. We can only make the best choices we can with the information we have, based on our own values and beliefs, right? And, he said, if those choices cause something bad to happen, then we have to take personal responsibility for that.
Not to do so would be cowardly. Like his mother, he said, telling herself "stories" about God taking angel-babies back to heaven before they're born. Or those people who have said, "It was meant to be" or "It was for the best." Denial. Coward's way out, he says.
Well, then, I guess I'm a coward. Granted, I'm not telling myself stories. I'm looking very closely at what happened, and wondering what I did, what I could have done. But how can I take responsibility for something I don't know could have effected the outcome? Hindsight is 20/20, and everything I could have done is just conjecture, isn't it? Just Monday morning quarterbacking, to use a masculine metaphor.
I do get that he's taking things to their absurd, logical conclusion - this was all, actually, in defense of having another home birth, if we decide to have another baby. In some weird way, this argument was meant to justify our choices, to say that we made the best ones we could, with the information we had, and we would have to do that again, if we chose to have another baby. And then take responsibility for those choices.
I sort of get it. But it comes through garbled, and feels like it needs translation. He asked this morning if what he'd said made sense, and I was honest when I told him no. It doesn't make sense to me. Nothing about the death of my son "makes sense." I've felt like people were talking Albanian around me since he died, and I just kind of look at them, hearing the sounds, the inflection, but not understanding the words.
He seems to be making some sense of it for himself, and I don't begrudge him that, and I'm not saying his perspective isn't valid. But wrapping my head around something so... huge... so all-at-once, it feels removed to me, and I think this is one of the ways the masculine and feminine differ in the way they grieve.
My grief is immediate - I had the personal experience of having William inside of me, and I knew him, on a level no one else did. My husband didn't have that. Aside from his knowledge that I was pregnant and carrying his son, and his own connection to him through me - feeling him kick from the outside, my talking about the baby's movements - M.'s experience was more removed. Fathers bond more with babies after they're born, and William never took a breath. My husband's dreams were born dead... mine died inside of me.
The difference is stark. I want my baby back - my loss is experienced on a "now" level - my breasts want to nurse the baby who was just kicking my ribs, my arms want to hold the weight of my tiny, perfect son. My husband, on the other hand, has lost the future - teaching our son how to read, how to fish, how to hit a baseball.
I think, from what I'm reading about other mother's (and father's) experiences, that women experience our child's death in the "now" forever. We might imagine what they would be like at one year, two, ten... but it isn't until those anniversaries come up that we experience the loss of our child at that age. Fathers, I think, have that loss all at once.
Don't ask me which is worse. They're both too awful to contemplate.
All I know is that I'm not really understanding him, and it makes me wonder if he's understanding me. Maybe we're both talking, but not hearing each other. At the very least, it feels like a lot is getting lost in the translation.
I don't mean I don't love them, or deeply appreciate them and their differences from women - I do.
But sort of in the Venus/Mars tradition, I often feel their masculine viewpoints are so alien from my feminine ones that they're actually as unrecognizable to me as hearing someone speak another language. I just don't get it.
My husband told me last night how he looks at William's death, and I was left literally speechless.
"I've never been a believer in 'shit happens,'" he said. "To me, that's the coward's way out. To say that William's death was an accident... well, there are no accidents. I have to take responsibility for the worst possible scenario, and that would be the fact that I could have done something to prevent what happened. Not to take responsibility for that would make me a coward."
woppitywoppitywoppity < --- sound of my head shaking in disbelief
"So, you think you could have done something to prevent his death?"
"I know I could have," he said. "We all could have. You could have, the midwife could have, the doctor we saw for the ultrasounds could have. For example, you could have spent the entire nine months on a fetal monitor, and it could have prevented his death."
Okayyyy...
Any men out there who can explain this perspective to me? Because I go immediately to believing that a) I did something to kill my son (which is, as he says, the worst case scenario and a possibility) and b) my husband blames me for killing my son (which is an even worse case than the first, and a possibility...)
He obviously blames himself on some level - and believes he could have done something to prevent it. His "taking responsibility for that" probably does make him more courageous than I am. The thought that I could have prevented William's death leaves me shaking and paralyzed with regret.
His logic went on to say, all death is preventable, except for death by old age. Every death, he argued, could be prevented by a different choice. A differently lifestyle, a different diet, a different way to work. But of course, we can't always live our lives that way. We'd end up like the boy in the bubble. We can only make the best choices we can with the information we have, based on our own values and beliefs, right? And, he said, if those choices cause something bad to happen, then we have to take personal responsibility for that.
Not to do so would be cowardly. Like his mother, he said, telling herself "stories" about God taking angel-babies back to heaven before they're born. Or those people who have said, "It was meant to be" or "It was for the best." Denial. Coward's way out, he says.
Well, then, I guess I'm a coward. Granted, I'm not telling myself stories. I'm looking very closely at what happened, and wondering what I did, what I could have done. But how can I take responsibility for something I don't know could have effected the outcome? Hindsight is 20/20, and everything I could have done is just conjecture, isn't it? Just Monday morning quarterbacking, to use a masculine metaphor.
I do get that he's taking things to their absurd, logical conclusion - this was all, actually, in defense of having another home birth, if we decide to have another baby. In some weird way, this argument was meant to justify our choices, to say that we made the best ones we could, with the information we had, and we would have to do that again, if we chose to have another baby. And then take responsibility for those choices.
I sort of get it. But it comes through garbled, and feels like it needs translation. He asked this morning if what he'd said made sense, and I was honest when I told him no. It doesn't make sense to me. Nothing about the death of my son "makes sense." I've felt like people were talking Albanian around me since he died, and I just kind of look at them, hearing the sounds, the inflection, but not understanding the words.
He seems to be making some sense of it for himself, and I don't begrudge him that, and I'm not saying his perspective isn't valid. But wrapping my head around something so... huge... so all-at-once, it feels removed to me, and I think this is one of the ways the masculine and feminine differ in the way they grieve.
My grief is immediate - I had the personal experience of having William inside of me, and I knew him, on a level no one else did. My husband didn't have that. Aside from his knowledge that I was pregnant and carrying his son, and his own connection to him through me - feeling him kick from the outside, my talking about the baby's movements - M.'s experience was more removed. Fathers bond more with babies after they're born, and William never took a breath. My husband's dreams were born dead... mine died inside of me.
The difference is stark. I want my baby back - my loss is experienced on a "now" level - my breasts want to nurse the baby who was just kicking my ribs, my arms want to hold the weight of my tiny, perfect son. My husband, on the other hand, has lost the future - teaching our son how to read, how to fish, how to hit a baseball.
I think, from what I'm reading about other mother's (and father's) experiences, that women experience our child's death in the "now" forever. We might imagine what they would be like at one year, two, ten... but it isn't until those anniversaries come up that we experience the loss of our child at that age. Fathers, I think, have that loss all at once.
Don't ask me which is worse. They're both too awful to contemplate.
All I know is that I'm not really understanding him, and it makes me wonder if he's understanding me. Maybe we're both talking, but not hearing each other. At the very least, it feels like a lot is getting lost in the translation.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Martyrville
I wish I could say I was in Margaritaville for Easter, but I seem to have ended up in Martyrville.
Part of it is, I guess no one knows what to say.
I prepared myself for an outpouring of sympathy. Just in case. The strange image that kept coming to me was Illyria from Buffy - armored and distant. I just decided to pretend I wasn't human. I'm just a visitor here to your planet. No feelings at all. What is this strange thing you call sadness? That was the most drastic thing I could think of, to keep the grief at bay. Otherwise, it's like trying to plug the Hoover Dam with bubble gum... (and we're all out of bubble gum?) I knew I would just break down and flood the room with my mourning, and what good would that be for everyone, including me? So... I was prepared.
But from the time we arrived at our little Easter gathering, most of my family didn't even mention it. Not even my brother-in-law in his before dinner prayer, who almost always mentions something personal, even if it's just "keep us all safe on the journey home," etc. Yesterday's prayer was the shortest and most general I've ever heard him deliver.
I brought my pictures of William and waited for the subject to come up. And I waited. And waited. I finally realized no one was going to say anything unless I did. Probably because they didn't know how I would handle it if they said something, I rationalized. So I finally showed my mom his pictures, and gave her the ones I'd had printed for her. I also asked her if she wanted some of his ashes - we decided to give some of William's ashes to the grandfathers he was named after. She said she did.
Once she was looking at the pictures, then my sisters and my niece wanted to see as well, and we talked about him a little, and about what happened. But I found it really interesting that none of the men - my brother-in-law, my nephew - wanted to hear about it or see him. They left the room in a hurry, and it ironically reminded me of whenever I have a newborn and start nursing them in public.
I think women understand on a more visceral level. Men are so bodily and experientially removed from it, it's probably even more horrifying and terrifying to them. Not that some women don't say all the wrong things...
My oldest sister told me how strong I was, that she was a mess when she found out, and she was glad my niece (in-law), S., was the one who came to the hospital to be with us, because she didn't know if she could have handled it. And my 2nd oldest sister told me all about how she had to pull over when she heard the news, because she was so devastated and crying so hard, but it comforts her to know that, "Dad got to see that baby first up in heaven." *sigh*
Not that I begrudge them their sadness... or their comforts. I know it's sad. People I have never even met face to face are sad about it, and I get that.
My mother-in-law took the prize for worst response, though. Three days after we'd called to tell her what happened, she called us. Not to ask if we needed anything. Not to inquire how we were doing. No. Instead, she calls my husband's cell (she wouldn't dare call mine and do this) to scream at him, "You haven't called me in three days and you obviously don't want to talk to me!"
WTH?!
M. didn't even tell me she called and said something. It wasn't until I overheard him on the phone with her, telling her how inappropriate her comments had been and how much he didn't appreciate it, that I realized. It's not like this is the first time she's done something like this - it's just that I can't think of a worse time and circumstance. I knew she liked to play the narcissistic martyr... but now? Really? In the midst of the mourning of the death of my child, she's going to play the martyr card and make us take care of her feelings?
Honestly, I can't do it. I've obviously been willing to before, seeing as I have so many of these types of people around me. In the past, I've been willing to suppress my own feelings to take care of everyone else's feelings around me, to let them think they were bigger, more important, than my own. But this grief is too big even for me to contain. I can't do it.
There have been times, in the past, I've thought that I should just do something drastic, or check myself into a mental hospital, just to "prove" that I'm not really as strong - at least on the inside - and everyone else seems to think I am. But in this case, it's not a consideration, or a rational thought... it's a real possibility. I cry all day. I sit for hours doing/staring at nothing. I forget to do the most basic things. Like take a shower. Or brush my teeth. Or eat. I hear babies crying. And I'm not sure it's all in my head.
What I want to do is crawl into a closet and stay there. I used to do it when I was little, whenever my parents would fight. It was rare that anyone came looking for me, and I once spent the entire night asleep in the closet. I emerged in the morning, and no one knew I'd been in there. That pretty much sums up how "strong" I am in the face of emotional stress. I hide, and no one notices, and everyone mistakes it for my being brave.
Every day, the closet seems more and more appealing.
Part of it is, I guess no one knows what to say.
I prepared myself for an outpouring of sympathy. Just in case. The strange image that kept coming to me was Illyria from Buffy - armored and distant. I just decided to pretend I wasn't human. I'm just a visitor here to your planet. No feelings at all. What is this strange thing you call sadness? That was the most drastic thing I could think of, to keep the grief at bay. Otherwise, it's like trying to plug the Hoover Dam with bubble gum... (and we're all out of bubble gum?) I knew I would just break down and flood the room with my mourning, and what good would that be for everyone, including me? So... I was prepared.
But from the time we arrived at our little Easter gathering, most of my family didn't even mention it. Not even my brother-in-law in his before dinner prayer, who almost always mentions something personal, even if it's just "keep us all safe on the journey home," etc. Yesterday's prayer was the shortest and most general I've ever heard him deliver.
I brought my pictures of William and waited for the subject to come up. And I waited. And waited. I finally realized no one was going to say anything unless I did. Probably because they didn't know how I would handle it if they said something, I rationalized. So I finally showed my mom his pictures, and gave her the ones I'd had printed for her. I also asked her if she wanted some of his ashes - we decided to give some of William's ashes to the grandfathers he was named after. She said she did.
Once she was looking at the pictures, then my sisters and my niece wanted to see as well, and we talked about him a little, and about what happened. But I found it really interesting that none of the men - my brother-in-law, my nephew - wanted to hear about it or see him. They left the room in a hurry, and it ironically reminded me of whenever I have a newborn and start nursing them in public.
I think women understand on a more visceral level. Men are so bodily and experientially removed from it, it's probably even more horrifying and terrifying to them. Not that some women don't say all the wrong things...
My oldest sister told me how strong I was, that she was a mess when she found out, and she was glad my niece (in-law), S., was the one who came to the hospital to be with us, because she didn't know if she could have handled it. And my 2nd oldest sister told me all about how she had to pull over when she heard the news, because she was so devastated and crying so hard, but it comforts her to know that, "Dad got to see that baby first up in heaven." *sigh*
Not that I begrudge them their sadness... or their comforts. I know it's sad. People I have never even met face to face are sad about it, and I get that.
My mother-in-law took the prize for worst response, though. Three days after we'd called to tell her what happened, she called us. Not to ask if we needed anything. Not to inquire how we were doing. No. Instead, she calls my husband's cell (she wouldn't dare call mine and do this) to scream at him, "You haven't called me in three days and you obviously don't want to talk to me!"
WTH?!
M. didn't even tell me she called and said something. It wasn't until I overheard him on the phone with her, telling her how inappropriate her comments had been and how much he didn't appreciate it, that I realized. It's not like this is the first time she's done something like this - it's just that I can't think of a worse time and circumstance. I knew she liked to play the narcissistic martyr... but now? Really? In the midst of the mourning of the death of my child, she's going to play the martyr card and make us take care of her feelings?
Honestly, I can't do it. I've obviously been willing to before, seeing as I have so many of these types of people around me. In the past, I've been willing to suppress my own feelings to take care of everyone else's feelings around me, to let them think they were bigger, more important, than my own. But this grief is too big even for me to contain. I can't do it.
There have been times, in the past, I've thought that I should just do something drastic, or check myself into a mental hospital, just to "prove" that I'm not really as strong - at least on the inside - and everyone else seems to think I am. But in this case, it's not a consideration, or a rational thought... it's a real possibility. I cry all day. I sit for hours doing/staring at nothing. I forget to do the most basic things. Like take a shower. Or brush my teeth. Or eat. I hear babies crying. And I'm not sure it's all in my head.
What I want to do is crawl into a closet and stay there. I used to do it when I was little, whenever my parents would fight. It was rare that anyone came looking for me, and I once spent the entire night asleep in the closet. I emerged in the morning, and no one knew I'd been in there. That pretty much sums up how "strong" I am in the face of emotional stress. I hide, and no one notices, and everyone mistakes it for my being brave.
Every day, the closet seems more and more appealing.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Wallpaper
I put William's picture up as wallpaper on my computer screen.
For a week, I resisted, thinking it was too morbid, strange. It would be too painful, I told myself. I wouldn't be able to handle it. It would just make me sad.
But for some reason, I did it anyway. An impulse. Maybe even an instinct.
And I didn't know what a comfort it would be to see him when I opened my laptop every morning. THERE's my baby. My whole body relaxes. I don't understand it, I don't know why, but I can breathe again when I recognize his face. It's like a part of me going missing that I rediscover every day.
I don't know if it's part of the mourning process, or even just the hormones. I remember after the birth of my live babies, taking a shower afterwards, and feeling rushed and anxious. My baby was waiting. My baby needed me. I needed my baby. Being separated in those first days or weeks was excruciating, wrong. I couldn't wrap my head around it.
And I feel that way now. Even though he's dead, even though rationally, intellectually, I know he's gone. It doesn't matter. It's like my body hasn't caught up to my head yet. It still wants what it wants, and just seeing his face makes it better. It relaxes me almost instantly. It's surprising, even shocking to me, that I feel relief and calm instead of pain when I see him. But I do.
My mother-in-law asked me yesterday if we were going to "do this again." This. Have a baby. Again. I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind. I also can't say that I'm not terrified at the idea of being pregnant again.
Then she revealed the reason she asked, "Well, I just...I have some little outfits and things for him, but I can't return them, and I don't know what you want to do with them...sell them? Keep them? I don't know."
Me either. "I guess I'll take them...and decide later?"
"Well...I just don't want to give them to you if they're going to make you sad."
Ha. Now that made me want to laugh. As if. As if it could get any worse. Because right now, breathing makes me sad. There aren't any degrees. My life is so twisted, so strange, so surreal, so turned on its head upside-down, that looking into the face of my dead son is the most calming experience in the world to me right now.
If I could have his body still, I'd be holding it, decaying or not. I would. I understand how mother's minds snap, how they end up dressing up and carrying baby dolls and calling them by their dead child's name. I really get that, on a visceral level I never could have fathomed before William was gone.
That's how much I want him.
For a week, I resisted, thinking it was too morbid, strange. It would be too painful, I told myself. I wouldn't be able to handle it. It would just make me sad.
But for some reason, I did it anyway. An impulse. Maybe even an instinct.
And I didn't know what a comfort it would be to see him when I opened my laptop every morning. THERE's my baby. My whole body relaxes. I don't understand it, I don't know why, but I can breathe again when I recognize his face. It's like a part of me going missing that I rediscover every day.
I don't know if it's part of the mourning process, or even just the hormones. I remember after the birth of my live babies, taking a shower afterwards, and feeling rushed and anxious. My baby was waiting. My baby needed me. I needed my baby. Being separated in those first days or weeks was excruciating, wrong. I couldn't wrap my head around it.
And I feel that way now. Even though he's dead, even though rationally, intellectually, I know he's gone. It doesn't matter. It's like my body hasn't caught up to my head yet. It still wants what it wants, and just seeing his face makes it better. It relaxes me almost instantly. It's surprising, even shocking to me, that I feel relief and calm instead of pain when I see him. But I do.
My mother-in-law asked me yesterday if we were going to "do this again." This. Have a baby. Again. I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind. I also can't say that I'm not terrified at the idea of being pregnant again.
Then she revealed the reason she asked, "Well, I just...I have some little outfits and things for him, but I can't return them, and I don't know what you want to do with them...sell them? Keep them? I don't know."
Me either. "I guess I'll take them...and decide later?"
"Well...I just don't want to give them to you if they're going to make you sad."
Ha. Now that made me want to laugh. As if. As if it could get any worse. Because right now, breathing makes me sad. There aren't any degrees. My life is so twisted, so strange, so surreal, so turned on its head upside-down, that looking into the face of my dead son is the most calming experience in the world to me right now.
If I could have his body still, I'd be holding it, decaying or not. I would. I understand how mother's minds snap, how they end up dressing up and carrying baby dolls and calling them by their dead child's name. I really get that, on a visceral level I never could have fathomed before William was gone.
That's how much I want him.
Soundtrack of our Lives
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me
Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Wont you let me go down in my dreams
And rockabye sweet baby James...
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Home
M. went to the funeral home to get William's ashes yesterday. I stayed home with the kids to hard boil eggs. The Easter bunny is coming on Sunday, and we have to have eggs for him to hide. Life goes on, even here.
It occurred to me today... I never bought William anything for Easter. Not even a little outfit. Was it just absent-mindedness on my part? Did I jinx myself? Or did I know, somehow, that he wouldn't be here for Easter?
We stood at the table in a circle around my son's ashes, and my husband said a little blessing. And then he said something that made me want to put my fist through a window.
"I'm glad he's home. I didn't know I would feel that way, but I feel better, knowing he's here."
You see, I had the exact opposite reaction.
My son is most decidedly NOT home, and holding a plastic bag full of his ashes made that awful point even more horrifyingly true. William is gone, and only his ashes remain. We might have what's left of him, maybe, but he is not home.
Trust me, I've looked.
He is not in his cosleeper, tucked next to our bed, nor is he in his crib. He is not in the diapers I lovingly chose and washed in preparation for his arrival. He is not in any of the little onesies or outfits family and friends excitedly bought for us. He is not in his swing or the bouncy seat or his car seat or his sling. He is most definitely not in my arms, or at my breast.
He is not home.
He will never be home.The only thing we have are his ashes, an amazingly tiny bit of dust in a plastic bag with a metal tag and a number on it, brought home in a black plastic box placed in a black gift bag. Some gift. Thanks a lot.
Like the memory box, it's just another thing to put on a shelf. Something that will gather dust, that we'll move from place to place. Babies don't belong on shelves. Children don't belong in closets. The life that once started, developed and grew within me is gone. In the black box on my dresser is just what's left of the vessel he moved into, and ultimately, out of.
The truth is, I don't want a memorial. I don't want William's ashes. I want my baby. I want to hold him, I want to nurse him, I want to watch him change hour to hour, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year. Ashes don't grow. Ashes don't smile or coo or give wet, sloppy toddler kisses or say, "I love you, Mommy."
Ashes don't come home.
My son will never come home.
It occurred to me today... I never bought William anything for Easter. Not even a little outfit. Was it just absent-mindedness on my part? Did I jinx myself? Or did I know, somehow, that he wouldn't be here for Easter?
We stood at the table in a circle around my son's ashes, and my husband said a little blessing. And then he said something that made me want to put my fist through a window.
"I'm glad he's home. I didn't know I would feel that way, but I feel better, knowing he's here."
You see, I had the exact opposite reaction.
My son is most decidedly NOT home, and holding a plastic bag full of his ashes made that awful point even more horrifyingly true. William is gone, and only his ashes remain. We might have what's left of him, maybe, but he is not home.
Trust me, I've looked.
He is not in his cosleeper, tucked next to our bed, nor is he in his crib. He is not in the diapers I lovingly chose and washed in preparation for his arrival. He is not in any of the little onesies or outfits family and friends excitedly bought for us. He is not in his swing or the bouncy seat or his car seat or his sling. He is most definitely not in my arms, or at my breast.
He is not home.
He will never be home.The only thing we have are his ashes, an amazingly tiny bit of dust in a plastic bag with a metal tag and a number on it, brought home in a black plastic box placed in a black gift bag. Some gift. Thanks a lot.
Like the memory box, it's just another thing to put on a shelf. Something that will gather dust, that we'll move from place to place. Babies don't belong on shelves. Children don't belong in closets. The life that once started, developed and grew within me is gone. In the black box on my dresser is just what's left of the vessel he moved into, and ultimately, out of.
The truth is, I don't want a memorial. I don't want William's ashes. I want my baby. I want to hold him, I want to nurse him, I want to watch him change hour to hour, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year. Ashes don't grow. Ashes don't smile or coo or give wet, sloppy toddler kisses or say, "I love you, Mommy."
Ashes don't come home.
My son will never come home.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Outside
I should have known I wasn't ready for the world yet, but it was an experiment. Easter is this weekend, and we were supposed to be bringing our brand new baby to both families so they could exclaim and fight over who was going to hold him next. Instead, I'm going empty-bellied and empty-handed. The thought of being in the midst of so many people, not strangers but family, people who are grieving, too, who might want to talk about him, hug me, comfort us... already I'm shrinking into myself just at the thought.
So, tired of pulling frozen food out, we went out to a little local diner for dinner. That was a mistake. The first wave that hit me was, "The last time I was here, my baby was alive." I'd been doing that prodromal labor thing that day - it was the first day, actually, and I kept contracting, wondering if this was really "it." Our oldest son was with us, and we all squeezed into a booth. I remember M. moved the table so I could get my belly in.
But now I slid in without a problem, no longer worried about negotiating my bulk or protecting William from the table edge. He was gone. He should have been here beside me, either in his car seat, or tied to me in a sling. Was it going to be like this forever, I wondered, as I opened the menu to hide my tears. Every place we went, would I think, "The last time I was here, my baby was alive?"
I stared at the menu and I couldn't think. My brain actually wouldn't work. I ordered something. I don't know what it was. M. later said, "I was surprised you ordered that - you had it the night before." I told him I forgot, which wasn't true. It was just the only thing I could think of, because I'd had it recently. The menu was a blur.
When the protection of my menu disappeared, I blinked at the brightness, the sound of conversation, every voice too strident and painful to my ears. It was all too much, sensory overload. I could barely eat my food. I had to remind myself how. Chew and swallow. What was the last thing I'd eaten, I wondered, before William died? What had been his last meal? I hoped there was some sweetness in it.
On the way home, I stared at the cars going by, the strip malls, the gas stations. Life was going on out here, and it was so painful to me I could barely take a full breath. I wanted home, the smallness of my room, the comfort of my bed. I wanted to curl up and die, and if I couldn't die, then at least I could sleep, and if I couldn't sleep, I could cry myself hoarse in the darkness.
I was too exposed out here, too fragile, too vulnerable. I felt as if I had been turned inside out, and all my nerve endings were now on the outside, raw and rubbing up against everything. I didn't resent the world for going on. That was as it should be. But I wasn't part of it, not now, not yet. I was still wandering, lost in the darkness, and coming out into the world was just painful and disorienting. I didn't belong here.
I don't know how I'm going to handle Easter. I'm afraid I'm going to bolt from the room the minute my brother-in-law opens his mouth to pray before the meal. I'm afraid I'm going to burst into tears. Or finally turn to my sister, who keeps saying, "I know it must be easier for you, because you have a knowledge of the birth process..." and scream at her, "Do you think a firefighter mourns the family he lost in a house fire any less because he knows how a fire is started?"
But I probably won't. I'll probably sit there, blinking at the brightness, the noise, just like I did in the restaurant, and wish I was somewhere else until I can crawl back into bed again and cry.
So, tired of pulling frozen food out, we went out to a little local diner for dinner. That was a mistake. The first wave that hit me was, "The last time I was here, my baby was alive." I'd been doing that prodromal labor thing that day - it was the first day, actually, and I kept contracting, wondering if this was really "it." Our oldest son was with us, and we all squeezed into a booth. I remember M. moved the table so I could get my belly in.
But now I slid in without a problem, no longer worried about negotiating my bulk or protecting William from the table edge. He was gone. He should have been here beside me, either in his car seat, or tied to me in a sling. Was it going to be like this forever, I wondered, as I opened the menu to hide my tears. Every place we went, would I think, "The last time I was here, my baby was alive?"
I stared at the menu and I couldn't think. My brain actually wouldn't work. I ordered something. I don't know what it was. M. later said, "I was surprised you ordered that - you had it the night before." I told him I forgot, which wasn't true. It was just the only thing I could think of, because I'd had it recently. The menu was a blur.
When the protection of my menu disappeared, I blinked at the brightness, the sound of conversation, every voice too strident and painful to my ears. It was all too much, sensory overload. I could barely eat my food. I had to remind myself how. Chew and swallow. What was the last thing I'd eaten, I wondered, before William died? What had been his last meal? I hoped there was some sweetness in it.
On the way home, I stared at the cars going by, the strip malls, the gas stations. Life was going on out here, and it was so painful to me I could barely take a full breath. I wanted home, the smallness of my room, the comfort of my bed. I wanted to curl up and die, and if I couldn't die, then at least I could sleep, and if I couldn't sleep, I could cry myself hoarse in the darkness.
I was too exposed out here, too fragile, too vulnerable. I felt as if I had been turned inside out, and all my nerve endings were now on the outside, raw and rubbing up against everything. I didn't resent the world for going on. That was as it should be. But I wasn't part of it, not now, not yet. I was still wandering, lost in the darkness, and coming out into the world was just painful and disorienting. I didn't belong here.
I don't know how I'm going to handle Easter. I'm afraid I'm going to bolt from the room the minute my brother-in-law opens his mouth to pray before the meal. I'm afraid I'm going to burst into tears. Or finally turn to my sister, who keeps saying, "I know it must be easier for you, because you have a knowledge of the birth process..." and scream at her, "Do you think a firefighter mourns the family he lost in a house fire any less because he knows how a fire is started?"
But I probably won't. I'll probably sit there, blinking at the brightness, the noise, just like I did in the restaurant, and wish I was somewhere else until I can crawl back into bed again and cry.
Snow Family
It's a little melty here, but you can see how they wrapped up the baby to keep him warm...
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