William Reborn - Sleeping

The second "William Reborn" - the sleeping one - is home. We chose the Tamie Yarie "Kaelyn" sculpt, and I have to say, Marilyn Kangas, the artist who "reborned" (rebirthed?) William, did such an amazing job. I was simply speechless when I saw him. 

Slideshow

Here's my sweet little man...

And a picture of "William Reborn" sleeping... 

William

William Reborn

Z. looking at William Reborn

 Z. holding William Reborn

William Reborn

The term "reborn" is so bittersweet. Of course William can't be reborn...as much as I wish he could be. But holding this baby doll, this incredibly life-like vessel of my memory, the same weight, the same coloring, the same sweet tiny mouth and ears, in those moments, William is reborn to me in some way. 

I remember M. bringing William's ashes back from the funeral home, and his relief in that moment - that William was home. But that wasn't my baby. An urn was cold comfort to me. My baby was now ash and bone - what was left? What was left for me to hold?

Several amazing and kind friends gave me a memory necklace, bracelet, keychain... and I wear them, every day, I wear them. And still, it's just not enough.

Gana the gorilla wouldn't let anyone take her baby. Brave girl. Brave, brave girl. I wish I'd growled and threatened and run. But I didn't. My baby was taken. Mine was taken from me, and somehow I feel as if some process of mourning was interrupted. I needed my baby, I needed to hold him and grieve him, perhaps even see his body decompose, to realize the finality of my loss. I never got that - and I won't. Ever.

I can, however, cradle this William - reborn - and hold my memory in my hands. The weight of him - the weight of the world - all and nothing. He is so like William, and he is not. It eerily mirrors my experience of birthing William. I had him...but I didn't. Here...and gone. So real...but not. 

Such a painful paradox, holding both of those things at once, in my arms...in my head...in my heart.

Chasing Rainbows

Another mama gets her rainbow baby.

 I hope to join you soon, Gana.

Me, too. Me, too!

That's me. Chasing rainbows.

Messes

I went into my son's room two nights ago to get him up to pee. He's seven, and still sometimes wets the bed, so we like to get a "reassurance pee" in for him around midnight before M. and I go to bed. I'm almost always sleepy and lazy by then and if I bat my eyelashes and whine a little, M. will usually give in and do it (even if we have a somewhat worked-out schedule...) But that night, I made the trek upstairs and shook the little guy awake.

He's a deep, deep sleeper - like his mama. He's very disoriented when we wake him and will usually just roll over and go back to sleep unless we insist. I insisted, marching him to the bathroom and standing at the sink waiting - running the water for a little incentive. Finally, he peed, turned immediately  around and trudged back to his room. I didn't even make a fuss about him calling him back to wash his hands - I just quickly flushed the toilet and went to tuck him in.

I love them when they're sleeping. Even the big kids look so sweet when they're asleep... and he's still my baby. My youngest living child, now that William is gone. I snuggled up behind him for a moment, kissed him again and again indulgently the way I can only when he's sleeping now that he's a big boy, whispered my goodnights and I love you's, although I'm sure he was already out and beyond hearing me, and then went back downstairs to go to sleep.

In the morning, we woke to a flood. The toilet I had so quickly flushed had overflowed and continued running...all night long. From midnight until about seven in the morning. What a disaster... M. and I ran around, figuring out what had happened - not a burst pipe, okay, that's good; assessing the damage - one light fixture was completely ruined, and hot, so we had to turn the breaker off to that part of the house; and then of course, beginning the cleanup.

And it occurred to me, as I mopped the floor, that the night before, I'd gone to bed, thinking everything was fine. I'd gone to sleep with the image of my sweet boy in my head, lamenting how fast it was all going...and woke up to a flood. Not unlike finding out William was gone... one moment, everything was fine - sweet, even - and the next, disaster. 

But life is like that. Life is like that not just once, but over and over and over.

Still, floods I can handle. In fact, I handle them with much more patience and calmness than I ever have before. Floods are nothing. Messes? Feh! Whatever. Messes can be cleaned. At least...those kind can.

If only I could have just mopped up the mess after William died. If only it was that easy. 

Remembering Caleb Michael

Several weeks before William was stillborn, an online friend developed very very severe preeclampsia and delivered her little man too early. He was on the edge of viability, and they have been doing everything possible to keep him healthy in the NICU since. I have been following her journey and rooting for that sweet little boy... I want her/them to be a success story. My heart has a vested interest in that.

A few days ago, she announced that her sister's baby, nearly full term, was stillborn. Went in for an NST and no heartbeat.

I just stared up at the sky and said, "Really?!?!?"

I mean, come on, universe/God/whoeverorwhateveryouare... REALLY!?

How much grief and heartache can you heap on one family? That is just... all kinds of wrong. Where is the justice? Where does it end?

Hearing about another baby gone just brings it back, makes it so immediate again. I remember. I remember. And I want to reach out to that mama, so grief-stricken, in pain, or maybe numb and still in shock. There is so much I regret. She doesn't quite know what's coming yet. There is so much I want to tell her...to tell my friend to tell her sister...

Tell her to hold him. Hold him as long as she wants. If she's afraid, tell her its okay. Encourage her to hold him anyway. The fear is worse than the reality. The reality is soft and precious and hers. All hers. Tell her she's not crazy for wanting to hold him and love him. Tell her he's beautiful. Tell her to gently open his eyes and look at their color. Tell her to unwrap him, all of him. Talk to him. Sing to him. Remind her to look at everything, everything, every little tiny part, because this will be the only chance she'll have. Get pictures that way, too. Every detail. Hands and feet. Encourage her to give him a gentle bath, to dress him, to sing to him, to talk to him and tell him how much she loves him and wanted to meet him. Have pictures taken of him without all the wrappings, too... she may think she won't want to remember him that way, but she will regret not having them later. And get pictures of the tiniest things... the soles of the feet, the palms of the hands, the top of his head, his little spine and bum, all of him, as much as possible. And video, too, if someone has one and can do it. She will want it. She will. If he has a lot of hair, remember to cut some for her and put it in an envelope. Say his name out loud. A lot. Tell her how beautiful he is. She'll know it, and she'll feel it, but she may be afraid to say it until you do. Acknowledge how perfect and amazing he is.

If they don't do professional photos at the hospital, consider NILMDTS.

Help her with those decisions you have to make right away - funeral services or no? Cremation or burial? They're hard. I regret not having a service. I thought I couldn't face it, but I wish I had been braver.

You can give her a book to read later:

Life Touches Life
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination
When Bad Things Happen to Good People
The Next Place

You can also make up a list of web resources for her. She'll probably want to connect with other mothers who experienced a loss like this - it becomes such a wonderful lifeline. I spent hours reading blogs of stories of stillbirth after my William was gone.

MDC Pregnancy and Loss Board
www.missfoundation.org
www.stillbirthalliance.org
www.babyangelpics.com
Glow in the Woods
Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss Directory
Missing Angels Memorial Pictures
Stillbirth in the News

Tell her you love her. Tell her you're listening.

And keep listening. And loving.

And always remember....

CALEB MICHAEL
JULY 29, 2009

William Sleeping v 1.0

The reborn artist has finished painting sleeping "reborn William."

Every time I look at their pictures side by side, I'm amazed at how much this sculpt looks like my boy!

Now she just has to root the hair and of course attach it all to a body.

He might be ready to come home as early as Saturday!

Under Cover

I can't do it. I can't be smiling and happy and chatty around people I don't know. I just can't do it.

I've never been an extrovert, one of those people who strikes up conversations with strangers at the playground. That's not me anyway.

 But now? Now it's more than being introverted and quiet. Now it's avoiding. Every time someone looks my way, I feel exposed. I want to hide or run away. I feel as if, every time someone opens their mouth to speak, their words are potential weapons. Anyone could say anything at any moment that could hurt me. Every interaction holds the possibility of pain.

I feel like someone who gets stuck with needles all day, constantly on the lookout for the next poke.

M. has been gung-ho lately about making "playdates" for the kids since it's now summer and we don't have any kids around for them to play with. I know it's selfish, but I have such a hard time with it. I don't want to talk to other mothers, women who have all their children alive. And I definitely don't want to be around other mothers who have babies.

Even normal conversation hurts.

"Hi, how are you?" Crappy, my baby died. "Fine. You?"

"Gorgeous day, isn't it?" No, not in my world it isn't. The sun might be shining on your side, but it's dark and raining over here all the time. "Yeah, the kids love it."

Smiling hurts my face. I wear dark glasses all the time, even inside, like I've been beaten and am trying to hide the bruises, when what I'm really hiding are my constant tears.

Although most of the time I do feel beaten. Beaten up and beaten down. I don't want to look into anyone's eyes. I don't want to have to pretend it doesn't hurt and I don't want to have to explain my pain. I don't want to see the pity in someone else's eyes. I don't want to know they're feeling sorry for me. I don't want to be afraid, holding my breath, waiting for the next unintentionally hurtful thing.

Because it's coming. I know it's coming. And the anticipation is always worse than the reality. When I'm out in the world, I'm always wary, watching, crouched and ready for the next blow. At least when I'm alone, I don't have to ward off attacks from anyone but me and my own conscience.

And I do a good enough job, I think, at beating myself up. More than good enough. I don't need it from all sides. I really, really don't.

An Open Letter: My Mental Health

An open letter to those of you who have inquired after my mental health, upon learning I'd commissioned a "reborn" doll that looks like my son... 

Clearly, this idea bothers you, or you wouldn't be writing me about it, inquiring about and fearing for my mental stability. And as a psychologist, I can totally understand why. I didn't enter into this decision lightly. My husband, too, is a psychologist, and we talked a long time about it, and what it would mean, and how we would handle it, if I decided to get a "reborn" of William done.

Anything, truly anything, can be done in the "right" or "wrong" way, a "healthy" or "unhealthy" way. Anything can become an object of obsession. I could become obsessed with one of my daughter's generic dolls and carry it around and pretend it's William.

So when you talk about something crossing a line, certainly, there is one, I agree. But the existence of a reborn doll, or even a mother having one made to resemble her baby, isn't on the "unhealthy" side of that line. What falls on the unhealthy side of that line is when it moves into obsession.

When you lose a baby to stillbirth, you have very, very little time with your baby. I have so many regrets, so many things I never got to say or do with him. Not as a "live" baby - he was born dead, and I accept that - but to love him and honor him after he was gone. I never opened his eyes, I never rocked him and sang to him, I never got to dress or undress him, and I certainly didn't get to hold him long enough.

For me, this doll is no different than having pictures of my son - which I do have. And some people think THAT crosses a line, that it's weird and morbid to have pictures of my dead baby. But that is where my memory resides... and having his picture helps me remember him, it helps me mourn. So does having this doll - it's like a picture I can cuddle. :)

As for my children, they are healing, and the reborn has actually helped them a great deal. They've talked more about William and their feelings about their little brother and his death more in the past week than they have in the past three months.

And you have to remember, this is just three months after my son's death. We're still taking baby steps in the mourning process. Some statistics say you don't fully recover from the death of a child for six to eight YEARS after they're gone.

I totally understand your hesitation, but I can reassure you that I'm very aware of the possibility of something like this (or anything, really) becoming an obsession, and I have plenty of safeguards in place.

Thanks, though, for your concern!