He Said, She Said

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

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

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

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

*** 

HE SAID:  

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

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

And you told me to breathe and let go. 

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

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

***

SHE SAID: 

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

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

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

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

I love you.

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

***  

HE SAID: 

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

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

Freecycled

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even that, just that, is a relief.

Good Enough

I'm a horrible mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you, I'm a horrible mother.

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

I hated that guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chorus: "Yeah!"

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

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

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

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

who loves her children, very very much.

Out of Nowhere

Things come out of nowhere.

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

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

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

***

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

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

Good for me. Right.

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

***

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

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

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

The world is a really twisted place.

***

So I'm paranoid. Can you blame me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Body Memory

My hormones are shifting.

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

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

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

I don't want to forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The article also said:

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

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

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

It might be. It just might.

Weathering Storms

I was supposed to go out and plant William's flowers today, but by the time I got my act together, it started to rain. But it wasn't just any rain... it was a sudden storm. My email is set up to tell me about storms, but I wasn't on the computer at the time. (M. calls me "weather girl" because I always know what the weather is going to be - he asks every morning, "What's the forecast, weather girl?")

And this one gave us very little warning. One minute, it was sunny and beautiful. The next, it turned dark, the winds picked up, and the sky opened and began to pour. I called the kids in - they came running - and we hurried around the house closing windows and doors and then stood shivering at the doorwall, watching the lightning and listening to the thunder. Both kids huddled with me, one on each side, and I realized how frightened I am now in the face of nature.

Standing there, I put on a brave face for the kids, but inside, I was trembling. One of the reasons I always check the weather is so I can plan. Another reason - the real reason, if I'm being honest - is so I can believe I have some modicum of control. If I know what's coming, surely I can get out of the way...

But sometimes there's no warning. Sometimes lightning strikes anyway, even if there is a warning. And always, nature wins. Tsunamis, tornados, the new swine flu, a landslide, a house fire, cancer, a stillborn baby... who can fight against that? It's like punching clouds, flailing at fog, snapping at rain, screaming into a storm. What good does it do? 

I can't fight it, I can't avoid it, I can't predict it. I can only stand and weather it, whatever comes. There's no doppler radar, no early warning system. Life is going to keep on rolling, until it doesn't, at least for me, anymore. It's going to keep on keeping on, no matter what I do, what I want, whether I'm here or not, whether my child is dead or not. My fear won't stop it. My anger won't either.

It's a humbling and awesome realization.

A Mother's Heart

I have a necklace I'm wearing in William's memory. I took some pictures of it. (Those are also the blanket, hat and booties he wore in the hospital...)

It's a heart I wear over my own, and it opens, like a little envelope. There's a thin silver heart inside with an engraving.

It didn't feel right to have his name engraved on it. It felt disloyal to my other children, and I didn't want them to feel William had a different place in my life and heart than they did. He is my child, as they are, and always will be. I love them all.

So I had it engraved with this: 

A mother's 

heart knows 

no time