The world hums. A vibration of life and the passage of time and I feel it resonating in my bones. The only two things to be sure of in life are change and death. One inevitable and the other unavoidable and permanent. Oh yes, and it is the permanence that is the very heart of every tear and every wail and every silent scream for the rest of my life.
Awaking in a new place for the first time this morning- change. But the first thought in the lightening blue of dawn is a familiar one; how could this have happened to him? Followed by a new one; today he died this year but tomorrow he died last year.
And "last year" seems so far away. So very dead for so very long and so very long just keeps getting longer. The slow progression of afternoon shadows, growing until the night comes to absorb them.
This year. For eight more hours it is still The Year of George.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
to remember him
I went to buy toys today to give to the Children's Hospital in memory of George for the Holidays. It is something that I think I will be doing every year and with toys for whatever age group he would be a part of. I bought toys that were age appropriate for both nine month olds and for six month olds because I can never seem to reconcile in my mind how old he would be right now if he had not died. Six months if his heart had never started beating too fast or nearly nine months had by some enormous stroke of luck he survived after having five weeks of heart failure and being born at 29 weeks gestation.
I walked around those aisles for a good twenty minutes, glassy eyed, before deciding on three plush crib toys that play music when their bellies are squeezed. I tried to imagine them in the cribs and bringing some fun to their recipients but I had a difficult time going to that place in my head. Parents zoomed around, stuffing toys in their carts, and I just stood there on the verge of tears the entire time. I don't even think they noticed the sullen-looking woman with three stuffed animals in her arms and tears in her eyes.
Then I got home and made the mistake of getting on one of those birth club message boards for June 2010. I was feeling particularly masochistic and wanted to see what all the other babies who were born when George should have been look like and what they were doing. It was like pulling the curtain back for a brief moment on that alternate life of mine. I didn't stay long.
After today I am not feeling so brave any longer about the actual trip to the Children's Hospital to drop off the toys. It isn't a hospital that I associate with George as he was born in another hospital miles away. But my fear is that when I hand it off to the volunteers they will want to make small talk and I will burst into tears. Spontaneous human combustion. Only with tears and snot instead of with fire. But I will go anyway because it is so incredibly important to me that I do something in his memory this year.
I want to say thank you to Susan, Jenn, and Jennifer who all made ornaments for George this year. They are so beautiful and because we don't have a tree this year they are sitting on our mantle where I can see them everyday. Thank you for remembering him and doing something for us to acknowledge his life. Leif and I both need that acknowledgment so much.
I walked around those aisles for a good twenty minutes, glassy eyed, before deciding on three plush crib toys that play music when their bellies are squeezed. I tried to imagine them in the cribs and bringing some fun to their recipients but I had a difficult time going to that place in my head. Parents zoomed around, stuffing toys in their carts, and I just stood there on the verge of tears the entire time. I don't even think they noticed the sullen-looking woman with three stuffed animals in her arms and tears in her eyes.
Then I got home and made the mistake of getting on one of those birth club message boards for June 2010. I was feeling particularly masochistic and wanted to see what all the other babies who were born when George should have been look like and what they were doing. It was like pulling the curtain back for a brief moment on that alternate life of mine. I didn't stay long.
After today I am not feeling so brave any longer about the actual trip to the Children's Hospital to drop off the toys. It isn't a hospital that I associate with George as he was born in another hospital miles away. But my fear is that when I hand it off to the volunteers they will want to make small talk and I will burst into tears. Spontaneous human combustion. Only with tears and snot instead of with fire. But I will go anyway because it is so incredibly important to me that I do something in his memory this year.
I want to say thank you to Susan, Jenn, and Jennifer who all made ornaments for George this year. They are so beautiful and because we don't have a tree this year they are sitting on our mantle where I can see them everyday. Thank you for remembering him and doing something for us to acknowledge his life. Leif and I both need that acknowledgment so much.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
portlandia
Portland is such an awesome city.
It is where young people go to retire.
Where the tattoo ink never runs dry.
Where all the hot girls wear glasses.
and where wearing flannel shirts still looks fly.
Portland + Fred Armisen = This show is going to be Awesome.
Friday, December 17, 2010
employed
I went in today to sign some paperwork and to get the hiring process started. After my background check is finished and I review/sign the contract I will officially be employed.
It has been a really difficult process trying to find a job that I felt like was a good match for me. I sent out so many resumes and went to so many interviews only to find that each place had a pretty significant issue that made me feel very doubtful that it would be a good working situation for me. This job came along right before I was about to accept a position that I had strong reservations about. It has nearly everything I had on my dream job wish list and the things that were on that list that it doesn't have were not ones that I was overly concerned about. The best thing about it is that the group I will be working for is incredibly supportive of their employees and highly values the balance between work and personal life.
Finally, after so many years of school and all the drama that ensued with my program in regards to graduation because of the the time I had to take off (a whopping two and a half weeks) after my c-section with George, I am going to be able to actually put all my hard work to some use.
Of course, this does mean my internet time is going to be severely limited...
Oh, my lovely internet, I will miss you and all the things I learn from you. At least I don't start for another six weeks so I have some time to adjust to life without you in it everyday.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
ghost in the kitchen
I got up this morning and helped Leif get ready for work- made him breakfast and ironed his shirt. He cleaned up the kitchen for me before I got out of bed so it was a fair trade. After he left I showered and then promptly crawled back into bed.
It is now 1:00 in the afternoon.
I am still in bed.
I feel like there are so many things to take care of and worry about right now that I've made the unconscious decision to turn them all off. I feel like a circuit has been shorted out.
Click. Hum. Silence.
I watched an episode of television while laying in bed and the last scene was of four adult siblings -all with families of their own- hanging out and laughing in the kitchen after Thanksgiving. In the corner, unbeknownst to them, was their mother quietly observing them and obviously quite proud.
My "what would he be like" visions used to only go so far- two or three years in the future. A blond-headed toddler with muddy knees and ruddy cheeks. A freckled face turned up to ask a question for the thousandth time in one day. A smile that reminded me of his father. Now those visions stretch far ahead and I wonder what kind of man he would have become.
Would he have been close to his siblings?
Would he have been a traveller?
What would he have done with his life?
Who would he have fallen in love with?
Would he have had children of his own?
I don't think that these questions will ever go away. Even if I am lucky to have children in the future and they are able to grow up into adults. I will forever be the woman observing from the corner her adult children hanging out and laughing in the kitchen, quite proud of them. But also squinting to see the ghost of their older brother and wondering about the man he would have become.
I don't want to be that woman. I don't want to carry this around forever. It is very, very heavy and I am so incredibly tired of this grief. I want someone to take it away for awhile. I want to feel, even just for an hour, like the person I was before March 31, 2010.
It is now 1:00 in the afternoon.
I am still in bed.
I feel like there are so many things to take care of and worry about right now that I've made the unconscious decision to turn them all off. I feel like a circuit has been shorted out.
Click. Hum. Silence.
I watched an episode of television while laying in bed and the last scene was of four adult siblings -all with families of their own- hanging out and laughing in the kitchen after Thanksgiving. In the corner, unbeknownst to them, was their mother quietly observing them and obviously quite proud.
My "what would he be like" visions used to only go so far- two or three years in the future. A blond-headed toddler with muddy knees and ruddy cheeks. A freckled face turned up to ask a question for the thousandth time in one day. A smile that reminded me of his father. Now those visions stretch far ahead and I wonder what kind of man he would have become.
Would he have been close to his siblings?
Would he have been a traveller?
What would he have done with his life?
Who would he have fallen in love with?
Would he have had children of his own?
I don't think that these questions will ever go away. Even if I am lucky to have children in the future and they are able to grow up into adults. I will forever be the woman observing from the corner her adult children hanging out and laughing in the kitchen, quite proud of them. But also squinting to see the ghost of their older brother and wondering about the man he would have become.
I don't want to be that woman. I don't want to carry this around forever. It is very, very heavy and I am so incredibly tired of this grief. I want someone to take it away for awhile. I want to feel, even just for an hour, like the person I was before March 31, 2010.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
walking the Grief high wire
In my last post I inadvertently touched on a very sensitive subject. Well, actually I knew it was a sensitive subject but I thought I did a pretty good job at explaining myself about being faced with the challenges of participating in other people's lives when it comes to pregnancies and infants while also grieving the loss of a baby. I am red-faced because I did not do such a great job of explaining it at all. I think now, in hindsight, that the explanation and the feelings behind that deserved their own post entirely.
If grief was an object, it would be a high wire (if it was a person it would be David Bowie). You start out from one end, marked by the death of your child, with no one giving you any real direction on how to traverse the Grief high wire. You are not given a balancing pole or special shoes or even a net, although occasionally you get to a point where you can rest for a moment before you have to be on your way again. Despite this you go forward because otherwise it means being stuck or worse yet, falling to your death below.
As the walk lengthens and time passes you become aware of what exists on each side of the Grief high wire. On one side, should you fall, you would fall into the deepest despair and depression imaginable. On the other side, should you fall, you would fall into pretending that everything is perfectly alright even though your baby is dead. Either way you are lost. Either way you are no longer you. You are either a black shadow of your former self or a dollar store replica of yourself- plastic and cheap. Either way you are lonely from fake relationships or no relationships at all.
It is difficult to find the balance as you walk. Not just for yourself but for everyone else who is living their lives in the midst of your high wire act. People are watching you as they go along their own lives. Some of them make tremendous efforts to help. They watch with baited breath and are scared that you may fall off. So they try to help in whatever way they can. You have the cheerleaders rooting for you, the engineers trying to steady the wire, the philosophers trying to keep you focused, and the clergy praying for you. It helps. All of it. But ultimately you are still on a Grief high wire and you are still there alone.
Some of these people have what you lost when you started this Grief high wire act. Although you are still on that wire, slowly placing one foot in front of the other. You know that they are on their own kind of path, not a Grief high wire, but something else. Most of the time you give them your best and most genuine smile, even though it is still painful up there, because it is real smile. Sometimes you can't and you need to turn away from them to focus on the placement of your feet. All of the time, even through the pain, you are their cheerleader, their engineer, their philosopher, their clergyman.
You share in their joy the way they share in your grief.
They share in your grief and you feel steadied enough by their compassion to share in their joy.
There are other people too. The ones that maybe you knew of in passing (or maybe you knew really well, who knows) before you stepped off that platform. The ones that you still see from time to time from your vantage point, also living their lives in the midst of your hire wire act. They are the ones who look blankly at you as if they can't quite remember where it is or what it is you are doing all the way up there. You look at them and realize that once upon a time they knew but now that you have been walking up there for so long they have forgotten or have chosen to forget. Sometimes it makes you mad. Usually it doesn't. Mostly it just makes you grateful for all the cheerleaders, engineers, philosophers, and clergy you know.
Some of these people have what you lost when you started this Grief high wire act. They want to show those things to you. To the whole world. More times than not, even though you are still walking up there all by yourself and you risk falling off the wire down to the dollar store plastic version of yourself, you want to do for them what they have been unable to do for you. You want to bear witness. But sometimes you just don't have the energy to keep your self perched precariously to that side of the wire.
Then, of course, there are the others. The ones that when you look around you, you see them tottering around on their own Grief high wires. From above, you talk with them. You give them the best support you can and they give you the best support they can.
You trade secrets with them- If you crouch down when things get really bad it lowers your center of gravity and makes it easier to stay balanced.
You talk about experiences with them- I've been doing this for two years already. Trust me, it will always suck but you do get better at keeping your balance.
You commiserate with them- You ever get overwhelmed by the inescapability of all the pregnancy and baby-related content there is in the world and the silence we feel responsible to keep about how it affects us?
It is good. All of it. We need it to survive. At least I do.
But sometimes I forget that all of us on our Grief high wires are not really and totally alone up here even when it feels like we are. The other people in our lives are still there with us, most of them doing their best to understand -even though hopefully they never will because there is only one way to understand life on the Grief high wire- and they are still watching us intently. Watching us intently because they want to be there in case we need a cheerleader, or an engineer, or a philosopher, or a clergyman.
I have forgotten what life was like before being up here. Sometimes I also forget that there are others who aren't on this Grief high wire that are doing the best they can to still be present.
I talk shop. I trade secrets. I commiserate. I forget. I inadvertently touch on a sensitive subject.
I am so fortunate to have so many people in my life who fall squarely into the category of "people who try to help me while I walk this wire" and "people who are walking their own wires." I don't have many people around me who fit in the "people who wan't nothing to do with my grief but want me to participate in their joy" category.
I want to acknowledge that. I want to give it the attention it deserves and say,
Thanks for helping me to keep my footing.
If grief was an object, it would be a high wire (if it was a person it would be David Bowie). You start out from one end, marked by the death of your child, with no one giving you any real direction on how to traverse the Grief high wire. You are not given a balancing pole or special shoes or even a net, although occasionally you get to a point where you can rest for a moment before you have to be on your way again. Despite this you go forward because otherwise it means being stuck or worse yet, falling to your death below.
As the walk lengthens and time passes you become aware of what exists on each side of the Grief high wire. On one side, should you fall, you would fall into the deepest despair and depression imaginable. On the other side, should you fall, you would fall into pretending that everything is perfectly alright even though your baby is dead. Either way you are lost. Either way you are no longer you. You are either a black shadow of your former self or a dollar store replica of yourself- plastic and cheap. Either way you are lonely from fake relationships or no relationships at all.
It is difficult to find the balance as you walk. Not just for yourself but for everyone else who is living their lives in the midst of your high wire act. People are watching you as they go along their own lives. Some of them make tremendous efforts to help. They watch with baited breath and are scared that you may fall off. So they try to help in whatever way they can. You have the cheerleaders rooting for you, the engineers trying to steady the wire, the philosophers trying to keep you focused, and the clergy praying for you. It helps. All of it. But ultimately you are still on a Grief high wire and you are still there alone.
Some of these people have what you lost when you started this Grief high wire act. Although you are still on that wire, slowly placing one foot in front of the other. You know that they are on their own kind of path, not a Grief high wire, but something else. Most of the time you give them your best and most genuine smile, even though it is still painful up there, because it is real smile. Sometimes you can't and you need to turn away from them to focus on the placement of your feet. All of the time, even through the pain, you are their cheerleader, their engineer, their philosopher, their clergyman.
You share in their joy the way they share in your grief.
They share in your grief and you feel steadied enough by their compassion to share in their joy.
There are other people too. The ones that maybe you knew of in passing (or maybe you knew really well, who knows) before you stepped off that platform. The ones that you still see from time to time from your vantage point, also living their lives in the midst of your hire wire act. They are the ones who look blankly at you as if they can't quite remember where it is or what it is you are doing all the way up there. You look at them and realize that once upon a time they knew but now that you have been walking up there for so long they have forgotten or have chosen to forget. Sometimes it makes you mad. Usually it doesn't. Mostly it just makes you grateful for all the cheerleaders, engineers, philosophers, and clergy you know.
Some of these people have what you lost when you started this Grief high wire act. They want to show those things to you. To the whole world. More times than not, even though you are still walking up there all by yourself and you risk falling off the wire down to the dollar store plastic version of yourself, you want to do for them what they have been unable to do for you. You want to bear witness. But sometimes you just don't have the energy to keep your self perched precariously to that side of the wire.
Then, of course, there are the others. The ones that when you look around you, you see them tottering around on their own Grief high wires. From above, you talk with them. You give them the best support you can and they give you the best support they can.
You trade secrets with them- If you crouch down when things get really bad it lowers your center of gravity and makes it easier to stay balanced.
You talk about experiences with them- I've been doing this for two years already. Trust me, it will always suck but you do get better at keeping your balance.
You commiserate with them- You ever get overwhelmed by the inescapability of all the pregnancy and baby-related content there is in the world and the silence we feel responsible to keep about how it affects us?
It is good. All of it. We need it to survive. At least I do.
But sometimes I forget that all of us on our Grief high wires are not really and totally alone up here even when it feels like we are. The other people in our lives are still there with us, most of them doing their best to understand -even though hopefully they never will because there is only one way to understand life on the Grief high wire- and they are still watching us intently. Watching us intently because they want to be there in case we need a cheerleader, or an engineer, or a philosopher, or a clergyman.
I have forgotten what life was like before being up here. Sometimes I also forget that there are others who aren't on this Grief high wire that are doing the best they can to still be present.
I talk shop. I trade secrets. I commiserate. I forget. I inadvertently touch on a sensitive subject.
I am so fortunate to have so many people in my life who fall squarely into the category of "people who try to help me while I walk this wire" and "people who are walking their own wires." I don't have many people around me who fit in the "people who wan't nothing to do with my grief but want me to participate in their joy" category.
I want to acknowledge that. I want to give it the attention it deserves and say,
Thanks for helping me to keep my footing.
Monday, December 13, 2010
a facebook confession
I am about to offend 200 million people. Luckily for me only 0.0001% of those people may actually see this so I think I am relatively safe.
I Do Not Understand Why People Love Facebook.
Let me explain.
Leif has a Facebook account, which he rarely even looks at. I do not have one and I highly doubt that I ever will. But, and I am confessing this dirty little secret...I used to check his account everyday but not so much recently. He knows this, by the way, and is totally fine with it. I am not some crazed and jealous wife who sits at home smoking Marlboro Reds, while guzzling warm PBR and checking her husband's Facebook account during my soap opera's commercial breaks. It was his idea in the first place to give me his password so I could get an idea of what this phenomenon was all about.
BTW, Google, it is so obvious that you are totally jelz of Facebook when your auto spell check on Blogger does not recognize "Facebook" as a legitimate word.
Initially I got on and looked at a bunch of photographs of people I knew from high school via one of my good friend's profile (Hello Good Friend, please don't take my social network site hating personal-like). It was hypnotizing. Like watching a cuttlefish change colors right before it eats its stunned prey.
I am not above mocking the people I never really liked in school in the privacy of my own home (the only thing worse than a teenage bully is an adult one so I tend to keep my mocking private). In fact I am very much below that. I think, upon the first time perusing the Facebook accounts of some people I used to know and not like so much, I actually guffawed*. I guffawed!
But the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
I was hesitant to get an account even before I started looking at Leif's but now I am sure that it is not for me. "Friend" requests (and I use the term "friend" very loosely here), "So and so" is now friends with "so and so" plastered all over the place, photoshop retouched profile photographs, "So and so" likes stuff, poking people, trends for ridiculous things...
I found that the only updates that I was interested in were from people I am already in contact with anyway, which kind of defeats the purpose I think. At least it does for me.
Plus, being on this side of infant death (stillbirth or neonatal) Facebook is not really a friendly place to be. I am sure all the other women on this side of the divide who read this blog would agree with me. I've heard a lot from this community of women who do have accounts how they have to "ignore" a good amount of people because of the incessant beaming and cooing and bragging that they are bombarded with. A great use for that feature, I think. Also a necessary one when you are being constantly reminded of what your child never had the chance to experience**.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
Yet I still get on and check it every other day or so. A morbid fascination. A little bit of masochism. It is like my very own Frienemy. The other day Leif asked me if I ever get bored looking at his account full of people I don't know. Yes. But I don't think it would bore me any less to have one of my own.
So, to the 0.0001% (or less, I'm not going to overestimate my appeal here) of Facebook users who actually read this blog, I'm genuinely interested to know what it is that I am missing. I'm in such a distinct minority (200 million people have accounts!!!) that I am convinced that I am overlooking something on this subject. It is a "Its me, not you," kind of thing.
*ROFLOL in Facebook
**I considered deleting this part because I was afraid of offending people who read this blog, who have babies or are expecting babies, who have never experienced a loss, and who use Facebook. I didn't want to cause the pendulum to swing the other way, so to speak, and make people question too much what it is that they are sharing. But then I decided to leave it as it is with this explanation so as to hopefully ease some of those tensions that it may create.
Sometimes, but not all the time, it is painful to see updates about things Leif and I never got to experience or that George never got to experience. I absolutely do not want people to censor themselves (other than beyond basic courtesy) but I am weary of pretending that at times it is not painful. Being in the minority (and thank God or whoever/whatever that most babies make it into this world just fine) makes things pretty lonely and when faced with daily examples of just how unlucky my son was...well, it sucks.
But that isn't a phenomenon solely attributed to Facebook. That is part of life for us. A part of life that I know many women like me feel badly for talking about. It is why we feel a responsibility to hide our grief and envy away from other women (currently pregnant and/or with infants). It is why we use the term "medusas" to describe ourselves.
So there it is.
I'm leaving that entire part in. For me and for all the other women I know who are too embarrassed (like me) or ashamed (like me) to say that sometimes seeing other people wrapped up in blissful naivety burns.
I Do Not Understand Why People Love Facebook.
Let me explain.
Leif has a Facebook account, which he rarely even looks at. I do not have one and I highly doubt that I ever will. But, and I am confessing this dirty little secret...I used to check his account everyday but not so much recently. He knows this, by the way, and is totally fine with it. I am not some crazed and jealous wife who sits at home smoking Marlboro Reds, while guzzling warm PBR and checking her husband's Facebook account during my soap opera's commercial breaks. It was his idea in the first place to give me his password so I could get an idea of what this phenomenon was all about.
BTW, Google, it is so obvious that you are totally jelz of Facebook when your auto spell check on Blogger does not recognize "Facebook" as a legitimate word.
Initially I got on and looked at a bunch of photographs of people I knew from high school via one of my good friend's profile (Hello Good Friend, please don't take my social network site hating personal-like). It was hypnotizing. Like watching a cuttlefish change colors right before it eats its stunned prey.
I am not above mocking the people I never really liked in school in the privacy of my own home (the only thing worse than a teenage bully is an adult one so I tend to keep my mocking private). In fact I am very much below that. I think, upon the first time perusing the Facebook accounts of some people I used to know and not like so much, I actually guffawed*. I guffawed!
But the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
I was hesitant to get an account even before I started looking at Leif's but now I am sure that it is not for me. "Friend" requests (and I use the term "friend" very loosely here), "So and so" is now friends with "so and so" plastered all over the place, photoshop retouched profile photographs, "So and so" likes stuff, poking people, trends for ridiculous things...
I found that the only updates that I was interested in were from people I am already in contact with anyway, which kind of defeats the purpose I think. At least it does for me.
Plus, being on this side of infant death (stillbirth or neonatal) Facebook is not really a friendly place to be. I am sure all the other women on this side of the divide who read this blog would agree with me. I've heard a lot from this community of women who do have accounts how they have to "ignore" a good amount of people because of the incessant beaming and cooing and bragging that they are bombarded with. A great use for that feature, I think. Also a necessary one when you are being constantly reminded of what your child never had the chance to experience**.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
Yet I still get on and check it every other day or so. A morbid fascination. A little bit of masochism. It is like my very own Frienemy. The other day Leif asked me if I ever get bored looking at his account full of people I don't know. Yes. But I don't think it would bore me any less to have one of my own.
So, to the 0.0001% (or less, I'm not going to overestimate my appeal here) of Facebook users who actually read this blog, I'm genuinely interested to know what it is that I am missing. I'm in such a distinct minority (200 million people have accounts!!!) that I am convinced that I am overlooking something on this subject. It is a "Its me, not you," kind of thing.
*ROFLOL in Facebook
**I considered deleting this part because I was afraid of offending people who read this blog, who have babies or are expecting babies, who have never experienced a loss, and who use Facebook. I didn't want to cause the pendulum to swing the other way, so to speak, and make people question too much what it is that they are sharing. But then I decided to leave it as it is with this explanation so as to hopefully ease some of those tensions that it may create.
Sometimes, but not all the time, it is painful to see updates about things Leif and I never got to experience or that George never got to experience. I absolutely do not want people to censor themselves (other than beyond basic courtesy) but I am weary of pretending that at times it is not painful. Being in the minority (and thank God or whoever/whatever that most babies make it into this world just fine) makes things pretty lonely and when faced with daily examples of just how unlucky my son was...well, it sucks.
But that isn't a phenomenon solely attributed to Facebook. That is part of life for us. A part of life that I know many women like me feel badly for talking about. It is why we feel a responsibility to hide our grief and envy away from other women (currently pregnant and/or with infants). It is why we use the term "medusas" to describe ourselves.
So there it is.
I'm leaving that entire part in. For me and for all the other women I know who are too embarrassed (like me) or ashamed (like me) to say that sometimes seeing other people wrapped up in blissful naivety burns.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
riding a bike on a frozen lake
On a whim Leif and I have decided to move*. Not anywhere far but to a new part of the city and somewhere we've never explored before. In the hills with a beautiful view and terraced patios. I'm excited. New rooms to decorate. More furniture to buy at flea markets and refurbish.
A new house to make into a home.
But...
And isn't there always a "but?"
Part of me feels like I am leaving behind a piece of George here in this apartment. It was here that housed all of the hopes we had for him while he was still alive and healthy. Grief has all but choked out that hope but I can still catch glimpses of them from time to time. Sometimes I can still remember what it was like to think of him with only joy and not the longing with which I think of him now. He was alive here. At one point he was in the present here. In our new place he will always be in the past.
A new house to make into a home.
But...
And isn't there always a "but?"
Part of me feels like I am leaving behind a piece of George here in this apartment. It was here that housed all of the hopes we had for him while he was still alive and healthy. Grief has all but choked out that hope but I can still catch glimpses of them from time to time. Sometimes I can still remember what it was like to think of him with only joy and not the longing with which I think of him now. He was alive here. At one point he was in the present here. In our new place he will always be in the past.
On so many levels and because of so many things going on in our lives right now I feel like I am closing a door on him. I know, I know, I know people -including my therapist- will say that it isn't true. But isn't it true just a little? When tragedy strikes isn't there a point when we make a conscience decision to start living our lives again? When we decide to keep moving forward and to start folding dreams of the future back into daily living?
I think Leif has been at that point for awhile now, patiently waiting for me to turn my gaze back to the road ahead instead of the chaos behind.
....
*I wrote this long explanation about how our landlord reacted very poorly to this news last night. But then I deleted it all. Let me just say that she was very, very unhappy that we were giving our thirty days notice even though we are within our rights to do so. The conversation was not pretty and at one point getting an attorney was mentioned on her part. Later that night she called and conceded to the fact that we were legally within our rights to give our thirty day notice at any point during the month but it doesn't negate how terribly we were treated earlier. Seriously, folks, it was unreal. I've never been spoken to like that before and I've dealt with some really tough patients before. The interaction just made me feel more ready to get the fuck out of here. Hopefully our new landlord is a reasonable human being who treats other people in her life with respect.
Please keep your fingers crossed that our landlord does not try to make our remainder here any more uncomfortable than it already is going to be. I can't wait until these are the views we will be seeing every day.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
no thanks christmas, i'd really rather not
For the last few years that Leif and I have lived together we have gone to get our Christmas Tree the first weekend of December. We started out with a miniature tree to match our miniature apartment in Santa Monica but when we moved to this side of town we upgraded to a small tree that matched our small apartment. The last three years since we've been here we have gotten the tree at a place a couple of miles from our house and have had to rig it to the top of Leif's old Honda Civic with twine and wishful thinking. No, that isn't quite right. Last year we had just purchased our new Toyota, in early preparation for my expanding pregnant girth, and we tied the tree to the top of that car.
Neither Leif or I are Christian, as I am sure most of you reading either know already or have surmised from my writing. I used to be, a long time ago. Before Leif and I ever met, well over six years now. As for Leif, he grew up as a Baha'i. What is that you ask? Yeah, I asked the same question when we first started dating. Up until I met Leif my only knowledge of Baha'i was that members of the faith sponsored a section of highway clean-up near my childhood home. Admittedly I still don't know all that much about it and what I do know about it has mostly been garnered from Wikipedia articles and discussions with Leif or his parents. Although the rest of Leif's immediate family is Baha'i he hasn't been since he was in high school. But unlike me, he still has some strong ideas about spirituality and the after life.
Despite the fact the neither one of us are Christian we do celebrate the holiday and getting the tree always signified the beginning of one of our favorite times of year. Leif loves the egg nog and cold weather and I love the garlands and twinkling lights on the tree. Last year as we decorated our tree we talked about how this year would be amazing and how much we were looking forward to meeting our future child. We were so excited it was, looking back, ridiculous of us to assume that everything was going to go exactly as we had planned. Fools. Neither of us will ever be those people again.
This year I am not sure that we are even going to get a Christmas Tree. I don't feel particularly festive right now. My affection for this holiday has always had to do with celebrating family and friends and seeing as our family is incredibly incomplete I just feel totally apathetic about the whole thing. Being the amazing and supportive husband that he is, Leif is following my lead on this issue. So the decision has been left up to me and right now I am leaning towards trying to just power through this holiday with as little tears as possible. Which will probably entail foregoing the Christmas Tree (I always feel badly about using a live tree anyway) and continuing to lick my wounds in the safety of my, decidedly Christmas Cheer-Free, home.
I think I will venture out into the Christmas season for only the most important activities. Three events. Two parties and Christmas morning. Three days. The other 28 days can just evaporate for all I care, Christmas Eve included.
In spite of all this I am in a much better place right now than I ever would have imagined that I would be six months ago. Most days I am actually doing pretty good. I'm just not ready to fully participate in everyone else's holiday joy. That part of me that used to participate is too occupied with thoughts of what should be but aren't.
I'm on a wait list to order an ornament for George. It is a ceramic rain cloud. I don't think it will get here in time for Christmas anyway, even if we did get a tree. I'm also participating in an ornament swap and will be getting something for George made by another mother who is missing her daughter this holiday. I'm making one for her too. It feels right, even though I am neither Christian or celebrating the holiday this year.
They all deserve to be remembered.
Neither Leif or I are Christian, as I am sure most of you reading either know already or have surmised from my writing. I used to be, a long time ago. Before Leif and I ever met, well over six years now. As for Leif, he grew up as a Baha'i. What is that you ask? Yeah, I asked the same question when we first started dating. Up until I met Leif my only knowledge of Baha'i was that members of the faith sponsored a section of highway clean-up near my childhood home. Admittedly I still don't know all that much about it and what I do know about it has mostly been garnered from Wikipedia articles and discussions with Leif or his parents. Although the rest of Leif's immediate family is Baha'i he hasn't been since he was in high school. But unlike me, he still has some strong ideas about spirituality and the after life.
Despite the fact the neither one of us are Christian we do celebrate the holiday and getting the tree always signified the beginning of one of our favorite times of year. Leif loves the egg nog and cold weather and I love the garlands and twinkling lights on the tree. Last year as we decorated our tree we talked about how this year would be amazing and how much we were looking forward to meeting our future child. We were so excited it was, looking back, ridiculous of us to assume that everything was going to go exactly as we had planned. Fools. Neither of us will ever be those people again.
This year I am not sure that we are even going to get a Christmas Tree. I don't feel particularly festive right now. My affection for this holiday has always had to do with celebrating family and friends and seeing as our family is incredibly incomplete I just feel totally apathetic about the whole thing. Being the amazing and supportive husband that he is, Leif is following my lead on this issue. So the decision has been left up to me and right now I am leaning towards trying to just power through this holiday with as little tears as possible. Which will probably entail foregoing the Christmas Tree (I always feel badly about using a live tree anyway) and continuing to lick my wounds in the safety of my, decidedly Christmas Cheer-Free, home.
I think I will venture out into the Christmas season for only the most important activities. Three events. Two parties and Christmas morning. Three days. The other 28 days can just evaporate for all I care, Christmas Eve included.
In spite of all this I am in a much better place right now than I ever would have imagined that I would be six months ago. Most days I am actually doing pretty good. I'm just not ready to fully participate in everyone else's holiday joy. That part of me that used to participate is too occupied with thoughts of what should be but aren't.
I'm on a wait list to order an ornament for George. It is a ceramic rain cloud. I don't think it will get here in time for Christmas anyway, even if we did get a tree. I'm also participating in an ornament swap and will be getting something for George made by another mother who is missing her daughter this holiday. I'm making one for her too. It feels right, even though I am neither Christian or celebrating the holiday this year.
They all deserve to be remembered.
(almost) working
The last two days have been filled with four interviews, a dozen handshakes, a permanent not-totally-genuine smile plastered on my face, and the same questions about my strengths and weaknesses. How does that saying go? Feast or Famine? When it rains it pours? Whichever, I have been spending a lot of time in my car, driving around town in my suit. I have two more interviews scheduled for later this week.
Why is it so difficult to find a flattering suit? Every time I put on my "interviewing" slacks and jacket I feel like if it were silver I would make a pretty convincing tin man -or woman, in this case- for Halloween.
Anyway, I guess this means that I will probably start working soon. I figure at least one of these places might want to hire me. Take a chance on a new graduate? Perhaps. Fingers crossed. Not having to work these last months has been great but at the same time being at home and alone for most of the day has not been particularly healthy for me. Physically or mentally or emotionally. Especially emotionally. Netflix, the internet, the refrigerator and I have become too close.
I need some responsibility. As things are I have very little of that going on in my life, which for a long time after George died was what I needed. But now the most I do during my days is clean the house and make dinner. Last night was sunchoke and leek soup with tarragon and roasted garlic. I get bored and so Leif ends up eating pretty well.
I used to be terrified at the kind of responsibility I was going to have practicing medicine but now I almost find it welcoming. I am growing weary of living inside of myself. I want to take care of other people again.
Well, as it turns out Leif is sick today. Poor guy woke up with a sore throat and stuffy head but he had to go in to work anyway. He was going to only go in for a half day but is probably going to be there until he normally gets off work because someone else called in sick today. I think that is called, responsibility.
For dinner tonight I'm making something that will be easy on his throat. I'm going to take care of him.
I may not have a lot of responsibility in my life right now but I do have a lot of love.
Why is it so difficult to find a flattering suit? Every time I put on my "interviewing" slacks and jacket I feel like if it were silver I would make a pretty convincing tin man -or woman, in this case- for Halloween.
Anyway, I guess this means that I will probably start working soon. I figure at least one of these places might want to hire me. Take a chance on a new graduate? Perhaps. Fingers crossed. Not having to work these last months has been great but at the same time being at home and alone for most of the day has not been particularly healthy for me. Physically or mentally or emotionally. Especially emotionally. Netflix, the internet, the refrigerator and I have become too close.
I need some responsibility. As things are I have very little of that going on in my life, which for a long time after George died was what I needed. But now the most I do during my days is clean the house and make dinner. Last night was sunchoke and leek soup with tarragon and roasted garlic. I get bored and so Leif ends up eating pretty well.
I used to be terrified at the kind of responsibility I was going to have practicing medicine but now I almost find it welcoming. I am growing weary of living inside of myself. I want to take care of other people again.
Well, as it turns out Leif is sick today. Poor guy woke up with a sore throat and stuffy head but he had to go in to work anyway. He was going to only go in for a half day but is probably going to be there until he normally gets off work because someone else called in sick today. I think that is called, responsibility.
For dinner tonight I'm making something that will be easy on his throat. I'm going to take care of him.
I may not have a lot of responsibility in my life right now but I do have a lot of love.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
my, your meyer lemons are tasty
Everyone knows the old adage, "When life hands you a bowl of lemons, make lemonade." Well, it just so happened that last week my sister gave me a large bowl of Meyer lemons from her tree* and so I decided to make lemon bars. And because apparently a little lemon goes a long way, also lemon risotto, preserved lemons, and the proverbial lemonade.
I've never made lemon bars before. As it turns out they are really easy to make as well as really, really tasty. I'm talking about the type of tasty that effectively lobotomizes your frontal lobe, leaving you with the inability to understand the future consequences of eating too many of said lemon bars or at least the inability for caring about those consequences. But, I can claim no responsibility for the way these turned out. The kudos goes to the -essentially- idiot-proof recipe I followed.
I highly suggest that if you happen to find yourself the unexpected recipient of a booty of lemons you should try to make these bars. You won't be sorry. Well, after the fifth bar in a row you may be sorry but before that you will temporarily forget your troubles. That ability, even if only temporary, is a welcome friend.
And since I can't do anything -accept for, ahem, certain things- without taking photos, I present to you, "When life hands you a bowl full of lemons, make lemon bars and then eat them until you aren't sad anymore," in photos.
I've never made lemon bars before. As it turns out they are really easy to make as well as really, really tasty. I'm talking about the type of tasty that effectively lobotomizes your frontal lobe, leaving you with the inability to understand the future consequences of eating too many of said lemon bars or at least the inability for caring about those consequences. But, I can claim no responsibility for the way these turned out. The kudos goes to the -essentially- idiot-proof recipe I followed.
I highly suggest that if you happen to find yourself the unexpected recipient of a booty of lemons you should try to make these bars. You won't be sorry. Well, after the fifth bar in a row you may be sorry but before that you will temporarily forget your troubles. That ability, even if only temporary, is a welcome friend.
And since I can't do anything -accept for, ahem, certain things- without taking photos, I present to you, "When life hands you a bowl full of lemons, make lemon bars and then eat them until you aren't sad anymore," in photos.
Making the crust with a lot of butter. Delicious, delicious, butter.
Raining powdered sugar.
My lemon bars had bald spots.
Being enjoyed by my husband.
*There are really only two things you can count on living in southern California. One is that at nearly any time of the day you will be subjected to an excruciatingly slow drive in freeway traffic. The other is that someone you know has a citrus fruit tree of some sort whose fruit is going unused and rotting on the tree. This is the case with my next door neighbor (but not my sister) and her beautiful lemon tree. I would ask her for lemons but I don't speak a word of Korean (aside from Hello) and she doesn't speak a word of English. Oh well.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
.thanksgiving.
Today Leif and I have decided to celebrate Thanksgiving by spending it by ourselves. We are going to go on a hike, eat Singaporean Chicken Rice for lunch, take a nap, stop by one of his coworker's house for a bit (not sure how long I will be able to last there), and then eat a French take on Thanksgiving dishes at a restaurant we have been wanting to try.
This is the first year since we've been together that we have not had Thanksgiving with my family. Actually, it is the first Thanksgiving of my life that I haven't been with my family. Our decision to be alone this year had nothing to do with not wanting to be with our loved ones but everything to do with the fact that we do not feel particularly celebratory this holiday season. I think this is a sentiment that many of the people who read this blog can relate to.
I want to emphasize that neither of us are walking around in a haze of self pity today. Although I think it would be perfectly acceptable for us to do so if that was how we were feeling.But we aren't.* But we aren't, at least not today. We just want to be alone. Alone, together.
I'm trying to think of all the things I have to be thankful for. They are numerous and wonderful and I truly know how fortunate I am. I just wish I had a five month old George here with us instead of an eight month old urn.
This is the first year since we've been together that we have not had Thanksgiving with my family. Actually, it is the first Thanksgiving of my life that I haven't been with my family. Our decision to be alone this year had nothing to do with not wanting to be with our loved ones but everything to do with the fact that we do not feel particularly celebratory this holiday season. I think this is a sentiment that many of the people who read this blog can relate to.
I want to emphasize that neither of us are walking around in a haze of self pity today. Although I think it would be perfectly acceptable for us to do so if that was how we were feeling.
I'm trying to think of all the things I have to be thankful for. They are numerous and wonderful and I truly know how fortunate I am. I just wish I had a five month old George here with us instead of an eight month old urn.
.L.
Maybe this will sound hollow. But it isn't meant to.
Happy Thanksgiving. I hope it is gentle on all of you.
*I actually chuckled out loud as I wrote that statement. There are so many days I walk around in self pity that to write it out that I am not feeling that way today looks kind of absurd. So I went ahead and amended it to more accurately reflect reality.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
.the happy place.
Last week I went to Disneyland,
with Jackie, her babies, and her brother's family.
It was decorated for Christmas.
I saw the Loneliest Looking Person in the Happiest Place on Earth.
I took photographs of The Haunted Mansion as it is decorated like The Nightmare Before Christmas...
and I took photographs of the Carousel...
and of the lights in Peter Pan' Flight...
and of the "lasers" in Buzz Lightyear's Astro Blasters...
and of all the lights on Main Street.
It was so much fun. I needed that.
with Jackie, her babies, and her brother's family.
It was decorated for Christmas.
I saw the Loneliest Looking Person in the Happiest Place on Earth.
I took photographs of The Haunted Mansion as it is decorated like The Nightmare Before Christmas...
and I took photographs of the Carousel...
and of the lights in Peter Pan' Flight...
and of the "lasers" in Buzz Lightyear's Astro Blasters...
and of all the lights on Main Street.
It was so much fun. I needed that.
Monday, November 15, 2010
.silence is deafening.
Today my landlord referred to my son as "It" after I told her his name was George.
"Oh, it had a name already?" She kind of scoffed.
I went on to explain to her that I was nearly 7 1/2 months pregnant when he died. That he was born alive. That had he not been as sick as he was he very well might have lived being born at that point.
"He was my son." I said.
"He looked like a person?" She asked.
She went on to say things like "Maybe the spirit wasn't ready but the next one will be," "Maybe stress from school was part of the problem," "You have lots of time to make other babies," "You can't hold on to this," You have to stop thinking about it everyday..."
I've never spoken to her about George since he died. Leif has, briefly, but I have not. While we were trying to save his life she had a vague outline of what was going on but that was the extent of things really. Until this afternoon she has never brought him up and neither have I.
I don't want to get in to too many specifics because ultimately they aren't really relevant but I will say that she was born and raised in a country other than this one. I mention this because she is from a place known for the stoicism and bluntness of its people. She is both stoic and blunt. Very blunt, in fact. So blunt that some of the things that she says can make a lumberjack blush. We normally write her wildly inappropriate dialogue off as cultural differences, which, for the most part is what I believe to be true.
Over time I've discovered that if you can get passed the stoicism and bluntness, she has a good heart. This afternoon I think in her own way she was trying to provide some comfort to me. Knowing that, I wasn't angered by what she said but it did make me a little sad.
I already struggle with the idea that to only a relatively few people in this world was George an actual human being. I think to many he is not a dead son but rather a lost pregnancy; an "it." Some of this, I know, is all in my head. But I am absolutely convinced that some of it is not.
I understand that people are afraid of saying something upsetting or sticking their foot in their mouths. Or that people may think that it isn't their place to say anything at all. Or that if they bring him up it will somehow make things worse for me. Sometimes it takes people awhile to find the confidence to say something. I was once that person who didn't know what to say when a friend had a miscarriage. I get it but I am done accepting it.
Because here it is.
I appreciate her so much more for saying something. Even though it was the "wrong" thing. Even though a simple "I'm sorry for your loss" would have sufficed. It was something.
And that is something.
You know what I mean?
"Oh, it had a name already?" She kind of scoffed.
I went on to explain to her that I was nearly 7 1/2 months pregnant when he died. That he was born alive. That had he not been as sick as he was he very well might have lived being born at that point.
"He was my son." I said.
"He looked like a person?" She asked.
She went on to say things like "Maybe the spirit wasn't ready but the next one will be," "Maybe stress from school was part of the problem," "You have lots of time to make other babies," "You can't hold on to this," You have to stop thinking about it everyday..."
I've never spoken to her about George since he died. Leif has, briefly, but I have not. While we were trying to save his life she had a vague outline of what was going on but that was the extent of things really. Until this afternoon she has never brought him up and neither have I.
I don't want to get in to too many specifics because ultimately they aren't really relevant but I will say that she was born and raised in a country other than this one. I mention this because she is from a place known for the stoicism and bluntness of its people. She is both stoic and blunt. Very blunt, in fact. So blunt that some of the things that she says can make a lumberjack blush. We normally write her wildly inappropriate dialogue off as cultural differences, which, for the most part is what I believe to be true.
Over time I've discovered that if you can get passed the stoicism and bluntness, she has a good heart. This afternoon I think in her own way she was trying to provide some comfort to me. Knowing that, I wasn't angered by what she said but it did make me a little sad.
I already struggle with the idea that to only a relatively few people in this world was George an actual human being. I think to many he is not a dead son but rather a lost pregnancy; an "it." Some of this, I know, is all in my head. But I am absolutely convinced that some of it is not.
I understand that people are afraid of saying something upsetting or sticking their foot in their mouths. Or that people may think that it isn't their place to say anything at all. Or that if they bring him up it will somehow make things worse for me. Sometimes it takes people awhile to find the confidence to say something. I was once that person who didn't know what to say when a friend had a miscarriage. I get it but I am done accepting it.
Because here it is.
I appreciate her so much more for saying something. Even though it was the "wrong" thing. Even though a simple "I'm sorry for your loss" would have sufficed. It was something.
And that is something.
You know what I mean?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
.blue.
There used to be a time, in my distant past, that I actually enjoyed doing things of a more creative nature. Sketching, painting, making collages...things of this sort. Now most my of creativity, if you can call it that, comes out in the form of refurbishing old furniture or writing on this here blog.
I think I stopped painting because I just didn't find it inspiring anymore. Or I wasn't inspired by anything enough to lug out my paints and brushes. After George died I thought this would change but it didn't. All I could think of painting was big black and blue circles and so I just didn't even bother. I'm no Kandinsky, after all. My drawer full of paints and my crate full of paper/canvas has just been sitting unused and collecting dust, quite literally.
But this last week I have been feeling particularly blue and it has got me searching for things to occupy my time. I still have no job and nothing is looking very promising at the moment. I could take a job that I do not like but I am not quite at the point yet where that option is looking to be a good one. I'm close to that point though. Very close.
What I have been finding is that being unemployed, childless, and bored is a recipe for also being very sad and for feeling pretty crappy about myself. Oh self-esteem, where art thou?
Today I dragged out my paints and my brushes and spent most of the daylight hours painting. I chose one of George's ultrasound pictures. Actually it was the one we got at his 20 week scan and the one we found out that "the baby" was actually George. That, along with the day I married Leif, was the happiest moment of my life.
As ultrasounds tend to be, this one was a tad bit confusing and I had to take some artistic liberties with one of the limbs (seriously I can't tell if it is a foot or an arm so I just made it into an arm). I will probably end up fixing some stuff about it later but for now it is what it is.
I can't say that I am completely happy with the way it turned out but it does look like my boy, especially his face. I can see his dad in that face.
I'm kind of nervous about putting this up here but...here goes anyway...
I think I stopped painting because I just didn't find it inspiring anymore. Or I wasn't inspired by anything enough to lug out my paints and brushes. After George died I thought this would change but it didn't. All I could think of painting was big black and blue circles and so I just didn't even bother. I'm no Kandinsky, after all. My drawer full of paints and my crate full of paper/canvas has just been sitting unused and collecting dust, quite literally.
But this last week I have been feeling particularly blue and it has got me searching for things to occupy my time. I still have no job and nothing is looking very promising at the moment. I could take a job that I do not like but I am not quite at the point yet where that option is looking to be a good one. I'm close to that point though. Very close.
What I have been finding is that being unemployed, childless, and bored is a recipe for also being very sad and for feeling pretty crappy about myself. Oh self-esteem, where art thou?
Today I dragged out my paints and my brushes and spent most of the daylight hours painting. I chose one of George's ultrasound pictures. Actually it was the one we got at his 20 week scan and the one we found out that "the baby" was actually George. That, along with the day I married Leif, was the happiest moment of my life.
As ultrasounds tend to be, this one was a tad bit confusing and I had to take some artistic liberties with one of the limbs (seriously I can't tell if it is a foot or an arm so I just made it into an arm). I will probably end up fixing some stuff about it later but for now it is what it is.
I can't say that I am completely happy with the way it turned out but it does look like my boy, especially his face. I can see his dad in that face.
I'm kind of nervous about putting this up here but...here goes anyway...
George Ellsworth. Acrylic.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
.stretched and stark.
On days like this it comes so near as to snatch the breath from my lungs. I reach out and feel the bitterness and anger and sorrow on the tips of my fingers. Smooth, solid. An obelisk of obsidian throwing long shadows on my life's landscape.
A seed of wide love coated a thousand times over in mourning. My very own black pearl.
My mind wanders to naked branches, limbs stretched and stark against a blue sky. They herald the coming season but instead of choirs of angels I hear them speak to me in cautionary baritones. The Winter creeps ever closer still and one morning I awake to find that it is almost upon us. The nearly imperceptible change of the angle of light throughout the day; soft and simultaneously inexorable. I feel the weight of it pressing on to my shoulders.
There is no shine or sparkle to these days ahead.
I once read a book* and it pulled loose a small thread in one of my seams.
“Nothing is predetermined, it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined. No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given – so we track it, in linear fashion piece by piece. Time however can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and complete. Everything that ever was is; everything that ever will be is – and so on, in all possible combinations. Though in perceiving it we imagine that it is in motion, and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful. In the end, or rather, as things really are, any event, no matter how small, is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible; and, when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time, justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but something that is.”
I've since unraveled as time has pulled me away farther from him.
*Winter's Tale, Mark Helprin
A seed of wide love coated a thousand times over in mourning. My very own black pearl.
My mind wanders to naked branches, limbs stretched and stark against a blue sky. They herald the coming season but instead of choirs of angels I hear them speak to me in cautionary baritones. The Winter creeps ever closer still and one morning I awake to find that it is almost upon us. The nearly imperceptible change of the angle of light throughout the day; soft and simultaneously inexorable. I feel the weight of it pressing on to my shoulders.
There is no shine or sparkle to these days ahead.
I once read a book* and it pulled loose a small thread in one of my seams.
“Nothing is predetermined, it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined. No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given – so we track it, in linear fashion piece by piece. Time however can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and complete. Everything that ever was is; everything that ever will be is – and so on, in all possible combinations. Though in perceiving it we imagine that it is in motion, and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful. In the end, or rather, as things really are, any event, no matter how small, is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible; and, when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time, justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but something that is.”
I've since unraveled as time has pulled me away farther from him.
Underneath something different. Nearly imperceptibly so. Softer and simultaneously inexorable.
How I ache to believe that we will be brought together. That he is more than just a single brush stroke on this canvas. That he is, no matter how small, intimately and sensibly tied to all others.
My son, where are you?
I miss you.
I am incomplete.
*Winter's Tale, Mark Helprin
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
.hooray.
I love to vote. I don't really know for sure if my vote matters in the grand scheme of things. But going to the polls makes me feel like it does. What about you?
Monday, November 1, 2010
.day of the dead.
This past weekend we went to the Day of the Dead celebration at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I had a difficult time. It never even occurred to me until after we got there that I would. But I did. It started with an ofrenda set up with a photograph of two premature infants -of the NICU sort- with tubes and wires everywhere. After that it just sort of went down hill.
...............
We stayed just long enough for me to get my face painted and to take this photograph. Fifteen minutes later I suddenly become so sick again that Leif had to whisk me away back home, where I spent the remainder of the day on the couch.
..............
Our ofrenda for George:
Yesterday we spent the evening playing Little Big World Planet (edited: Leif kindly corrected me on the title of this highly addictive game) and then watching The Horror of Dracula and eating ice cream. At least the weekend ended on a positive note and that is something to feel good about.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
.sick.
I am feeling under the weather today. I've been laying in bed all day sleeping and, just now, talking with a recruiter while trying not to sound like I was going to be sick at any minute. The good thing about being sick is that I get lunch time visits from my husband. I am eagerly awaiting his arrival and the bottle of Sprite he has with him.
Leif finished the video of our time in Copan a couple of days ago. As always, he did a wonderful job.
For your viewing pleasure...
Copán Ruinas from leif on Vimeo.
Leif finished the video of our time in Copan a couple of days ago. As always, he did a wonderful job.
For your viewing pleasure...
Copán Ruinas from leif on Vimeo.
Monday, October 25, 2010
.the devil's breath.
The dry wind is blowing hard here today. They’re the Santa Ana winds, originally called Santana's Wind. The Devil's Wind. A meteorological phenomenon that sweeps through the Los Angeles basin throughout the fall and winter. It has been inspiring songwriters and arsonists since, well, since forever probably.
Scientists surmise that the winds cause increases in atmospheric cations, which in turn leads to an increase in serotonin levels in the body. Think Prozac blowing through at sustained speeds of 40 mph (65 kph) with occasional 70 mph (112 kph) gusts.
Nature's way of saying, chill the fuck out. Now go eat a sandwich and take a nap.
After George died numerous people approached me with the idea of getting on antidepressants (none of whom were medical professionals, by the way, just concerned citizens). I politely declined. They thought it was because I was afraid to take them. I wasn't afraid. I was just waiting for the fall when the Santa Anas would kick back into high gear and all would be right again.
Well, that, and I didn't think I needed them. I still don’t think I need them but I wouldn’t hesitate if I thought that I did.
What I really need, and what I’m wondering if there is some sort of other meteorological phenomenon that can lend a proverbial hand to, is some relief from all this anger and guilt I’ve been carrying around for the last seven or eight months. Something that will change my brain chemistry, if even for a little while. That would be nice.
We have a photograph of Leif as a baby on the fridge. All white blond hair and toothless smile. I look at it and see George and I am mad. Mad because I don’t really know that he would have looked like his dad. It is just a guess. Mad that I have to guess at such things.
The anger that I have is at the same time broad and directed. Mad at everything and mad at nothing. Mad at God and not mad at God, since I tend to not really throw my hat in God’s corner anyway.
Mad at someone and mad at no one.
I’m looking for somewhere to aim my ire and coming up with only passable targets. Not worth the effort usually.
Sometimes I'm mad at myself, which is where the guilt creeps in. Did we do the right thing when we made the decision to not send him to the NICU? They said he would in all likelihood, if he even survived, be severely brain damaged. We thought we were doing the compassionate thing. Does that even matter?
I read women’s stories of their children on Faces of Loss and Faces of Hope and occasionally I see things written like the following in regards to making the decision to send a preemie to the NICU,
“I also had to ‘let her go’. How can anyone sleep with that on their conscious? Not me, that’s for sure.”
Ouch.
We "let our son go." Even though I know really that he was beyond help, it still stings. Especially after reading something like that.
The guilt settles in.
I read about women’s stories of the success of extreme preemies surviving thanks to the NICU and I wonder if we had made a different decision if I would be holding a four-month old infant right now instead of sitting in front of this computer.
The guilt stretches wide the confines of its prison.
Yes, I could do for a meteorological phenomenon of my own. Maybe a light rainfall would suffice. No, too cliche. A hailstorm might be a better fit, metaphorically speaking. At least a snow flurry. But the chance of getting snow here is nothing to place bets on.
It is still outside now.
The wind is all but gone.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
.islas de las bahias, the one about the caye.
These last photographs from our trip to Honduras are mainly of the time we spent across the channel on Pigeon Caye. There are about five hundred people who live on that mile-long island and almost all of them have one of five very British surnames. Jackson, Bush, Diamond, Powell, and Cooper. Those were the five families who originally settled there nearly one hundred and sixty years ago and, for the most part, the people who live there presently are still members of those five families.
.B.
Our first trip to Pigeon Caye was made with the intent to find ourselves some fish for that night's dinner. What we found was a kindly woman named Esther who had five freezers filled with freshly caught fish and one large tame brown pelican in her "yard." The pelican, as Esther assured us, was American. From Miami, in fact, although aside from the fact that he was a lazy pelican she could not come up with a reason as to why she was convinced he was American. But, really, the fact that he was a lazy pelican was probably reason enough.
That night we had yellowtail for dinner. I'm guessing so did the Floridian pelican.
In Honduras they celebrate their independence from Spain on September 15th and we happened to be there to witness the festivities. Aside from seeing the ruins at Copan for the first time this was perhaps the best moment of the entire trip.
.L.
.L.
.L.
.L.
Almost immediately after their independence performance ended and all the children had finished their cupcakes and sodas, an unseasonably strong storm passed through and rained everyone out. We ended up taking shelter in a little store and talking for almost two hours to the guy working there because the lightening and rain made it impossible to kayak our way back to our house. We eventually had to find shelter elsewhere when he had to close shop because his little brother was struck by lightening (he ended up being perfectly ok) while out playing in the rain.
.B.
Eventually made it back across the channel but not before we were both entirely drenched by the rain.
Utila Town had their own festivities the next day and we went for that as well. But the only highlights of that excursion worth mentioning was that I tripped and fell getting onto the dock and then I got heat stroke by the time we left. Ha!
.B.
.B.
.B.
(Nothing says "good time" like liquor bottles and plastic doll parts.)
We spent our last night on Utila on the dock because the power had gone out and it was far too hot to stay in the house. So we laid out watching the distant lightening strikes and attempting to capture them on camera. This is as close as we got.
.L.
The next morning we left Utila for Roatan and the sand fleas everywhere mourned. A very sad day to be a sand flea, indeed.
We had a few hours to kill before our plane left Roatan so we spent it in the water, enjoying a last bit of warm Caribbean ocean. I befriended a bunch of kids who were there with their mother by giving the girls piggy back rides through the water. They asked me how old I was -as old as their mother- and did I have any kids -no, not yet- and how old was my mother -in her 60s- and so on and so forth. They thought Leif had the funniest name they had ever heard of.
.B.
.B.
.B.
They were great.
It was a fabulous way to end our trip.
.L.
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