I heard some very hard news about a friend. The kind of news that snatches the breath out of your lungs mid-inspiration.
Three to five years with intensive treatment.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Silence.
How can this be? How can this have happened? But of course, it can be and has happened because life is like that. No one is immune. It is an undocumented contract we sign with our first cry outside of the womb. As long as you are still breathing you may be subject to terrible things or incredible things at any given moment.
We all know this. At least, at some point in time we figure it out. It took the death of a much wanted son to convince me of this truth. But everyone eventually reaches the same conclusion just via different routes. Some are just fortunate enough to breeze through longer than others. Yet even knowing this we go about our days in usual fashion; eating frosted cereal from a too-big bowl while reading the puzzles on the back of the box. We slurp down the leftover sweetened milk from our cereal and then brush our teeth. We iron our clothes and do the dishes. We watch bad television and write about silly things like baking a cheesecake. We go to work at jobs we don't really like.
I wonder if why she wanted me to come with her was because we both learned about the inevitable conclusion to life in the same way. I've known for almost two years. She's known for nearly thirty. We both can sit with the shadow of tragedy looming large in a room and not pretend that it isn't there. A skill set possessed by few.
If I am totally honest with myself, even with a tiny little box of ashes sitting on my dresser and knowing death the way I do, I still feel eternal.
When it comes down to it don't we all?
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
it's croup
It's croup. You know, The Croup, as people call it. Oh, and bronchiolitis too. Babies get it all the time. Especially now. Tis the season. No need to worry. But if it gets really bad put her in the car and drive, with your windows down, to Huntington Hospital. Why with the windows down? Because that seems to help relax the airways. Why Huntington Hospital? Because that's the nearest hospital with a pediatric ICU.
I give my patients ER precautions all the time, even when I am confident there is nothing to worry about. It's just to be cautious. It's just CYA. You know, cover your ass. But still...
I wonder if he can see the panic in my eyes. I seem calm. I have always been very good at projecting whatever exterior I want people to see but I wonder if he can see the fear underneath. If he does he probably chalks it up to first time mother anxiety. I want to tell him that I have reason to fear. I want to tell him that I had a son who should have been fine. That what happened to him was so rare that even in a county with nearly ten million people what happened only happens to a handful of people a year. I want to tell him that I'm scared because statistics are no friend of mine anymore.
I don't say those things.
She gets steroids to help with the inflammation. I soothe her with a pacifier and soft strokes to her head while I wait for the test to come back and tell me if she has RSV. She doesn't. That's very good.
She continues to cry and to cough and to gasp. I continue to swallow back my own tears. This is my fault. I brought this home to her from work. I've been sick and I have kissed her too many times. Selfish kisses.
No Christmas dinner and opening presents with family this year. CONTAGIOUS.
Now she's asleep on my chest, face buried into my shoulder. It is the only way she will sleep. I run my lips across her smooth cheeks when she stirs and it seems to calm her back into slumber. She smells like milk. Her skin tastes like all my hopes and all my love and all my fear mingled with the salty film left behind from her many tears.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
hot pink
Did I ever tell you all how when I was pregnant with Clio I did very little in regards to getting her room ready until I was nearing the end of my pregnancy? I felt superstitious (not a normal state of being for me) about getting anything prepared for her because a huge part of me really thought that she wasn't coming home with us. It wasn't rational but I felt like if I were to invest too much energy on dreaming about her homecoming that the universe was going to kick my ass again. Because, you know, why not?
So I prepared the bare minimum for her arrival; a crib, a co-sleeper, a dresser, and a carseat. Everything else, aside from the curtains, was pretty barren. It only took nearly four months but I finally finished the rest of her nursery. It isn't exactly as I had wanted it but I have gotten to a place where I am content with how it looks and overjoyed that its little inhabitant is here with us. Mostly, I feel like it fits her personality, if that is possible for a four month old. It even has old photographs of our relatives and, specifically, my grandmother the pilot (Clio Irene's namesake) to watch over her crib. I hope Clio has as much spunk as her great-grandmother did. George aslo has his own little mark on the room in the form of a mobile of rainclouds and hot-air balloons.
On a whim I decided to enter it into a contest on Apartment Therapy just for fun. If you are interested in seeing what it looks like (and/or voting for it) you can see it here:
http://www.ohdeedoh.com/
On a whim I decided to enter it into a contest on Apartment Therapy just for fun. If you are interested in seeing what it looks like (and/or voting for it) you can see it here:
http://www.ohdeedoh.com/
Saturday, December 3, 2011
endurance
I used to be a swimmer in high school. I was pretty good at it too, although by no means the best. Probably had something to do with the long limbs and the searing heat of my hometown summers. If you weren't in the pool during those long months than you were inside with the airconditioning, probably watching television. I preferred the water.
I swam distance races. The kind in which someone sat at the opposite end of the pool from the starting blocks and counted laps. Nearing the turns I would, through my goggles, see a hand gripping a lap counter suddenly appear in the water to keep my mind focused on the course of the race. It was important in those events to know where you were at in the lap count because you had to be conscious of your energy expenditure; when it was ok to lag behind the other swimmers, when to start a relaxed picking up of the pace and when, in the final stretches, to tap the reserves and swim the last 50-100 yards in a sprint.
I've always been more physically and mentally attuned -in sports and in life- for the long haul rather than the sprinting events. Endurance is something I have in spades. This is partially why I chose the field of work I am in -many challenging years of education- and certainly how I managed to snag my most awesome husband -many months of patiently waiting for him to realize he was as into me as I was into him.
There is noting quite like the feeling of accomplishment from finishing a race long run. It is euphoric.
I'm seeing my therapist again today, the second time since Clio was born; the first was when she was only three weeks old. Things have been that good. Excellent, really. Since Clio came into my life I have been feeling like the fully fleshed out person that I used to be two years ago instead of the shelled out version I've grown accustomed to. I'm laughing and smiling and generally feeling pretty content with my life.
These last few days have been difficult though. Well, actually, the last week but I've been staving off the inevitable emotional meltdown for awhile. I've avoided anything that could possibly suck me back into those overwhelming periods of grief I've experienced since George died. I haven't looked at his pictures since Clio was born. They are now sitting in George's box, along with all of his other things, in our bedroom. Lately I've been putting her down for naps on our bed for the sole reason of making it impossible for me to go in there and pull out those photographs. I rarely even talk about George except with certain trusted people. I glance over his dust-covered urn like it is just another piece of bric-a-brac on my dresser. Next weekend we are going, along with my family, to a candle-lighting ceremony for honoring children who have died and I am not looking forward to the experience. Yet I still want to go.
I don't think that any of that is healthy behavior. Not that I think shrouding ones self in grief indefinitely is healthy behavior either but this avoidance of feeling any kind of emotion regarding George is really bad. Really bad.
In a little over three months it will be two years since I held George and kissed his face. That is a really long time to miss someone so intensely, especially ones own child. That is a really long fucking test of endurance, one that only continues to stretch out into the future. Grief doesn't have a finish line, no lap counters to help you pace yourself, no feeling of euphoria at the end of a race well-run. It gets easier, yes, but you never really finish the race.
I know this is a decidedly pessimistic post and I feel kind of shitty for writing it as I have some sort of self-imposed feeling of responsibility to all the people just starting this race to only write about how things get better (they do) and to not give the impression that I am not forever and eternally grateful for my daughter (I am). But here it is, my truth as it is today; Grief is hard and I am just so very, very tired.
I swam distance races. The kind in which someone sat at the opposite end of the pool from the starting blocks and counted laps. Nearing the turns I would, through my goggles, see a hand gripping a lap counter suddenly appear in the water to keep my mind focused on the course of the race. It was important in those events to know where you were at in the lap count because you had to be conscious of your energy expenditure; when it was ok to lag behind the other swimmers, when to start a relaxed picking up of the pace and when, in the final stretches, to tap the reserves and swim the last 50-100 yards in a sprint.
I've always been more physically and mentally attuned -in sports and in life- for the long haul rather than the sprinting events. Endurance is something I have in spades. This is partially why I chose the field of work I am in -many challenging years of education- and certainly how I managed to snag my most awesome husband -many months of patiently waiting for him to realize he was as into me as I was into him.
There is noting quite like the feeling of accomplishment from finishing a race long run. It is euphoric.
These last few days have been difficult though. Well, actually, the last week but I've been staving off the inevitable emotional meltdown for awhile. I've avoided anything that could possibly suck me back into those overwhelming periods of grief I've experienced since George died. I haven't looked at his pictures since Clio was born. They are now sitting in George's box, along with all of his other things, in our bedroom. Lately I've been putting her down for naps on our bed for the sole reason of making it impossible for me to go in there and pull out those photographs. I rarely even talk about George except with certain trusted people. I glance over his dust-covered urn like it is just another piece of bric-a-brac on my dresser. Next weekend we are going, along with my family, to a candle-lighting ceremony for honoring children who have died and I am not looking forward to the experience. Yet I still want to go.
I don't think that any of that is healthy behavior. Not that I think shrouding ones self in grief indefinitely is healthy behavior either but this avoidance of feeling any kind of emotion regarding George is really bad. Really bad.
In a little over three months it will be two years since I held George and kissed his face. That is a really long time to miss someone so intensely, especially ones own child. That is a really long fucking test of endurance, one that only continues to stretch out into the future. Grief doesn't have a finish line, no lap counters to help you pace yourself, no feeling of euphoria at the end of a race well-run. It gets easier, yes, but you never really finish the race.
I know this is a decidedly pessimistic post and I feel kind of shitty for writing it as I have some sort of self-imposed feeling of responsibility to all the people just starting this race to only write about how things get better (they do) and to not give the impression that I am not forever and eternally grateful for my daughter (I am). But here it is, my truth as it is today; Grief is hard and I am just so very, very tired.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
thanksgiving and my 200th post
This morning I'm sitting in my office, waiting for things to pick up, while still trying to recover from last night's ninety minute commute home from hell and simultaneously gearing up for an even worse one tonight. This is Thanksgiving traffic in Los Angeles. It is soul-crushing. Last night I cried in my car but this morning I was laughing about how people lose their damn minds while staring at the snaking line of brake lights through their windsheilds.
I've been thinking about how different things are this year as opposed to this time last year. Last year the holidays left me a quivering mass of jello made from a Brianna mold. Lemon-flavored jello. Bitter and transparent. Which, of course, was a completely reasonable state to be in. This time last year I wrote the following post. I read it now and feel so acutely what a difficult time I was having when I first wrote it.
But things are different this time. Better. Happier. The intensity of my grief over George's death is not debilitating as it was a year ago. Anyway, the purpose of this post was to give encouragement to those of you are facing down your first holidays without your babies. It gets better. The pain never goes away but it does get easier, I promise you.
Wishing you all a peaceful day tomorrow.
Stretched and Stark (originally posted November 9, 2010)
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.
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.
I've been thinking about how different things are this year as opposed to this time last year. Last year the holidays left me a quivering mass of jello made from a Brianna mold. Lemon-flavored jello. Bitter and transparent. Which, of course, was a completely reasonable state to be in. This time last year I wrote the following post. I read it now and feel so acutely what a difficult time I was having when I first wrote it.
But things are different this time. Better. Happier. The intensity of my grief over George's death is not debilitating as it was a year ago. Anyway, the purpose of this post was to give encouragement to those of you are facing down your first holidays without your babies. It gets better. The pain never goes away but it does get easier, I promise you.
Wishing you all a peaceful day tomorrow.
Stretched and Stark (originally posted November 9, 2010)
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.
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.
Friday, November 4, 2011
reclaimed; this box, my life, and George's death
Recently Leif and I were given an amazing hand-crafted box made from reclaimed wood made by our dear friend Josh. It was made specifically for George and his initials are burned into the side- G.E.H. It is a place for the few things in this world that are exclusively his; baby blankets knitted with love from grandmothers, ink prints of tiny feet, three photographs of his little face. We had no special place for these things. They were stashed in a cabinet that has since become his sister's wardrobe and in a plastic bin stuffed in our closet. When we mentioned this to Josh he offered to make something special to house George's things. Special is what it certainly turned out to be.
In the days since it has been in our home I have traced the outline of his initials a dozen times. G.E.H. A gift for my son.
I am so incredibly grateful for the box. For Josh and for Kari. For their living daughter Stella, and for the one I never met, Margot. Rarely in life do you find friends such as these. Rarely in life do meet people who are just so fucking cool.
For a long time after George died all I wanted to do was clothe myself in grief and live in the shadow of his death. It was the only way I knew how to feel close to him. I couldn't imagine ever finding, let alone admitting to finding, positive things in my life that came as a result from his death. How could anything good come from something so terrible and tragic as bearing witness to the death of my son? But there were positive things, even then. In the saddest days there were seeds of beauty being sewn into my life solely because he had died. Now I find myself collecting and cultivating those beautiful things in the hopes that they make his existence add up to more than the 292,320 minutes he lived inside of my womb and the mere 24 he lived outside.
Nineteen months later those seeds are blooming everywhere in my life. The strength of my marriage. The little girl Clio who just yesterday learned how to roll over. The deep sense of empathy I have for others in the midst of tragedy. The strength of character I now have. The bonds of friendship I have developed with people like Josh and Kari. This human, the one who now occupies this more wrinkled and faded skin, is a direct descendent of his life and death. I am who I am because he was who he was.
I miss George every day. His absence still hurts and I don't think that will ever completely go away. His death was ugly but my life from his death is beautiful and for that I am grateful.
In the days since it has been in our home I have traced the outline of his initials a dozen times. G.E.H. A gift for my son.
I am so incredibly grateful for the box. For Josh and for Kari. For their living daughter Stella, and for the one I never met, Margot. Rarely in life do you find friends such as these. Rarely in life do meet people who are just so fucking cool.
For a long time after George died all I wanted to do was clothe myself in grief and live in the shadow of his death. It was the only way I knew how to feel close to him. I couldn't imagine ever finding, let alone admitting to finding, positive things in my life that came as a result from his death. How could anything good come from something so terrible and tragic as bearing witness to the death of my son? But there were positive things, even then. In the saddest days there were seeds of beauty being sewn into my life solely because he had died. Now I find myself collecting and cultivating those beautiful things in the hopes that they make his existence add up to more than the 292,320 minutes he lived inside of my womb and the mere 24 he lived outside.
Nineteen months later those seeds are blooming everywhere in my life. The strength of my marriage. The little girl Clio who just yesterday learned how to roll over. The deep sense of empathy I have for others in the midst of tragedy. The strength of character I now have. The bonds of friendship I have developed with people like Josh and Kari. This human, the one who now occupies this more wrinkled and faded skin, is a direct descendent of his life and death. I am who I am because he was who he was.
I miss George every day. His absence still hurts and I don't think that will ever completely go away. His death was ugly but my life from his death is beautiful and for that I am grateful.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
welcome to the club
Some days I feel like an ordinary mother. I go about my day as any other parent of an infant does; kiss her, change her, kiss her, feed her, kiss her, burp her, kiss her, dress her, kiss her, play with her, kiss her, put her down for a nap...you get my point.
Other days I'm reminded that I am not totally just an ordinary mother. I'm also the parent of a dead baby. I'm someone who knows too much about the subject of death and grief and infant loss. I'm someone who knows what it is like to be completely incomplete. I'm someone who misses her child with a wild intensity that few other people can ever truly understand.
Yesterday was one of those days...
The newborn sister of one of the toddlers at Clio's daycare died over the weekend. It wasn't unexpected as she was born with a genetic issue that is considered "not compatible with life." In fact, the parents had fully expected her to be stillborn but they made the choice to carry her to term anyway, a decision I can relate to since Leif and I basically made the same one after we had exhausted most of the medical interventions available to us. But the baby surprised them all by being born alive and then staying alive for three weeks or so. From what I understand -I have never met these parents so all of this is secondhand information- they were able to take her home from the hospital and spend those weeks together as a family.
Leif let me know as soon as I got home from work yesterday and I was immediately back in those early days after George died. The despair, the chaos, the helplessness...I could easily imagine everything that these people are probably feeling. And I thought to myself when I heard the news, now they are some of our people- the parents of a dead baby. New members of one of the saddest clubs in existence.
I am trying to decide if, when and how I should reach out to this couple. I don't want to overstep my bounds as I have never met them. Hell, I don't even know their names. Do I give them a list of resources; online forums, grief support groups, my phone number? Do I send them a card via the sitter?
"So very sorry for the loss of your baby. Welcome to the club."
Other days I'm reminded that I am not totally just an ordinary mother. I'm also the parent of a dead baby. I'm someone who knows too much about the subject of death and grief and infant loss. I'm someone who knows what it is like to be completely incomplete. I'm someone who misses her child with a wild intensity that few other people can ever truly understand.
Yesterday was one of those days...
The newborn sister of one of the toddlers at Clio's daycare died over the weekend. It wasn't unexpected as she was born with a genetic issue that is considered "not compatible with life." In fact, the parents had fully expected her to be stillborn but they made the choice to carry her to term anyway, a decision I can relate to since Leif and I basically made the same one after we had exhausted most of the medical interventions available to us. But the baby surprised them all by being born alive and then staying alive for three weeks or so. From what I understand -I have never met these parents so all of this is secondhand information- they were able to take her home from the hospital and spend those weeks together as a family.
Leif let me know as soon as I got home from work yesterday and I was immediately back in those early days after George died. The despair, the chaos, the helplessness...I could easily imagine everything that these people are probably feeling. And I thought to myself when I heard the news, now they are some of our people- the parents of a dead baby. New members of one of the saddest clubs in existence.
I am trying to decide if, when and how I should reach out to this couple. I don't want to overstep my bounds as I have never met them. Hell, I don't even know their names. Do I give them a list of resources; online forums, grief support groups, my phone number? Do I send them a card via the sitter?
"So very sorry for the loss of your baby. Welcome to the club."
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Parental Bereavement Act of 2011 (S 1358)
Please take a moment to sign this petition in support of the Parental Bereavement Act of 2011. Under the current wording of the Family and Medical Leave Act parents who experience the death of a child are not granted federally protected time off for bereavement. This is, in my opinion, terribly egregious.
When George died Leif could only take two weeks off before he had to return to work. I was left at home by myself for another week (until I myself had to return to school) to cry, curled up in a little ball in our bedroom, while Leif had to function like a normal person at work every day. The fact that the death of a child isn't already included in this piece of legislature just goes to show how those of us who experience something like this are often marginalized in our society.
I ask those of you who are U.S. citizens, even if you have never experienced this type of loss yourself, to take a moment to sign this petition in the effort to give voice to those of us who so often feel invisible. When filling out the petition I would also ask you to write a brief note to urge the addition of verbiage to the bill to include stillbirth as well, as this seems like a large oversight in its current form.
If you are reading here and have a blog, whether it is about the death of a child or not, perhaps you could help pass on the word as well. Finally, I ask that you send this to your family and friends and also ask for their support by signing this petition.
This is what I wrote when I signed the petition:
http://www.petition2congress.com/3937/go
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When George died Leif could only take two weeks off before he had to return to work. I was left at home by myself for another week (until I myself had to return to school) to cry, curled up in a little ball in our bedroom, while Leif had to function like a normal person at work every day. The fact that the death of a child isn't already included in this piece of legislature just goes to show how those of us who experience something like this are often marginalized in our society.
I ask those of you who are U.S. citizens, even if you have never experienced this type of loss yourself, to take a moment to sign this petition in the effort to give voice to those of us who so often feel invisible. When filling out the petition I would also ask you to write a brief note to urge the addition of verbiage to the bill to include stillbirth as well, as this seems like a large oversight in its current form.
If you are reading here and have a blog, whether it is about the death of a child or not, perhaps you could help pass on the word as well. Finally, I ask that you send this to your family and friends and also ask for their support by signing this petition.
This is what I wrote when I signed the petition:
Last year my son died twenty-four minutes after he was born. We loved him as much as anyone loves a child who they were able to bring home from the hospital. We grieved, and continue to grieve for him as any parent would grieve the loss of a child. In order to stay home with me after our son died, my husband had to use up his sick leave and vacation time. It would have been tremendous for him to be able to stay home for more time than he did. To have bereavement leave added to the FMLA would be a kindness to those experiencing the most tragic of all losses. I would also urge the amending of this bill to include bereavement leave for the stillbirth of a child as well.
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Friday, October 21, 2011
off to work i go
What is that word to describe how you feel when you have to do something you really don't want to do? Oh yeah, shitty... or dreadful, as in, full of dread. Yes, I am feeling shitty and pretty full of dread right about now because come Monday morning I am back at work.
I don't think I would feel quite the way I do if I was going back to a job that I actually loved but that is most certainly not the case. It was a huge and very costly mistake going into the profession I did. I thought even if I didn't love what I was doing I would have great job security and I would at least kind of like it. But aside from talking with my patients there isn't a single aspect of medicine that I like. None. How sad is that? It isn't as if I can do something different at this point either. My student loans are just too much to chuck what I am doing and go do something that would make me happy. I simply make too much money doing this to give it up at this point. If my soul wasn't tethered to Sallie Mae I would gladly never write another prescription in my life.
I guess I just have to look on the bright side of all this. My coworkers are really great, I'll only be working three days a week, and, most importantly, we found day care for Clio that we feel confident in. That has always been my biggest concern when it comes to going back to work; who will be taking care of Clio. Ideally she would be with her grandparents but neither set lives close enough to make that possible so we had to settle on finding a day care to place her in. Luckily, we did find someone that really like and trust, which has helped somewhat with the anxiety of leaving her.
Still, the thought of leaving Clio with a stranger, even one we like, three days a week while I spend twelve hours a day working a job that I don't care for is excruciating. My heart literally feels like a lead brick in my chest. If it is possible to preemptively miss someone then I am preemptively missing her. Even when she is fussing and I haven't had an adult conversation all day I still am so happy to just be near her. I am so very in love with her and so, so grateful that she is alive and thriving. I cannot get enough of her.
Everyday she is learning something new and it kills me to think that someone else is going to see new things she does before me. She is MINE -at least until she is old enough to be her own- and I want to be the one to take care of her. But it just isn't possible and...now I've made myself cry.
Already she is smiling so much and she is getting really close to being able to laugh. Just two days ago she started to purposefully grasp for things on her play gym. One day her arms were flailing around and literally the next day she was trying to grab for things. She isn't very good at it yet but it is exciting to watch her develop new skills. I just can't believe how much information is processed in that little, big head of hers every day. She's amazing to me.
Any words of advice on how to make the transition from being at home with her everyday to going back to work easier (both for her and for me) is greatly appreciated because right now I feel pretty shitty and pretty dreadful.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
searching for fall
Last year as the weather cooled and the fog started to settle in I can remember having the frequent desire to stop the march of summer into fall. It was the inevitable approach of the holidays that made me feel like the air was being sucked out of my lungs. I used to love the fall and all the holidays that it brought along with it but last year was different. All the things I loved about the season had morphed into all the things I hated about the season.
This morning I woke up and for the first time this year it felt like fall. The air had a crispness to it so that as I made my transition from the warmth of my bed to the living room couch to drink coffee and eat cereal, I had to pull our wool blanket around my shoulders. Outside it was so foggy and misty that I could barely make out the outline of the houses on the hill below us. It just felt like the corner from summer into fall had finally been turned.
With the feeling that fall was finally here came a tiny flicker of apprehension as well. A little spark of anxiety that made me wonder how I was going to feel through these next few months as Halloween and Thanksgiving, and then the big one- Christmas, come barreling down the pipeline. These holidays are rich with themes of family and togetherness and celebration; all themes that seem to emphasize George's absence.
Like I do every day, this morning I put Clio in the carrier, kissed her on her sweet little head, and we went for a walk around our neighborhood. Usually I just space out listening to music while Clio sleeps but this morning my mind wondered to George and what going on a walk would be like with him if he had miraculously lived instead of died that March day. He would be nineteen months old now, old enough to be interested in all the things I would point out during our walk; red-orange leaves on the ground, spiderwebs outlined in dew drops, Halloween pumpkins and plastic skeletons hanging on fences...
Thinking about George this morning made my chest ache but it also made me smile a little bit too. A fair haired boy with big blue eyes, wide in amazement and excitement, dressed in corduroy pants and a striped sweater. He would have loved this time of year, I'm sure of it. Sometimes George is still alive in my imagination and sometimes it feels good to visit him there.
With the holidays approaching, how is everyone feeling? Will you be including your missing child in your holiday traditions? Are the holidays making you feel anxious or are they making you feel hopeful?
This morning I woke up and for the first time this year it felt like fall. The air had a crispness to it so that as I made my transition from the warmth of my bed to the living room couch to drink coffee and eat cereal, I had to pull our wool blanket around my shoulders. Outside it was so foggy and misty that I could barely make out the outline of the houses on the hill below us. It just felt like the corner from summer into fall had finally been turned.
With the feeling that fall was finally here came a tiny flicker of apprehension as well. A little spark of anxiety that made me wonder how I was going to feel through these next few months as Halloween and Thanksgiving, and then the big one- Christmas, come barreling down the pipeline. These holidays are rich with themes of family and togetherness and celebration; all themes that seem to emphasize George's absence.
Like I do every day, this morning I put Clio in the carrier, kissed her on her sweet little head, and we went for a walk around our neighborhood. Usually I just space out listening to music while Clio sleeps but this morning my mind wondered to George and what going on a walk would be like with him if he had miraculously lived instead of died that March day. He would be nineteen months old now, old enough to be interested in all the things I would point out during our walk; red-orange leaves on the ground, spiderwebs outlined in dew drops, Halloween pumpkins and plastic skeletons hanging on fences...
Thinking about George this morning made my chest ache but it also made me smile a little bit too. A fair haired boy with big blue eyes, wide in amazement and excitement, dressed in corduroy pants and a striped sweater. He would have loved this time of year, I'm sure of it. Sometimes George is still alive in my imagination and sometimes it feels good to visit him there.
With the holidays approaching, how is everyone feeling? Will you be including your missing child in your holiday traditions? Are the holidays making you feel anxious or are they making you feel hopeful?
Friday, October 14, 2011
community does it better
Does anyone watch Community? In my opinion, the best comedy -maybe the best television show of any kind- on air right now. The episode last night was called Remedial Chaos Theory and it was exactly what I was just writing about in my last post. Only it was better written and really, really funny, especially if you watch the show on a regular basis. If you have access to Hulu I highly suggest spending 21 minutes of your life watching it.
You can find it here.
P.S. The actor who plays Chang used to be a doctor, which I think is really weird. Also, it gives me hope that one day I can be something other than a slave to practicing medicine.
Monday, October 10, 2011
chaos theory
My university calculus professor was a poet. Actually, he was a mathematician, a poet, and a philosopher all rolled into one grandfatherly type of a man. I used to stay after class, nearly every session, and talk to him about philosophy and poetry, it was the only liberal arts education this science-oriented student was getting at the time. In every other aspect of my academics I was eye ball deep in equations and periodic tables but I could talk to him about a haiku or the presence (or absence) of free will for ages.
But this isn't really about Grandfather Jerry. This is about math and philosophy. Grandfather Jerry just happened to be the person who I heard from for the first time that mathematics and philosophy are not really all that different from each other. As odd as it may sound one needs a mind capable of thinking in the abstract to be good with numbers as well as to be good at expounding upon the great questions of life. Someone who can excel in mathematics can certainly find a home in philosophical studies as well.
One place where math and philosophy intersect is in a concept called Chaos Theory. The briefest technical explanation of this theory is that an outcome of a system is highly sensitive to its initial conditions. Or to clarify, a small change in the initial condition of a system can lead to dramatic changes to the system on a long-term, grand scale. The briefest non-technical explanation of Chaos Theory is what happens at the beginning, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can and will have a large effect on the eventual outcome of a situation. Most people know Chaos Theory as The Butterfly Effect. You know, a butterfly flaps its wings in Africa and three weeks later and a continent away a hurricane is born.
In math, Chaos Theory is used to describe situations in which small miscalculations like those inherent in rounding numbers for computation lead to different outcomes. One person rounds one way and another rounds the other and in complicated mathematical equations they will each get a hugely different outcome. In philosophy, the theory plays out much in the same way but instead of a numerical figure you are looking at the progression of a life based on a few (or a hundred, or a thousand, or a million...I think you get my point) events that have shaped the course of said life.
Chaos Theory is what makes prediction nearly impossible. There is no telling how minuscule variables will effect the overall outcome. Numbers, life, whatever, there is no predicting.
I certainly could never have predicted that I would be here at thirty-two years old, married and the mother of two children; one dead and the other currently napping peacefully in her crib.
Looking back it is easy to see how circumstance or certain choices I've made have shaped my life to where I am now. For instance, I can trace the origins of my marriage back to a fight that I had with my friend Natalie when we were only nineteen years old, five years before I even met Leif. A million other little decisions during those five years made it so that when we did finally meet we were both single and, eventually, in the place in our lives where we were able to fall in love.
On a deeper level I can see how a myriad of seemingly innocuous events, decisions, and circumstances ultimately led to George's conception and death. From the particular time Leif and I had sex; a moment earlier or later and who knows what sperm would have fertilized that egg. Who knows, we may have conceived a completely different baby who had no health issues at all. Or the moment I sat in a parking garage rescheduling the ultrasound that would eventually reveal George's rapid heart rate. That appointment was originally scheduled a week earlier and for some reason I can no longer recall I made the decision to push it back seven days. Maybe if I had kept that original appointment we would have caught the condition early enough that the medication would have saved his life. On the other hand, maybe the appointment would have been a day or two before his heart sped up and it would not have been caught at all until I developed the Mirror Syndrome and became seriously ill. Or simply, one day I could have walked into the OB's office only to have her tell me that our baby's heart had stopped.
But none of those things happened. Instead Leif and I conceived George and I made the appointment when I did. It all led to George dying, and, something I've just come to grips with, Clio's existence. This, folks, has been a hard pill for me to swallow. We waited to try and conceive the second time around because I could not come to terms with the idea that a subsequent child would only be alive because George was dead. Originally we had planned on waiting six to nine months after our first child was born to try to conceive the next and so in my mind if we waited that amount of time after George died we would still be sticking to our plan. I wanted to pretend that in some reality, somewhere, had different choices been made, I would have all my babies with me. George and Clio.
In reality, though, Clio is currently sleeping peacefully in her crib because George is dead. Had George lived I would have been ovulating on a different schedule, and even if I was ovulating on the same schedule chances are that Leif and I would not have had sex at the exact same time on the exact same day. Things would have gone down a different path. I never even would have known the possibility of her existence.
But that is all history, so to speak. What happens next, the rest of Clio's story and my own, there is no predicting. The other children I will have, the people we will meet and interact with, the person Clio will marry, the kids she will have...all of their lives different because one little baby boy's heart beat too fast.
It's all a crazy mind fuck. It is all just a web of chance interactions. It is all just chaos.
Monday, October 3, 2011
the one year lease
When I started this blog it was mainly to keep my in-laws updated on my pregnancy. Our baby was to be their first grandchild and they lived on the other side of the world so I thought it would be a nice way to include them in the experience. Obviously things did not go so well and that plan went to hell. I stopped writing when we got George's diagnosis and didn't start again until he died. Actually, I still have a half-written post about what my twenty-third week of pregnancy was like and how later that day we were going to see the Perinatologist because during our anatomy scan the radiologist couldn't get a good look at his kidneys. In that draft I actually wrote, "I'm not worried though because they said it was just a precaution." Yeah, well, later that day we went and got terrible news completely unrelated to what were initially there to get evaluated. Occasionally I still open up that draft and re-read what I wrote. It has become for me a moment encased in amber.
This blog eventually evolved into a place for me to come to write about my feelings about George's death, something intensely personal. To be honest it has always felt a little like writing in my journal for the whole world to see. I even wrote a post once specifically about how naked this place makes me feel. It is probably one of the most honest things I've ever written. I don't always like how writing here makes me feel completely vulnerable but I know it has been a life line for me in the last year and a half.
Anyway, I decided awhile ago that I wanted to write about things other than George and George-related things, so I started a new blog. I don't plan to stop writing here and I am sure I could have rolled everything into one place but it just didn't feel right to me. So should you be interested in seeing what else I am writing about please stop by and say hello, I love visitors.
This blog eventually evolved into a place for me to come to write about my feelings about George's death, something intensely personal. To be honest it has always felt a little like writing in my journal for the whole world to see. I even wrote a post once specifically about how naked this place makes me feel. It is probably one of the most honest things I've ever written. I don't always like how writing here makes me feel completely vulnerable but I know it has been a life line for me in the last year and a half.
Anyway, I decided awhile ago that I wanted to write about things other than George and George-related things, so I started a new blog. I don't plan to stop writing here and I am sure I could have rolled everything into one place but it just didn't feel right to me. So should you be interested in seeing what else I am writing about please stop by and say hello, I love visitors.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
one year six months
I close my eyes and whisper his name so that only I can hear it.
George.
The wind stirs and it is him, waking up to listen to my voice and touch my face.
I miss you, my love.
Between my fingers the silk of a petal and a subtle fragrance of something clean and sweet; the touch of his face and the scent of his skin.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Can you forgive me?
From a distance comes the sound of a stream over stones and I hear his breathing, rhythmic and soothing.
I hope you felt how much you were loved.
I open my eyes.
It is just the wind and the flowers and the water. But for the briefest of moments it was my son and for that instant I was whole again.
...
I whisper his name so that only I can hear it.
George.
Friday, September 23, 2011
you win some, you lose some
Sometimes Clio does something that reminds me so strongly of Leif that my heart completely melts into a puddle of love at the bottom of my toes.
Other times she does something that reminds me so much of myself that I have to shake my head and say,
"Poor kid. She absolutely has my crazy."
Other times she does something that reminds me so much of myself that I have to shake my head and say,
"Poor kid. She absolutely has my crazy."
Monday, September 19, 2011
the bargainer
I prayed today.
Is it still called a prayer if you don't really believe in God?
Before today the last time I prayed was an hour before they repeatedly stuck a spinal needle in my belly in order to inject George's heart with medication. I was in the shower at the hospital and sobbing to whoever or whatever may be (but probably isn't) out there to save my son. I tried to make a bargain with a God who, if one exists at all, doesn't make bargains.
If you are really there, please save my son and I will do whatever you ask of me for the rest of my life.
If you are really there, please save my son and take my life instead.
If you are really there, please save my son and I will never doubt your existence again.
Let him live. Let him live. Let him live.
This morning I prayed for someone else's baby. I don't feel it is my place to discuss any of the details here but my friend's baby, who is about the same age as Clio, is very sick and struggling to survive in the NICU right now. This family has been constantly in my thoughts for the past five weeks (longer, really) and my heart is breaking for them. I feel helpless and the only thing I could think of doing was to beg whoever or whatever might be out there;
Please save this baby.
Please save this baby.
Please save this baby.
Please, universe or God or life-energy or whatever may be out there, have mercy this time.
Is it still called a prayer if you don't really believe in God?
Before today the last time I prayed was an hour before they repeatedly stuck a spinal needle in my belly in order to inject George's heart with medication. I was in the shower at the hospital and sobbing to whoever or whatever may be (but probably isn't) out there to save my son. I tried to make a bargain with a God who, if one exists at all, doesn't make bargains.
If you are really there, please save my son and I will do whatever you ask of me for the rest of my life.
If you are really there, please save my son and take my life instead.
If you are really there, please save my son and I will never doubt your existence again.
Let him live. Let him live. Let him live.
This morning I prayed for someone else's baby. I don't feel it is my place to discuss any of the details here but my friend's baby, who is about the same age as Clio, is very sick and struggling to survive in the NICU right now. This family has been constantly in my thoughts for the past five weeks (longer, really) and my heart is breaking for them. I feel helpless and the only thing I could think of doing was to beg whoever or whatever might be out there;
Please save this baby.
Please save this baby.
Please save this baby.
Please, universe or God or life-energy or whatever may be out there, have mercy this time.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
work schmork
Today I brought Clio by my office to show her off. I know that isn't the humble thing to say but it is the truth. I totally took her to my office to show her around to everyone. I wanted to post a sign around her neck that read, "Product of Leif + Bree. Brought to you by 2 1/2 hours of pushing." I am a proud mamma, what else is there to say about that.
I dread the day I have to leave her at daycare and go back to work. I absolutely hate just the idea of going back to work. It makes me sick to my stomach and I want to cry. I try to tell myself that it is only going to be three days a week but it doesn't seem to help ease my anxiety very much. If I did not have a ridiculously large student loan to pay off I would stay home with her. But I do and so I can't. Had I known what my future would look like at this point I never would have gone back to school to get the degree I have. Hindsight...
But at least I like the people I work with, right? That is something.
I've got until mid-October (probably) before I have to make that sad, lonely long commute to work without my girl. The start of flu season. That sucks when you work in medicine. I'm going to be afraid to kiss my own child until next March.
Hmmph.
Anyway, I've still got the rest of the Summer (and in Los Angeles September is most definitely still Summer) to give her as many kisses as I can without the fear of passing on germs from my patients. Ugh. How do people do this without going crazy?
I dread the day I have to leave her at daycare and go back to work. I absolutely hate just the idea of going back to work. It makes me sick to my stomach and I want to cry. I try to tell myself that it is only going to be three days a week but it doesn't seem to help ease my anxiety very much. If I did not have a ridiculously large student loan to pay off I would stay home with her. But I do and so I can't. Had I known what my future would look like at this point I never would have gone back to school to get the degree I have. Hindsight...
But at least I like the people I work with, right? That is something.
I've got until mid-October (probably) before I have to make that sad, lonely long commute to work without my girl. The start of flu season. That sucks when you work in medicine. I'm going to be afraid to kiss my own child until next March.
Hmmph.
Anyway, I've still got the rest of the Summer (and in Los Angeles September is most definitely still Summer) to give her as many kisses as I can without the fear of passing on germs from my patients. Ugh. How do people do this without going crazy?
Monday, September 12, 2011
a completely random post about being a mother, leif going back to work, and why it is the wee hours of the morning and i am awake writing this post
It is amazing how much you appreciate help with an infant after you've been on your own with one for awhile. Leif went back to work last week and so I've been on my own with Clio until a couple of days ago when her MeeMaw (my mom) came down to help out. I have to say, my hat is off to single parents. Seriously, this shit is hard work. Worth it, of course, but a whole hell of a lot of work. Between breast-feeding, diaper changes (Um, hello, Clio why do you find it necessary to poop right after I change your diaper every single time?), fussy-fixing, breast-pumping, laundry, showering, brushing teeth, and attempting to eat meals there is hardly time for anything else. Even when she asleep I hardly ever have the opportunity to take a nap with her. The last two times I made the attempt I was just starting to nod off either my phone rang (Oh no! Water is leaking in the downstairs apartment! Can you please turn off your kitchen water!) or she decided that a 45 minute nap was sufficient and as soon as those big blue eyes flicker open, Oh Lordy, it is of utmost important to get milk in her belly right away or else suffer her wrath.
Plus it had been in the upper 90s or low 100s all last week. Have I ever mentioned how we don't have AC? The heat was simply overwhelming so we ended up buying a portable unit to put in our bedroom so we didn't have a hot little infant on our hands everyday. All week (until Friday when it finally started to cool off) Clio and I spent our days and nights in a tiny little bedroom like hermits. Not a big deal for the girl but crazy-making for me.
I'm not complaining. No way. Just giving background as to why when MeeMaw came to visit last week I was super grateful. But what did Clio end up doing the entire time MeeMaw was here? She slept like a rock until right after MeeMaw left to go home. Seriously, she is such a great sleeper when we have company, the only times when I can't or don't want to take a nap. She's clever that way.
Just over the last few days she has taken to sucking on my finger to soothe herself to sleep. When she is awake it is very, very difficult to get her to sleep so my finger is a small price to pay for some relief. Her reluctance to fall asleep is great during the day. An awake baby is super fun (mostly) during the daylight hours but at two in the morning, which is what time it is right now, it is much less fun. I've noticed that I tend to bargain with her at these times, as if it is possible to bargain with a four week old infant. Go to sleep and mommy and daddy will buy you a pony or whatever animal now equates itself with privilege and spoiling.
We finally also made the decision to move her into her own bedroom and out of ours. Up until two nights ago she was sleeping in a co-sleeper in our bedroom but apparently she is a very vocal infant and her grunts and squeals and mewls, even when she is asleep, tend to keep me up at all times. I got tired of sleeping on the couch and waiting for Leif to bring her to me when she got fussy enough to wake him up. We had wanted to keep her in our room until she was at least two months old but it just became too much for me and I really missed sleeping next to my husband. The first night she was in her crib was the first night that I actually slept soundly during those three hour chunks of time between her feedings since she came home with us. So in her crib (or her Baby Jail as one of Leif's crunchy co-workers calls the evil cribs) she stays.
This weekend has been really great. I think having Leif gone during the weekdays made these days all the more special. Even before Clio I always looked forward to the weekend for the sole fact that Leif and I would get to spend quite a bit of time together, just hanging out. Now I know that the weekends are going to become even more precious to me since we hardly get to spend any time with each other anymore. I mean, we do spend time with each other, but not in the same way that we did before Clio. We were each others' whole world and now our world is occupied by an amazing little creature who demands all of our attention. I simply miss my husband but that is another post for another time. Maybe one when there isn't still sleep clouding over my eyes and their isn't a grunty little baby at my side who needs some rocking to tip her over from half-asleep to full-asleep.
But anyway what made this weekend especially good...We hung out with dear friends and for the first time in almost a year I was able to have a couple of alcoholic drinks. We had a visitor from my work, someone who insists that Clio know her as Gammy Sunny. I'll have to write something about her sometime, she is a most interesting woman. We visited with my sister and her two girls. Love them. The little one, Leela, turned two (I can hardly believe it) and she calls Clio, Kilo because she can't quite figure out the CL blend. While we were over there I was feeding Clio and Leela was fascinated with us. She just kept asking over and over again, "It eating?" Toddlers tend to find babies and breast-feeding fascinating. We went to the Farmer's Market, always a treat. We went for a walk and a picnic in the sun. We made bolognese from scratch. Leif and I managed to watch a whole movie, snuggled on the couch, while Clio slept soundly in her bouncy chair. It was wonderful.
But now the weekend is over and Leif is asleep in our bedroom and I am up with the baby.
Right now it would be super awesome if she would go from this:
To this:
C'mon Clio, you can do it! Do it for Momma!
Friday, September 2, 2011
work in progress
I make an attempt to weave the two together; the time in between and the now. A need to make them make sense together, somehow, to learn to live in both at once. My daughter in Chronos. My son in Kairos. I hold his pictures and trace his face and at the same time I feel my daughter stretching her life against my breast. The two seem so very far apart and I wonder how it is ever possible to bring them together, my two children, without having to exclude one or the other.
One so undeniably alive and present. The other so undeniably dead and missing.
I haven't figured this all out; how to be a good parent to my living child while simultaneously attempting to keep the memory of my dead one from also dying. Sometimes the thought crosses my mind that I should do just that; let his memory die and go into the same oblivion that he did. It would be easier to forget and to let the spinning of the world propel me with its forward momentum. I look at my daughter and often feel the compulsion to clip her brother's name from my tongue when it hangs there, waiting to be said. As if still longing for him somehow detracts from the love I have for her. Can I really give all my love to this child wiggling in my lap while sometimes still wanting to live in that in between time when her brother was still alive. Twenty-four minutes almost 18 months in my past.
There are still many times when I am in the shower when I cry out for him. I beg and plead to have him back. For just a day. For just an hour. To get to know him in the same way I know his sister. Not as the sick and dying baby in the sterile operating room or as the cold and still one in the recovery room but as the pink and living baby I hold in my arms now. A glimpse of what he could have been had things only turned out differently. I cry out that I want to feed him, to bathe him, to feel him against my skin.
But I keep my cries to myself, mostly. I fear judgment. I've always feared judgment from people who maybe think I am hanging on too much or that I need to let go of the past. I fear people thinking that I am incapable of mothering this living child because I can't tear myself away from the dead one. I fear people thinking to themselves, "Isn't she over this by now? He wasn't even a real baby yet." I fear people making a judgment that I must be depressed simply because I still miss my son when in actuality I am very grateful for the life I have with my husband and daughter. As I said in my last post, they are my light and I know how very fortunate I am to have them lighting up my world.
The fear of judgment isn't totally unfounded as I have come to learn. I hear the judgment in subtle tones from people we know. It is often so subtle I don't think those from which it comes even would realize it themselves.
"Now that Clio is here you can move on from the pain of losing George."
I also hear it in the silence. His name is hardly ever uttered. I cannot recall the last time someone, other than baby loss parents, asked us how we were dealing with our grief over George since Clio arrived. Her arrival and his absence are intwined for us in ways that other people just rarely acknowledge.
I fear even writing all this here for the possible judgment that some may have.
She has a living child now, why is she still writing about this? She should be grateful for her daughter.
I don't want George's death to overshadow the life of his sister. She is celebrated every moment I am breathing. I love her completely and I recognize how fortunate I am to have her . I take not a single cry or fussy moment for granted. But I also don't want her life to negate the importance of her brother's. How to keep that from happening I am not sure. I guess it is just a work in progress.
One so undeniably alive and present. The other so undeniably dead and missing.
I haven't figured this all out; how to be a good parent to my living child while simultaneously attempting to keep the memory of my dead one from also dying. Sometimes the thought crosses my mind that I should do just that; let his memory die and go into the same oblivion that he did. It would be easier to forget and to let the spinning of the world propel me with its forward momentum. I look at my daughter and often feel the compulsion to clip her brother's name from my tongue when it hangs there, waiting to be said. As if still longing for him somehow detracts from the love I have for her. Can I really give all my love to this child wiggling in my lap while sometimes still wanting to live in that in between time when her brother was still alive. Twenty-four minutes almost 18 months in my past.
There are still many times when I am in the shower when I cry out for him. I beg and plead to have him back. For just a day. For just an hour. To get to know him in the same way I know his sister. Not as the sick and dying baby in the sterile operating room or as the cold and still one in the recovery room but as the pink and living baby I hold in my arms now. A glimpse of what he could have been had things only turned out differently. I cry out that I want to feed him, to bathe him, to feel him against my skin.
But I keep my cries to myself, mostly. I fear judgment. I've always feared judgment from people who maybe think I am hanging on too much or that I need to let go of the past. I fear people thinking that I am incapable of mothering this living child because I can't tear myself away from the dead one. I fear people thinking to themselves, "Isn't she over this by now? He wasn't even a real baby yet." I fear people making a judgment that I must be depressed simply because I still miss my son when in actuality I am very grateful for the life I have with my husband and daughter. As I said in my last post, they are my light and I know how very fortunate I am to have them lighting up my world.
The fear of judgment isn't totally unfounded as I have come to learn. I hear the judgment in subtle tones from people we know. It is often so subtle I don't think those from which it comes even would realize it themselves.
"Now that Clio is here you can move on from the pain of losing George."
I also hear it in the silence. His name is hardly ever uttered. I cannot recall the last time someone, other than baby loss parents, asked us how we were dealing with our grief over George since Clio arrived. Her arrival and his absence are intwined for us in ways that other people just rarely acknowledge.
I fear even writing all this here for the possible judgment that some may have.
She has a living child now, why is she still writing about this? She should be grateful for her daughter.
I don't want George's death to overshadow the life of his sister. She is celebrated every moment I am breathing. I love her completely and I recognize how fortunate I am to have her . I take not a single cry or fussy moment for granted. But I also don't want her life to negate the importance of her brother's. How to keep that from happening I am not sure. I guess it is just a work in progress.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
the laughing heart
Yesterday Leif shared with me a poem by Charles Bukowski. Seldom does it happen that I come across a piece of writing that strikes me so deeply to the core that I feel like I must memorize it so as to never forget its message.
The Laughing Heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
Over the last two weeks I have felt much of that darkness again, not that it ever entirely left. Having Clio here has been magical but it has also crystalized for me what exactly was taken away from us when George died and that has been difficult for me to internalize again. I just miss him so very much and can't really fathom how I will never have him again.
Yet this poem has helped to remind me that I can choose to live out my days in the darkness of circumstance or I can choose to look for the light, wherever it may come from. The darkness will always be my companion but I choose whether or not to let it consume me. As Clio grows up I want to share with her the existence of her brother so that from his story and ours she will learn that even in the darkest moments of her life -and surely there will be moments that seem black as night- there will always be at least a small shimmer of light, even when it feels like all of the light in the world has been stolen away.
And surely there is so much light.
My Leif.
My Clio.
My life is my life and I will know it while I have it.
The Laughing Heart
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
Over the last two weeks I have felt much of that darkness again, not that it ever entirely left. Having Clio here has been magical but it has also crystalized for me what exactly was taken away from us when George died and that has been difficult for me to internalize again. I just miss him so very much and can't really fathom how I will never have him again.
Yet this poem has helped to remind me that I can choose to live out my days in the darkness of circumstance or I can choose to look for the light, wherever it may come from. The darkness will always be my companion but I choose whether or not to let it consume me. As Clio grows up I want to share with her the existence of her brother so that from his story and ours she will learn that even in the darkest moments of her life -and surely there will be moments that seem black as night- there will always be at least a small shimmer of light, even when it feels like all of the light in the world has been stolen away.
And surely there is so much light.
My Leif.
My Clio.
My life is my life and I will know it while I have it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
afternoon nap
Clio is asleep, probably dreaming of flashing colors and lights; a shadow puppet show.
She is a rag doll after she eats, completely devoid of any concern at all. Peaceful. A floppy doll with a milky face.
So beautiful. So exhausting. So perfect. So worth it all.
I watch her and can't help but find my mind drifting over the chasm of the absence of her brother. I search for familiarity in her features. I beg to see her brother there too. My heart swells with love for my children and the tears flow in streams for missing the one who will always be forever gone.
My babies. My loves.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
she's finally here
About five hours after I wrote that last post I went into labor. I woke up with mild and erratic contractions a little after midnight on Saturday, August 13th but within three hours they were coming every five minutes so we decided to head over to the hospital fully expecting that they would dissipate like they always have.
As it turned out they did not go away...
Our daughter was born wiggly and squealing later that same day after about twenty hours of labor and two and half hours of pushing. She was 8 pounds 4 ounces and 21.5 inches long.
Right now we are all adjusting to having her home with us. I'm having a rough start to breast feeding (ouch) and with the recovery from a pretty severe tear during the VBAC (ouch and ouch). Leif is doing such a great job helping me, as well as doing the lion's share of work with our sweet girl.
We are completely smitten with her and every tiny little thing that she does. Seeing her makes every doubt, every fear, every pain well worth it a thousand times over.
Thank you all so much for the support you have given me. Truly, I am so grateful for every one of you who has been with us throughout this journey with George and to get his little sister here safe and sound. We only wish that we could have them both with us...
As it turned out they did not go away...
Our daughter was born wiggly and squealing later that same day after about twenty hours of labor and two and half hours of pushing. She was 8 pounds 4 ounces and 21.5 inches long.
Right now we are all adjusting to having her home with us. I'm having a rough start to breast feeding (ouch) and with the recovery from a pretty severe tear during the VBAC (ouch and ouch). Leif is doing such a great job helping me, as well as doing the lion's share of work with our sweet girl.
We are completely smitten with her and every tiny little thing that she does. Seeing her makes every doubt, every fear, every pain well worth it a thousand times over.
Clio Irene
August 13, 2011
Thank you all so much for the support you have given me. Truly, I am so grateful for every one of you who has been with us throughout this journey with George and to get his little sister here safe and sound. We only wish that we could have them both with us...
Friday, August 12, 2011
which way to go
I'm having a difficult time here, friends. I do not want another c-section, I really don't. It is not as if I have anything against them I just really wanted this shot at having a conventional labor and delivery. I have this vision in my mind of her being born and getting her plopped on my chest all pink and screaming, Leif by my side as amazed as I am. You know, the exact opposite of our experience with George. The closer we get to August 16th the less likely it seems like that is going to happen for us. Aside from some erratic contractions each morning that seem to fade away after an hour or so, I don't feel as if we've made any progress. She is still sitting super high, just under my ribs, and I am wondering if she will ever drop. Until she does it seems unlikely that I can dilate that much without the pressure of her head to move the process along. No dilation means no induction.
Of course, then there is the added pressure of knowing that if I have another c-section it pretty much locks me into one for the next pregnancy, should there be one. That really sucks too.
The thing is that it isn't as if I have to get a c-section at this point. It would not be an issue for me at all if I had to have one but right now I don't. I don't have a breech baby. She isn't in any apparent distress. I'm a good candidate for a successful VBAC and my doctor feels comfortable waiting to see how things go on their own as long as I start getting non-stress tests twice a week. But I am terrified of waiting. So, so scared that something bad will happen. Being part of a community of people who have had their babies die you begin to see all the ways in which tragedy occurs.
I keep thinking, what if I decide to wait for things to go on their own and there is a cord accident? What then? Or what if something happens during delivery? These things happen, sadly. Most of us know this from personal experience.
So I guess I'm looking for your opinions. If you have lost a baby late in pregnancy and were term with a subsequent pregnancy, how long would you wait after forty weeks before inducing (if that was possible) or doing a c-section? A week? Two weeks? Would you even wait until forty weeks or try to get the baby out earlier?
We just want her to get here alive and healthy and maybe I am tempting fate by putting too much emphasis on the method in which that happens. I wish I had some sort of guarantee about how this is all going to turn out...
Of course, then there is the added pressure of knowing that if I have another c-section it pretty much locks me into one for the next pregnancy, should there be one. That really sucks too.
The thing is that it isn't as if I have to get a c-section at this point. It would not be an issue for me at all if I had to have one but right now I don't. I don't have a breech baby. She isn't in any apparent distress. I'm a good candidate for a successful VBAC and my doctor feels comfortable waiting to see how things go on their own as long as I start getting non-stress tests twice a week. But I am terrified of waiting. So, so scared that something bad will happen. Being part of a community of people who have had their babies die you begin to see all the ways in which tragedy occurs.
I keep thinking, what if I decide to wait for things to go on their own and there is a cord accident? What then? Or what if something happens during delivery? These things happen, sadly. Most of us know this from personal experience.
So I guess I'm looking for your opinions. If you have lost a baby late in pregnancy and were term with a subsequent pregnancy, how long would you wait after forty weeks before inducing (if that was possible) or doing a c-section? A week? Two weeks? Would you even wait until forty weeks or try to get the baby out earlier?
We just want her to get here alive and healthy and maybe I am tempting fate by putting too much emphasis on the method in which that happens. I wish I had some sort of guarantee about how this is all going to turn out...
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
being sick sucks
Getting sick when you're 38 weeks and 6 days pregnant is no joke. In fact, it lands you in Labor and Delivery getting IV rehydration while watching cable television.
I'll spare you all the gory details but let me just say that I started feeling sick early yesterday morning and it quickly progressed into a full blown stomach bug by mid-morning. By mid-afternoon I was on the phone with my OB and she was telling me to go to the hospital for fluids, since I was completely unable to even keep water down, and for monitoring since I hadn't felt the baby moving quite as much as normal. By the time I got to the hospital it had only been twelve hours since I started feeling sick but because I was so dehydrated already they had an incredibly difficult time finding a usable vein to start the IV. First the nurse gave it a try, then the nurse anesthetist tried, and finally they had to call in the anesthesiologist to get it going.
Of course, we ended up being placed in a room two doors down from the room where we held George after he died. The rooms all look identical and before we were even inside I was crying, remembering that short amount of time we had with him. I don't mean to sound dramatic but it was pretty horrible. Possibly if I was there under different circumstances it would have been less traumatizing but as it was, being there sick and somewhat concerned about this baby, I had a difficult time for the first hour or so. It was impossible not to allow myself to go back to the afternoon of March 31st, 2010 and visualize everything that happened.
We did not have to stay long, only about five hours or so. At first the baby's heart rate was on the higher end of normal but as soon as they got the fluids flowing her rate fell back to her normal and stayed that way. At one point I was having pretty consistent mild contractions three minutes apart but, again, as I started getting rehydrated they tapered off. In some ways it would have been nice to just be admitted and get this party started but really I am glad to have the time to come home and recoup my energy.
At my appointment with my OB this morning she said that because I had an elevated white blood count she thinks that I most likely picked up a virus, either through food or someone else, although no one else I've been around has been sick. I'm just that lucky, I guess. At this point I am feeling better but I still have some of the same, albeit milder, symptoms I was having yesterday. Mostly I've been sleeping and trying to drink as much water as possible. Oh, and eating dry Cheerios, that seems to be working fairly well for me.
Also, in other unfortunate news, my cervix is still closed. I was really bummed about that because I had hoped that the contractions last night had at least caused some movement in the right direction towards getting labor underway. Not so much. Sometime this week my OB will be calling us to schedule our appointment for the c-section for next week. I had my heart set on trying for a VBAC but Leif and I are terrified of waiting until after her due date for too long and if my cervix remains closed they cannot induce me because of my previous c-section scar. As each day crawls by my anxiety about a cord accident and/or a failing placenta climbs. We could continue to wait, getting NSTs and ultrasounds twice a week after 40 weeks but I'm not sure that my (or Leif's) anxiety can handle that.
As for now we wait and hope that my body starts to make a move on its own sometime this week.
Please body, get a move on, please, please, please.
I'll spare you all the gory details but let me just say that I started feeling sick early yesterday morning and it quickly progressed into a full blown stomach bug by mid-morning. By mid-afternoon I was on the phone with my OB and she was telling me to go to the hospital for fluids, since I was completely unable to even keep water down, and for monitoring since I hadn't felt the baby moving quite as much as normal. By the time I got to the hospital it had only been twelve hours since I started feeling sick but because I was so dehydrated already they had an incredibly difficult time finding a usable vein to start the IV. First the nurse gave it a try, then the nurse anesthetist tried, and finally they had to call in the anesthesiologist to get it going.
Of course, we ended up being placed in a room two doors down from the room where we held George after he died. The rooms all look identical and before we were even inside I was crying, remembering that short amount of time we had with him. I don't mean to sound dramatic but it was pretty horrible. Possibly if I was there under different circumstances it would have been less traumatizing but as it was, being there sick and somewhat concerned about this baby, I had a difficult time for the first hour or so. It was impossible not to allow myself to go back to the afternoon of March 31st, 2010 and visualize everything that happened.
We did not have to stay long, only about five hours or so. At first the baby's heart rate was on the higher end of normal but as soon as they got the fluids flowing her rate fell back to her normal and stayed that way. At one point I was having pretty consistent mild contractions three minutes apart but, again, as I started getting rehydrated they tapered off. In some ways it would have been nice to just be admitted and get this party started but really I am glad to have the time to come home and recoup my energy.
At my appointment with my OB this morning she said that because I had an elevated white blood count she thinks that I most likely picked up a virus, either through food or someone else, although no one else I've been around has been sick. I'm just that lucky, I guess. At this point I am feeling better but I still have some of the same, albeit milder, symptoms I was having yesterday. Mostly I've been sleeping and trying to drink as much water as possible. Oh, and eating dry Cheerios, that seems to be working fairly well for me.
Also, in other unfortunate news, my cervix is still closed. I was really bummed about that because I had hoped that the contractions last night had at least caused some movement in the right direction towards getting labor underway. Not so much. Sometime this week my OB will be calling us to schedule our appointment for the c-section for next week. I had my heart set on trying for a VBAC but Leif and I are terrified of waiting until after her due date for too long and if my cervix remains closed they cannot induce me because of my previous c-section scar. As each day crawls by my anxiety about a cord accident and/or a failing placenta climbs. We could continue to wait, getting NSTs and ultrasounds twice a week after 40 weeks but I'm not sure that my (or Leif's) anxiety can handle that.
As for now we wait and hope that my body starts to make a move on its own sometime this week.
Please body, get a move on, please, please, please.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
wakefulness
Hello 3:30 AM, nice to see you again. It used to be that we only briefly saw each other in passing on my way to the bathroom and on your way to being 3:31 AM but not so anymore. We've become much more intimately acquainted than I had ever hoped to be, although you certainly have your charms. You're quiet; no incessantly yapping dogs outside. You're cool; I'm not sweating profusely just sitting in your company. You're peaceful; there isn't much to do besides be with my thoughts. So you certainly have your charms but still, I'd rather be sleeping next to my husband right now instead of sitting on the couch writing about a time of day as if it was something animate.
I know I am beating a dead horse with this whole insomnia topic. You get it world wide web (and I mean all twenty-something of you out there who read this on a regular basis), I am having trouble sleeping. It isn't like I'm the first person in the world to suffer from this condition. If you Google "Famous Insomniacs" you come up with quite an interesting list of people and an even more interesting list of home remedies. Most remedies included the use of some "medicinal" aid such as sleeping pills (modern version and method of choice for most celebrity insomniacs) or a camphor-soaked pillow, as was the case with Vincent Van Gogh. Poor Vince. But my favorite remedy by far was the one purportedly employed by early 20th century actress Tallulah Blankhead (Never heard of her? Me neither, had to look her up on Wikipedia. Good ol' Wikipedia, has the answers to most questions in life. Surprisingly enough though, no answer on how to keep me personally from having insomnia). She hired "gay caddies" to sit with her and hold her hand until she fell asleep. Personally, I love this novel approach but I'm not sure that it would work for me as I am too much of a hostess at heart. I'd be asking my caddy every five minutes if I could get him/her a cold beverage. Besides our bed is too small for this kind of method. We only have a queen size. Maybe when we have a bedroom large enough to accommodate a King size this method will be one to revisit. However, I can only hope by that time in the future I will have whipped this current state of sleeplessness.
I am not really the type to be super productive either during these stretches of sleeplessness, which if I were it would probably make this insomnia easier to bear. I use the excuse that Leif is sleeping in the next room over but honestly, he's a pretty heavy sleeper and I could probably make a fair amount of noise before he would wake up. Instead I like to lay awake, staring into the darkness of our bedroom until I can't take the boredom anymore, or the increasing sense of nausea from low blood sugar. Then I relocate to the couch where I inevitably open up a new post for this blog, write for about an hour, save as draft (usually never to be published), and then walk myself back to the bedroom (with one stop at the bathroom for good measure) where I, again, lay awake for a significant amount of time thinking about God Knows What.
When I ask my patients, most of whom are over the age of seventy, how they are sleeping I would say the majority of them have some degree of insomnia, which for most human beings is an inevitable result of the aging process. The older we get and the less energy we expend during the day, the less sleep we require at night. But more so than the physiological aspect of insomnia I think its cause stems from the simple fact that the older we get the less simple our lives become. Family issues, financial woes, work stresses...The space in the brain they occupy slowly spreads out and makes it more difficult to find a tiny corner of the mind to occupy at night in order to fall asleep that isn't also occupied by some of these stressors.
For me it is difficult, at times*, to find the headspace that isn't occupied by thoughts of WORST CASE SCENARIO with the birth of this baby. My sister asked me the other day when she kindly came to visit in order to show me how to use the breast pump, if I thought that being around other people (and I am assuming she meant virtually and physically) who have suffered the loss of a baby was helpful or detrimental. Well, I assume that was what she was asking because I think she was having a hard time getting the question out as she did not want to sound judgmental (she didn't). My answer, probably equally as indecipherable, was the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. Yes, it is helpful to be around people who understand that it is perfectly acceptable to bring up the subject of George even if I don't broach the topic first (God, it is tiresome to feel the burden of having to always be the one who mentions him because others are afraid that if they talk about him it will send me into convulsions of sadness). Yes, it is helpful to be around people who have more of an understanding of what this experience is like. No, it is not always helpful to be so keenly aware of just how many ways bad things can happen to an unborn baby. There is truth in the saying, "Ignorance is bliss."
But not every bought of insomnia I have has to do with ruminating over all the possible bad shit that can happen before, during and after this baby is born. More often than not I think it excitement that has me up a 3:30 AM (now 4:52 AM). I am truly excited to meet this baby in less than two weeks. I often wonder what she looks like (hopefully just like her dad except with my nose because a Hanson nose, although very distinguished on a man, is no nose for a girl) or what her temperament will be (also, hopefully like her dad who is on the whole much more mellow than I am). Mostly I hope that she likes me. I really, really, really hope that she likes me.
I think as close to a remedy for insomnia as I am ever going to get (at least one that doesn't involve ambien, lunesta or "gay caddies") is to stare at this computer screen and to write. It may never see the figurative light of day but at least it isn't taking up valuable space in my brain and hopefully that means I can curl up in the newly empty area and make a go at falling back asleep.
I think at 5:06 AM, it is time to give this whole sleeping thing another shot.
*Just a little note of reassurance here that I do not, in fact, obsess about this pregnancy ending badly. I generally have a pretty positive outlook on how things are going and do not fixate on the possibility of lightening striking twice. I have hope and I wanted to make sure anyone out there reading, whether family and friends or other baby loss people contemplating having a go at a subsequent pregnancy, knows that I really, truly am hopeful.
I know I am beating a dead horse with this whole insomnia topic. You get it world wide web (and I mean all twenty-something of you out there who read this on a regular basis), I am having trouble sleeping. It isn't like I'm the first person in the world to suffer from this condition. If you Google "Famous Insomniacs" you come up with quite an interesting list of people and an even more interesting list of home remedies. Most remedies included the use of some "medicinal" aid such as sleeping pills (modern version and method of choice for most celebrity insomniacs) or a camphor-soaked pillow, as was the case with Vincent Van Gogh. Poor Vince. But my favorite remedy by far was the one purportedly employed by early 20th century actress Tallulah Blankhead (Never heard of her? Me neither, had to look her up on Wikipedia. Good ol' Wikipedia, has the answers to most questions in life. Surprisingly enough though, no answer on how to keep me personally from having insomnia). She hired "gay caddies" to sit with her and hold her hand until she fell asleep. Personally, I love this novel approach but I'm not sure that it would work for me as I am too much of a hostess at heart. I'd be asking my caddy every five minutes if I could get him/her a cold beverage. Besides our bed is too small for this kind of method. We only have a queen size. Maybe when we have a bedroom large enough to accommodate a King size this method will be one to revisit. However, I can only hope by that time in the future I will have whipped this current state of sleeplessness.
I am not really the type to be super productive either during these stretches of sleeplessness, which if I were it would probably make this insomnia easier to bear. I use the excuse that Leif is sleeping in the next room over but honestly, he's a pretty heavy sleeper and I could probably make a fair amount of noise before he would wake up. Instead I like to lay awake, staring into the darkness of our bedroom until I can't take the boredom anymore, or the increasing sense of nausea from low blood sugar. Then I relocate to the couch where I inevitably open up a new post for this blog, write for about an hour, save as draft (usually never to be published), and then walk myself back to the bedroom (with one stop at the bathroom for good measure) where I, again, lay awake for a significant amount of time thinking about God Knows What.
When I ask my patients, most of whom are over the age of seventy, how they are sleeping I would say the majority of them have some degree of insomnia, which for most human beings is an inevitable result of the aging process. The older we get and the less energy we expend during the day, the less sleep we require at night. But more so than the physiological aspect of insomnia I think its cause stems from the simple fact that the older we get the less simple our lives become. Family issues, financial woes, work stresses...The space in the brain they occupy slowly spreads out and makes it more difficult to find a tiny corner of the mind to occupy at night in order to fall asleep that isn't also occupied by some of these stressors.
For me it is difficult, at times*, to find the headspace that isn't occupied by thoughts of WORST CASE SCENARIO with the birth of this baby. My sister asked me the other day when she kindly came to visit in order to show me how to use the breast pump, if I thought that being around other people (and I am assuming she meant virtually and physically) who have suffered the loss of a baby was helpful or detrimental. Well, I assume that was what she was asking because I think she was having a hard time getting the question out as she did not want to sound judgmental (she didn't). My answer, probably equally as indecipherable, was the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. Yes, it is helpful to be around people who understand that it is perfectly acceptable to bring up the subject of George even if I don't broach the topic first (God, it is tiresome to feel the burden of having to always be the one who mentions him because others are afraid that if they talk about him it will send me into convulsions of sadness). Yes, it is helpful to be around people who have more of an understanding of what this experience is like. No, it is not always helpful to be so keenly aware of just how many ways bad things can happen to an unborn baby. There is truth in the saying, "Ignorance is bliss."
But not every bought of insomnia I have has to do with ruminating over all the possible bad shit that can happen before, during and after this baby is born. More often than not I think it excitement that has me up a 3:30 AM (now 4:52 AM). I am truly excited to meet this baby in less than two weeks. I often wonder what she looks like (hopefully just like her dad except with my nose because a Hanson nose, although very distinguished on a man, is no nose for a girl) or what her temperament will be (also, hopefully like her dad who is on the whole much more mellow than I am). Mostly I hope that she likes me. I really, really, really hope that she likes me.
I think as close to a remedy for insomnia as I am ever going to get (at least one that doesn't involve ambien, lunesta or "gay caddies") is to stare at this computer screen and to write. It may never see the figurative light of day but at least it isn't taking up valuable space in my brain and hopefully that means I can curl up in the newly empty area and make a go at falling back asleep.
I think at 5:06 AM, it is time to give this whole sleeping thing another shot.
*Just a little note of reassurance here that I do not, in fact, obsess about this pregnancy ending badly. I generally have a pretty positive outlook on how things are going and do not fixate on the possibility of lightening striking twice. I have hope and I wanted to make sure anyone out there reading, whether family and friends or other baby loss people contemplating having a go at a subsequent pregnancy, knows that I really, truly am hopeful.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
stay cool
It has been quiet here, I know. But I have been keeping to my previous commitment to myself to do something creative everyday. My paints have occupied our dining room table for the last couple of days.
Mostly though, I've been hanging around in my underwear, trying to stay cool underneath the ceiling fan with a wet washcloth while watching too many episodes of Weeds. I'm "this" close to getting a huge block of ice and placing it in front of a standing fan and hacking myself a kind of swamp cooler. Only I won't because I once saw an episode of CSI years and years ago about a guy who electrocuted himself doing the same thing. No one wants to be found dead in their underwear by beautiful people like Marg Helgenberger. It is just undignified.
But I digress...
According to the well-educated fingers of the obstetrician I saw this morning my cervix is still long and closed. I'll have to take her word for it because I'm not down with self-cervix checking. I'll leave those shenanigans to the real zealous pregnant people on the Baby Center boards I occasionally silently stalk (By stalk I mean the boards not the zealots. Those I try to avoid).
Actually these particular well-educated fingers were not the ones that my cervix has known over the last five years as my regular OB was at the hospital delivering a baby. For the very first time we saw one of her colleagues who, as it turned out, was the resident who assisted with George's delivery. Leif didn't remember her but I did. She was one of five people on this earth who saw George while he was alive, even if it was only briefly, and so her face is seared into my brain. Upon seeing her I had the sudden desire to reach inside her mind and pull out images of George I've never seen before. She owns footage of his life I'll never get to see. That seems not right.
I guess long and closed means that, at least for the time being, I will have to continue to come up with novel ways to keep myself cool. Tomorrow...lunch with Leif, a free day at the Craft Museum, and an eyebrow waxing because good lordy are my brows out of control.
Mostly though, I've been hanging around in my underwear, trying to stay cool underneath the ceiling fan with a wet washcloth while watching too many episodes of Weeds. I'm "this" close to getting a huge block of ice and placing it in front of a standing fan and hacking myself a kind of swamp cooler. Only I won't because I once saw an episode of CSI years and years ago about a guy who electrocuted himself doing the same thing. No one wants to be found dead in their underwear by beautiful people like Marg Helgenberger. It is just undignified.
But I digress...
According to the well-educated fingers of the obstetrician I saw this morning my cervix is still long and closed. I'll have to take her word for it because I'm not down with self-cervix checking. I'll leave those shenanigans to the real zealous pregnant people on the Baby Center boards I occasionally silently stalk (By stalk I mean the boards not the zealots. Those I try to avoid).
Actually these particular well-educated fingers were not the ones that my cervix has known over the last five years as my regular OB was at the hospital delivering a baby. For the very first time we saw one of her colleagues who, as it turned out, was the resident who assisted with George's delivery. Leif didn't remember her but I did. She was one of five people on this earth who saw George while he was alive, even if it was only briefly, and so her face is seared into my brain. Upon seeing her I had the sudden desire to reach inside her mind and pull out images of George I've never seen before. She owns footage of his life I'll never get to see. That seems not right.
I guess long and closed means that, at least for the time being, I will have to continue to come up with novel ways to keep myself cool. Tomorrow...lunch with Leif, a free day at the Craft Museum, and an eyebrow waxing because good lordy are my brows out of control.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
creative
At this very moment outside of our living room windows most of the world on the hill below us is asleep. There are not too many windows alighted with the glow of vigilance and it is so quiet that I can hear the distant sounds of cars on the freeway. Most nights Leif and I are tucked away in our dreams long before the majority of everyone else is around here but as I am typing this the clock icon on my computer is telling me it is Fri 1:52 AM. It is peaceful, probably one of the few times in Los Angeles it is like this.
I've been feeling listless as of late, so I'm not sure if tonight's bought of insomnia is anxiety or boredom. Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon, it was my first day on maternity leave, sitting on the couch wondering what to do with myself. There were plenty of things I could have done but very few of those things actually were accomplished. I could use the fact that I am pregnant as an excuse but the truth is I've never been much of a self-motivator, unless we are talking about academics. My inner nerd has never been satisfied with academic mediocrity. Hence the too many degrees, the large amount of academic debt from attending a big-name university, and ultimately a profession that I just don't like that much. But hey, at least I have job security and for a pragmatist such as myself that does count for something.
Anyway, once upon a time I used to be a creative person. Now I am most decidedly not a creative person. I have plenty of things tucked away in drawers to use to be creative; paints, canvases, inks, pencils, glue, pencils...You name the art supply and I have probably collected it over the years. They were all available to me yesterday but they went unused and continued to gather dust as they have been for the last four or five years. The last thing I brought out my acrylics for was to paint George's "picture."
I simply do not often have ideas in my head that I find worthy of transforming from vapor into something tangible. Even writing here, which has been the closest thing to a creative outlet that I have, I find that I am mostly only motivated (or inspired) when the sadness of missing George is too overwhelming to keep to myself anymore. The best things I've written, and when I say best I use the term loosely, have all come from a place of intense loneliness and longing. When those feelings wane so does my ability to write anything that I find all that interesting. I write for myself but much of the time I don't write what I wish I had the ability to, speaking of both the ability talent-wise and freedom-wise. Which is one of the reasons I've contemplated closing up shop here on numerous occasions.
The icon on my computer is now telling me it is Fri 3:05 AM and it has taken me an hour to write four paragraphs.
Forget it.
.
.
.
.
.
Sat 5:14 AM
I've come to a conclusion of sorts. Until this baby comes, which could be as soon as tonight or as far away as August 16th, I am going to do my best to do something creative everyday. I can write, I can paint, I can take photographs...whatever, but I've got to do something everyday that is not normal routine for me.
We will see how this goes but for now here is a time lapse video Leif made of the view from our living room window at night.
Time Lapse View from .daily.amos. on Vimeo.
I've been feeling listless as of late, so I'm not sure if tonight's bought of insomnia is anxiety or boredom. Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon, it was my first day on maternity leave, sitting on the couch wondering what to do with myself. There were plenty of things I could have done but very few of those things actually were accomplished. I could use the fact that I am pregnant as an excuse but the truth is I've never been much of a self-motivator, unless we are talking about academics. My inner nerd has never been satisfied with academic mediocrity. Hence the too many degrees, the large amount of academic debt from attending a big-name university, and ultimately a profession that I just don't like that much. But hey, at least I have job security and for a pragmatist such as myself that does count for something.
Anyway, once upon a time I used to be a creative person. Now I am most decidedly not a creative person. I have plenty of things tucked away in drawers to use to be creative; paints, canvases, inks, pencils, glue, pencils...You name the art supply and I have probably collected it over the years. They were all available to me yesterday but they went unused and continued to gather dust as they have been for the last four or five years. The last thing I brought out my acrylics for was to paint George's "picture."
I simply do not often have ideas in my head that I find worthy of transforming from vapor into something tangible. Even writing here, which has been the closest thing to a creative outlet that I have, I find that I am mostly only motivated (or inspired) when the sadness of missing George is too overwhelming to keep to myself anymore. The best things I've written, and when I say best I use the term loosely, have all come from a place of intense loneliness and longing. When those feelings wane so does my ability to write anything that I find all that interesting. I write for myself but much of the time I don't write what I wish I had the ability to, speaking of both the ability talent-wise and freedom-wise. Which is one of the reasons I've contemplated closing up shop here on numerous occasions.
The icon on my computer is now telling me it is Fri 3:05 AM and it has taken me an hour to write four paragraphs.
Forget it.
.
.
.
.
.
Sat 5:14 AM
I've come to a conclusion of sorts. Until this baby comes, which could be as soon as tonight or as far away as August 16th, I am going to do my best to do something creative everyday. I can write, I can paint, I can take photographs...whatever, but I've got to do something everyday that is not normal routine for me.
We will see how this goes but for now here is a time lapse video Leif made of the view from our living room window at night.
Time Lapse View from .daily.amos. on Vimeo.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
no celebration
A little bit of advice to those who are closer to their loss than I am at this point...
There will be long stretches of time when you feel pretty good. In fact there will be long stretches of time when you feel almost like your old self again. You will be happy again but it won't be the happy you were before. But also know that bad days will come and they will come with the force of a train. You will be surprised not only by the strength of how badly your heart still aches but also by what triggers these days.
Tomorrow is my birthday. This is my second birthday since he's been gone and I have a lifetime of them left, always without him.
I will never see him again or hold him again. I will never know the sound of his laughter. I will never have any more time with him than what I've already had. I miss him so much that it physically hurts.
I have much to be grateful for in my life. Family, friends, a daughter who is on her way to meet us, and most importantly, my amazing husband. I know I should be celebrating, but instead I spent yesterday evening and most of today sobbing and missing my boy. I am another year older and George is still dead...I can't find much to celebrate in that.
There will be long stretches of time when you feel pretty good. In fact there will be long stretches of time when you feel almost like your old self again. You will be happy again but it won't be the happy you were before. But also know that bad days will come and they will come with the force of a train. You will be surprised not only by the strength of how badly your heart still aches but also by what triggers these days.
Tomorrow is my birthday. This is my second birthday since he's been gone and I have a lifetime of them left, always without him.
I will never see him again or hold him again. I will never know the sound of his laughter. I will never have any more time with him than what I've already had. I miss him so much that it physically hurts.
I have much to be grateful for in my life. Family, friends, a daughter who is on her way to meet us, and most importantly, my amazing husband. I know I should be celebrating, but instead I spent yesterday evening and most of today sobbing and missing my boy. I am another year older and George is still dead...I can't find much to celebrate in that.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
large
Apparently I am growing a large baby. Current approximation at thirty-six weeks is SEVEN and a HALF pounds.
I should have guessed this would be the case. After all, Leif and I are not exactly petite.
I know these estimates can be off by about a pound in either direction but still I'm getting a wee bit nervous. The bigger baby is the less likely it is that I will be able to successfully have a VBAC. Luckily, my OB is awesome and is still supportive of us giving it a try. If we change our minds and decide to go ahead with a c-section, she is supportive of that as well.
The radiologist who did the ultrasound this afternoon made a prediction that we would not make it to August 16th. She said that the fluid levels were perfect and baby looked very healthy, practicing her breathing. Basically she's looking like a full-term baby already.
Still...I hope she sticks around for at least a couple of more weeks. I don't think she is ready yet. Or maybe we are the ones who aren't ready yet.
I should have guessed this would be the case. After all, Leif and I are not exactly petite.
I know these estimates can be off by about a pound in either direction but still I'm getting a wee bit nervous. The bigger baby is the less likely it is that I will be able to successfully have a VBAC. Luckily, my OB is awesome and is still supportive of us giving it a try. If we change our minds and decide to go ahead with a c-section, she is supportive of that as well.
The radiologist who did the ultrasound this afternoon made a prediction that we would not make it to August 16th. She said that the fluid levels were perfect and baby looked very healthy, practicing her breathing. Basically she's looking like a full-term baby already.
Still...I hope she sticks around for at least a couple of more weeks. I don't think she is ready yet. Or maybe we are the ones who aren't ready yet.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
the creep
Sleep is an allusive beast these days.
Yes, it is partly because at nearly thirty-six weeks pregnant I am experiencing multiple awakenings to use the bathroom, sore shoulders, and a stiff neck. But those are small items; nothing to complain about.
I've been waking up, usually for good, around four each morning. I try to force myself back to sleep. I imagine bargaining with a little pipe-smoking man who lives inside the control deck of my brain. Flip that switch, the blue one by your right hand, back to sleep mode and I promise I will go for a walk and let you operate the exercise panel after I get home from work tonight. But after nearly 32 years he, unfortunately, knows me better than to accept my bargains, especially when it involves exercise. So I am left to stare at the spinning ceiling fan until my blood sugar drops low enough that it forces me to accept defeat and get out of bed.
I know it is because of The Creep. That familiar fog of anxiety that starts rolling in over the hills. It is slow and insidious but I've come to recognize it in its earliest moments. It settles over everything, even though I know it has origins from a distinct place.
This morning The Creep woke me up again at four. I laid there thinking about an article I read yesterday about something particularly sad and random (which I won't go into specifics about because of just how sad and random it actually was) that happened about, I don't know, ten miles from our house. It was something so completely unexpected that there wasn't anything really for the people it affected to have done in order to prevent it from happening. A perfect storm of events. A series of dominoes, that led them to be in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time.
Life is full of bear traps.
I am scared for this little girl I am carrying. I thought it was a dangerous existence inside of my womb but the world outside is so much more treacherous. The sheer randomness of shit that happens makes even the mundane seem to hold so much peril. Nothing seems safe to me anymore. How do you protect someone from something no one could have foreseen coming in the first place?
Maybe all this anxiety about not being able to protect my daughter stems from what happened with George. No matter what we did for him we couldn't protect him. We couldn't save him. We never even saw coming the trap that swallowed him up. Life went completely out of our control and that completely fucks with your mind.
Or maybe all this anxiety is just about being a parent, regardless of whether it is in the context of suffering a traumatic loss or not. I think about my own childhood and the anxiety my father had about my safety and that of my sister. He worried about us with a consistency of an olympic athlete in training. I think he still does.
Maybe I'm not the only soon-to-be parent or seasoned parent staring at the spinning blades of the ceiling fan at four in the morning wondering what possible dangers to their children are lurking out in the world.
Maybe The Creep is universal.
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