what comes next is the crazy

We went back to the perinatologist's office again for the first time since George died.  The last time we were there was the day before he was born.  The doctor was evaluating my condition since they were concerned that I was developing HELLP syndrome.  He performed another -what turned out to be the last- ultrasound in order to see how George was doing (even though we knew it was only a matter of days before he would most likely die).  I couldn't even look at it.  Leif did though.  He watched our son on that screen- moving and alive.  But I couldn't look and now I often feel the pangs of regret about that.  The me on this side of his death wants to scream at the me on the other side, "You stupid idiot!  This is all you have!  Look.  See him while he is still alive!!!"  I feel ashamed that I didn't have the emotional reserve to see him one last time like that.  

I'm four months -and some miscellaneous days- pregnant.  Everything is fine with this baby so far.

But last night I had my first, and I am sure not the last, breakdown of this pregnancy.  I sat on the couch and cried and sobbed on Leif's lap before moving to the bed and doing the same there until I fell asleep.  It has been awhile since I have cried myself to sleep and I woke up this morning with puffy bags under my eyes.  I recognize you, I thought about the woman I saw in the mirror.  Last night I realized that part of me, the insane part of me, was thinking that somehow we were being given a do-over.  Same doctor's office we were first given his diagnosis.  Same room.  Same sonographer.  Different outcome.

But this baby is not George.

George is dead.  Dead.  Dead.  Dead.  I am never going to see or hold him again.

I have to live the rest of my life without ever knowing him.

Last night the envy for all women who got to take home their children was stronger than I have ever before felt.  I wanted to scream that it wasn't fair and throw shit around the room.  Instead I just slobbered it into Leif's flannel shirt.

I am grateful for this baby.  I am grateful that this baby is alive and well so far -fingers crossed- but my desire to have George back is still so palpable it scares me.  What kind of mother will I be when all I can think about is the child who isn't even here?

turtles and tapestries

I deamt I was on the moon.  I looked out and saw the world and it was on the back of Old Turtle.  Turtle asked me about the world.  He said he had been holding it up for so long- How long again-  For eternity, I answered.  -How long is that- Forever, I replied.  -How long is that-

I shrugged, A very long time.

He told me that he had been holding it up for so long yet he had never seen it or, if he had, he could no longer remember what it had looked like.

He sighed a great deep sigh that only old Turtle could sigh.

Are you tired, Old Turtle?  I asked.

Sometimes, was his reply.  But most times I just wish I could see and feel things as I once did.  Old eyes and a tired back...time corrodes us all.  Nothing lasts forever.

I nodded my head in agreement and Old Turtle squinted at me through aged yellow eyes.

Everyone carries a world on their back, Short Timer, he said to me.  In that, we are all the same.

....

I awake in the morning and it is so still.  The tide of my breath and the rhythm of my heart against a background of silence makes me feel a million miles away.  A million miles away and still tethered to a single point in time.  

I remember that the world still spins and my tapestry is still being spun in shades of golds and blues and grays on an invisible loom.  But a new color is being spun too -added to the golds and blues and grays- and it has already begun to change the landscape.  I touch my belly and briefly wonder about the possibility beating away there.  A waver of hope, too intimidating to contemplate.  

Stay.  Please stay with us this time.

My mind shifts.

I arch my back.  I feel the grind of the weight of my world on my spine.  Still there, I think.  Always there.  

And another day begins.

....

white squares and upcoming events

Some weeks ago we got a piece of mail from the hospital where George was born. In it was a square of white fabric and a letter explaining that it was time for their annual "Forever in our Hearts" ceremony to commemorate all the babies who died during the previous year. The white square, which will be added to a quilt, was for us to decorate in whatever way we want to memorialize George.

Also last month we got a refund check from the hospital. Apparently we were overcharged 150.00 for George's delivery. Hmmph.

Sometimes I forget that George ever even existed to anyone but to me and to Leif. People generally tend not to bring him up anymore in conversation unless we do so first. As we come closer to the one year anniversary of his birth and death, it is increasingly strange to get these kind of reminders that he was indeed real in this world.

Next week brings us to the year mark when last year everything went to shit. We walked into an appointment at the perinatologist as blissful expectant parents and walked out a few hours later nearly catatonic with shock.  

I'm not sure how these next six weeks are going to go for us. The other night we finished his memory square, sent it off to the hospital and I emailed the coordinator to see what we could do at the event to help. We are still trying to figure out what to do for him next month. We are taking the day off from work but beyond that we don't know what feels appropriate.

We never had a memorial service for him and I don't think we will this time either, even though I do eventually want one.  I just don't even know where to start planning such a thing.  Invitations?  Is there food?  We aren't religious so what would we do?  It all seems overwhelming.  Part of me feels guilty that we haven't had one but the other part of me feels like it just isn't us.

What kind of fucked up shit is it that these are the kind of events that some people have to plan for their (dead) child?  It is some real fucked up shit is what it is.

For those of you who read this and know what being here is all about, how did you commemorate your child's life?

yesterday

Leif and I don't generally celebrate Valentine's Day.  A card or something but that is about it.  But this year things were different.

It all started with a...Valentine's Day Heart Potato!

Got home from work and was greeted by a dozen paper hearts hanging from the ceiling, each with a different word, nickname, or saying that was special to us.

We had leftover casserole and salad for dinner.  Then we watched a French documentary about animals that love each other (sorry, can't remember the name).  It was an adorableness explosion.

Then Leif gave me a huge piece of chocolate cake from Pheonix Bakery in Chinatown.  I only mentioned three times that the most important part of Valentine's Day is CHOCOLATE.  He is awesome, my husband.

It was the best Valentine's Day we've ever had.

oh, comely

When I held George and watched him die I went with him into that oblivion, I just didn't realize it at the time. Now, nearing eleven months later I am finally starting to understand how deeply and fundamentally his death has changed me.

I woke up the morning of March 31, 2010 as one person only to awake the next morning as another person entirely.

I'm reminded of the guy who wakes up from an extended coma only to find that he doesn't remember himself or any of his friends and family.  The things he used to hate he wakes up to love.  Couldn't stand peanut butter but now eats it out of the jar.  The things he used to love doing he doesn't have any interest in anymore. But even he's got it better for it is far worse to remember who you were before but be incapable of being who you were before.

I miss the woman I used to be.  I still remember her.  She did not carry around with her the ghost of her son. She used to be quick to smile and even quicker to laugh.  She used to see the world as a mostly positive place.  She used to relate well to people and make deep, lasting relationships with ease.  She was also naive and blissfully unaware at just how sad real sad can actually be.

I'm not sure who or what I am at this point but I know I am not any of those things anymore.

I'm not just mourning the death of my son but also the death of myself.  

I wish I could have saved her in some sort of time machine. 

amsterdam

Last week Leif and I went to Amsterdam to visit friends, N and M.  It was kind of a last hurrah before I start work on Monday and before our friend delivers her son in another week or so.  We probably won't seem them for another year so we really felt the push to make the trip while we still were able to do so.  Our friends were troopers to have visitors there so close to the impending birth of their first child.  Even at 38 weeks pregnant, N was pretty adept at keeping up with the rest of us.

The trip was very easy and incredibly difficult at the same time, as I am sure most of my "readers" can imagine.  Easy to be with our best friends (including another couple who flew in from Hawaii for a 48 hour period just to hang out with the four of us since they get free flights) but difficult to be around an atmosphere of baby-ness for such long stretches of time.  Hours and hours would go by and I would be having a great time, the way I always used to when together with old friends, only to be struck by some random thing and be immediately yanked back to my reality.  I would recover from the jolt and the cycle would begin anew.

On the 31st of this month it will be ten months since George was born and then died.  During this time I've done a fairly good job of creating for myself an insular world where the idea that other people frequently have healthy pregnancies and living babies does not often penetrate.  I can't say for sure if that has been an entirely healthy way of living but I can say that for a long time it was a necessity for me.  Yet living in such an insular world cannot last forever and I think it was important for me, in more ways than one, to make this trip. 

Many times during our trip I felt completely separated from what was going on around me.  I watched and listened to our friends have lively discussions about birth plans, birthing experiences, and parenthood but I don't think I was ever really engaged in any of these conversations beyond the superficial.*  The pregnancy and birth experience that Leif and I had simply does not bear any resemblance to those of most people.  I can't really relate in any meaningful way to their experiences and so while most times I was comfortable and at ease with these topics I never felt like a participant in them.  An observer from across the great grief divide.   Many times I just listened because what I could/would add may not have been appropriate to the discussion at hand.

An example...

I had a brief discussion with N about the American custom of baby showers versus the Dutch custom of sending out announcements only after the arrival of the baby.  I immediately thought about how much I preferred the Dutch custom to the American custom because it circumvents the problem of what to do with all the gifts if the baby dies.  Normally I keep such thoughts to myself, especially when it comes to sharing them with a very pregnant woman, but I blurted out what I was thinking and effectively killed the conversation.  As much as N and M try to temper what they talk about in relation to the birth of their child, I also try to do the same.  Usually I'm more successful than that.

But I learned through this experience -and here I am referring to both George's death and this particular trip- that I am never going to be able to look at things like pregnancy, birth and parenthood in the same light again.  The pure joy and excitement associated with these things has been rinsed away and what is left is what I think of as a patina.  I've weathered.  

Leif finally sorted through all of our photographs from the trip.  As I was looking at them again I was struck by how impressive it is that photographs are able to sum up experiences and emotions.  

 It never ceases to amaze me how many versions of myself exist inside.

Some, I'm sure, that are still left to discover.

*Important to note here is that our friends are all very cognizant of our feelings and make their best effort to always consider them.  I can imagine how uncomfortable it must also be for them since they are probably never certain where our limits are.  They do a great job and I try also to do the best I can for them.  I am genuinely happy for them and wish them a very easy birth and nothing but joyful days ahead.

something has swallowed my voice.

what compelled me to write here has not been itching inside for weeks and weeks.

so silence has become my companion.

not unwelcome.

i am tired of living in the land of death.

i know i can never leave, i would not want to.

he is in the land of death and so i will also forever remain.

but i am tired and need some distraction.

time away.

for now but not forever.