banker's box

While I was still in the hospital after George died, Leif packed up all the baby stuff and sent it back with my parents at my request.  When I got home it was very surreal to have everything just gone as if he had never even existed.  I regretted sending everything away almost immediately. All that was left were a couple of blankets that I ended up sleeping with for a while.  I thought over time we had recovered all of the boxes that had been sent away but yesterday I was doing some cleaning around the house and pulled out a white banker's box, scrawled with my father's nearly illegible print, "George's stuff and misc."

It was a weird experience, almost two years after his death, to randomly find a box of his "belongings" amongst a pile of other nearly identical boxes containing mundane items from life- wrapping paper, old yearbooks, sandpaper.  Really, as if anything could have ever "belonged" to a child who lived for only twenty-four minutes.  Most of the stuff inside was hand-me-down clothes that I had been collecting for him during the earlier months of my pregnancy when everything still seemed so sure and perfect.   Amidst all the green and blue sleepers and onsies I ended up finding a tiny blue hat that I had bought for his homecoming- I had almost completely forgot about it as I thought it had been lost during those early days of frantic packing and removing.  There is was.  Still tiny.  Still blue.   Still with tags on it and still unworn.  The tag says, "angel dear" and although the term "angel" always makes me squirm in relation to dead babies the irony did not escape me upon seeing it for the first time since before he died.

When things like this happen it is like finding shards of my previous life preserved in golden amber.  I smelled the hat, even though George had never worn it, and I could almost feel like that woman I once was- purely optimistic about life and so very certain about my future.  Oh but that woman hasn't lived in my skin for a long time now.  All the grieving and all the tears these last two years have not been for George alone.  They have been for that woman and that life too.

I removed all the contents of the box and shifted them around to new homes- Clio's closet, the garbage, the pile of stuff to take to the Goodwill.  The hat is in George's box with the rest of his "belongings" that still have sentimental value.  Then that white banker's box got new inhabitants.  I crossed out "George's stuff and misc" and wrote in fat sharpie marker, "Baby clothes 0-3m."

Sometimes I feel like every little trace of George is slowly being removed from life.  It is so hard to keep the memory of a dead baby alive in the shadow of a baby who lives.

Poor George, he deserved so much more than what he was given.

eternal

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?

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.

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/ohdeedoh/family/hot-pink-hodgepodge-small-kids-big-color-entry-49-162593

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.

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.  

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.