.sick.

I am feeling under the weather today.   I've been laying in bed all day sleeping and, just now, talking with a recruiter while trying not to sound like I was going to be sick at any minute.  The good thing about being sick is that I get lunch time visits from my husband.  I am eagerly awaiting his arrival and the bottle of Sprite he has with him.

Leif finished the video of our time in Copan a couple of days ago.  As always, he did a wonderful job.
For your viewing pleasure...


Copán Ruinas from leif on Vimeo.

.the devil's breath.

The dry wind is blowing hard here today.  They’re the Santa Ana winds, originally called Santana's Wind.  The Devil's Wind.  A meteorological phenomenon that sweeps through the Los Angeles basin throughout the fall and winter.  It has been inspiring songwriters and arsonists since, well, since forever probably.


Scientists surmise that the winds cause increases in atmospheric cations, which in turn leads to an increase in serotonin levels in the body.  Think Prozac blowing through at sustained speeds of 40 mph (65 kph) with occasional 70 mph (112 kph) gusts.  


Nature's way of saying, chill the fuck out.  Now go eat a sandwich and take a nap.


After George died numerous people approached me with the idea of getting on antidepressants (none of whom were medical professionals, by the way, just concerned citizens).  I politely declined. They thought it was because I was afraid to take them.  I wasn't afraid.  I was just waiting for the fall when the Santa Anas would kick back into high gear and all would be right again.  


Well, that, and I didn't think I needed them.  I still don’t think I need them but I wouldn’t hesitate if I thought that I did.


What I really need, and what I’m wondering if there is some sort of other meteorological phenomenon that can lend a proverbial hand to, is some relief from all this anger and guilt I’ve been carrying around for the last seven or eight months.   Something that will change my brain chemistry, if even for a little while.  That would be nice.


We have a photograph of Leif as a baby on the fridge.  All white blond hair and toothless smile.  I look at it and see George and I am mad.  Mad because I don’t really know that he would have looked like his dad.  It is just a guess.  Mad that I have to guess at such things.


The anger that I have is at the same time broad and directed.  Mad at everything and mad at nothing.  Mad at God and not mad at God, since I tend to not really throw my hat in God’s corner anyway. 


Mad at someone and mad at no one.


I’m looking for somewhere to aim my ire and coming up with only passable targets.  Not worth the effort usually.


Sometimes I'm mad at myself, which is where the guilt creeps in.  Did we do the right thing when we made the decision to not send him to the NICU? They said he would in all likelihood, if he even survived, be severely brain damaged.  We thought we were doing the compassionate thing.  Does that even matter?


I read women’s stories of their children on Faces of Loss and Faces of Hope and occasionally I see things written like the following in regards to making the decision to send a preemie to the NICU,

“I also had to ‘let her go’. How can anyone sleep with that on their conscious? Not me, that’s for sure.”

Ouch. 


We "let our son go."  Even though I know really that he was beyond help, it still stings.  Especially after reading something like that.


The guilt settles in.


I read about women’s stories of the success of extreme preemies surviving thanks to the NICU and I wonder if we had made a different decision if I would be holding a four-month old infant right now instead of sitting in front of this computer. 


The guilt stretches wide the confines of its prison.


Yes, I could do for a meteorological phenomenon of my own.  Maybe a light rainfall would suffice.  No, too cliche.  A hailstorm might be a better fit, metaphorically speaking.  At least a snow flurry.  But the chance of getting snow here is nothing to place bets on.

It is still outside now.  
The wind is all but gone.  

.islas de las bahias, the one about the caye.

These last photographs from our trip to Honduras are mainly of the time we spent across the channel on Pigeon Caye.  There are about five hundred people who live on that mile-long island and almost all of them have one of five very British surnames.  Jackson, Bush, Diamond, Powell, and Cooper.  Those were the five families who originally settled there nearly one hundred and sixty years ago and, for the most part, the people who live there presently are still members of those five families.

.B.

Our first trip to Pigeon Caye was made with the intent to find ourselves some fish for that night's dinner.  What we found was a kindly woman named Esther who had five freezers filled with freshly caught fish and one large tame brown pelican in her "yard."  The pelican, as Esther assured us, was American.  From Miami, in fact, although aside from the fact that he was a lazy pelican she could not come up with a reason as to why she was convinced he was American.  But, really, the fact that he was a lazy pelican was probably reason enough.

That night we had yellowtail for dinner.  I'm guessing so did the Floridian pelican.

In Honduras they celebrate their independence from Spain on September 15th and we happened to be there to witness the festivities.  Aside from seeing the ruins at Copan for the first time this was perhaps the best moment of the entire trip.  

.L.

.L.

.L.

.L.

Almost immediately after their independence performance ended and all the children had finished their cupcakes and sodas, an unseasonably strong storm passed through and rained everyone out.  We ended up taking shelter in a little store and talking for almost two hours to the guy working there because the lightening and rain made it impossible to kayak our way back to our house.  We eventually had to find shelter elsewhere when he had to close shop because his little brother was struck by lightening (he ended up being perfectly ok) while out playing in the rain.

.B.

Eventually made it back across the channel but not before we were both entirely drenched by the rain.

Utila Town had their own festivities the next day and we went for that as well.  But the only highlights of that excursion worth mentioning was that I tripped and fell getting onto the dock and then I got heat stroke by the time we left.  Ha!

.B.

.B.

.B.

(Nothing says "good time" like liquor bottles and plastic doll parts.)

We spent our last night on Utila on the dock because the power had gone out and it was far too hot to stay in the house.  So we laid out watching the distant lightening strikes and attempting to capture them on camera.  This is as close as we got.

.L.

The next morning we left Utila for Roatan and the sand fleas everywhere mourned.  A very sad day to be a sand flea, indeed.

We had a few hours to kill before our plane left Roatan so we spent it in the water, enjoying a last bit of warm Caribbean ocean.  I befriended a bunch of kids who were there with their mother by giving the girls piggy back rides through the water.  They asked me how old I was -as old as their mother- and did I have any kids -no, not yet- and how old was my mother -in her 60s- and so on and so forth.  They thought Leif had the funniest name they had ever heard of.  

.B.

.B.

.B.

They were great.  

It was a fabulous way to end our trip.

.L.

.dull.

Feeling uninspired.

Things have taken a turn for the decidedly monotonous.

Life.  Death.  Writing.  (not)Working.  Myself.

Yawn.

This afternoon I felt the urge to take scissors to my hair and watch it fall to the bathroom floor.

I'm wondering where to look to find inspiration.

Where do you find inspiration?

.tonight I light a candle.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

October 15

I say it so often.  

I wish there was more for all of them than this.

I wish there was more for their parents than this.

Tonight I will light a candle in remembrance.

Maybe you could light one too.

.our weekend.

.B.

.B.

.B.

.B.

.L.

.B.

.L.

.B.

.B.

.L.

.next time.

I am a shadow. 

A silent, trembling figure in the corner.  

Full round bellies.  Pregnant with anticipation and with the promise of life.  

I am neither pregnant with anticipation nor with the promise of life.  

-Karen, you can head on back to the ultrasound room now-

Excited smiles. 

-Oh, I can't believe this is going to be the last one before he's born-

.

.

.

.

I don't belong here.  

.

.

.

.

The impulse to leave itches the soles of my feet.

I want to bury myself in a pile of leaves; gold and red and orange and brown.

The smell of wet earth in my nose and the crunch of fall in my ears.  

Instead,

Tears in the bathroom.

Paper gowns and an exam table.

A discussion about 

next time...

and not high risk but treated as such  

and no reason to think it will happen again

but close monitoring

with Perinatologist  

with Cardiologist 

and echocardiograms

Then I'm away, dragging the weight of my morning behind me.  

Next time.  Next time.  Next time. 

I don't even want to think about a next time. 

I want a do-over.  

I want a time machine.