Sunday, April 24, 2011
sunday afternoon
I miss him and his absence is a constant hum to my days. But I also can't deny that my life, in all its imperfection and grief, is still so very beautiful.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
an update
I've had a few posts written about how it feels to be pregnant again but I've deleted them all. So here I am, again, trying to find the words to accurately describe what has been going on in my head. But it is a mess in there so I'm having a difficult time sorting through the rubbish and collecting the bits worth writing about.
So while I am trying to figure out what I want to say, I just thought I'd throw out this quick update.
Baby is doing just fine. Heart rate has been normal.
I'm twenty-two weeks as of today. I have to write out that whole number because writing "22" just doesn't seem to do justice to how long t...w...e...n...t...y-t...w...o weeks really is. That is five and a half months of being pregnant. How I've made it to this point is still somewhat of a mystery to me.
I'm thinking eighteen more weeks seems like a really, really long time.
But better eighteen more than only seven more.
So while I am trying to figure out what I want to say, I just thought I'd throw out this quick update.
Baby is doing just fine. Heart rate has been normal.
I'm twenty-two weeks as of today. I have to write out that whole number because writing "22" just doesn't seem to do justice to how long t...w...e...n...t...y-t...w...o weeks really is. That is five and a half months of being pregnant. How I've made it to this point is still somewhat of a mystery to me.
I'm thinking eighteen more weeks seems like a really, really long time.
But better eighteen more than only seven more.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
a first anniversary
Last year, when George was born, it was wet and grey. The world was desaturated, the color drained from the sky and soaked through to the soil where it stayed for a very long time- a still-life in charcoals. This year, if George's birthday was a painting it would have been a watercolor. All washed out in pale shades of blues and greens with pops of purples and yellows. There would be ink-outlined objects and figures, giving some definition to the pooling and mottling of the colors.
We didn't anticipate that contrast between this year and last but spring, in all of its vibrancy and softness, has come to this part of the world. After one of the wettest winters on record here, all the wildflowers have begun to stretch toward the sky to gratefully meet the sun. Small, delicate stems and buds belie their tenacity to grow in even the most peculiar places. Flowers ornament the empty lots and poke through the cracks in the sidewalk. Brightly colored graffiti, splashed on the dirty concrete walls, reach down to meet equally brightly colored tiny flowers growing through the asphalt.
When George's birthday finally came upon us we didn't have any big plans. Just a drive out of town, two kites -a goldfish and a phoenix- and a wish for some seclusion. I wore my new blue dress. Leif; his favorite chambray shirt. We found ourselves driving along side vast swathes of yellow and purple wildflowers, spreading over the green hillside opposite the blue of the Pacific Ocean.
After some time we stopped for brunch and then into a children's store with the intent of buying a toy for a one year old that we could donate to a local charitable organization. We figured that we would continue with the tradition that we started in December so that every holiday or birthday some other child who is the age that George would be gets a new toy to play with they way we wish George could. In the end we picked a wooden duck push toy that flaps its wings and quacks; something we would have gotten for George.
Before heading out to find a beach we purchased a simple unlined, black moleskin journal that we decided will be George's Birthday Book. Each year we will write to him and tell the story of what we did to remember the anniversary of the day he was born. There will be photos of his day and, hopefully, notes from his siblings. Something that will grow and change as we grow and change.
After driving around for almost an hour, looking for a suitable beach (one without throngs of college students), we took a chance and parked alongside a trail that led into a thicket of wildflowers. Not sure of where we were going, but knowing the general direction of the beach, we walked along the path for about twenty minutes before coming to the edge of a steep cliff that dropped off above the beach.
There was no easy way to climb down but we eventually found a precarious little path weaving around the jettied rocks and outcroppings. About two thirds of the way down we realized that it was not the wisest thing for a woman five months pregnant to be trying to traverse but I made it down safe and sound.
As it turns out, scrambling down a very steep pathway is not for everyone so we ended up nearly completely by ourselves, aside from the occasional ambler from the nearby nude beach (life certainly has a sense of humor, even in the least humorous of times). Those next couple of hours we spent assembling kites, attempting to fly them with no real success due a pathetic lack of the requisite wind, and generally just feeling the absence of our son. Together we wrote George's name in the sand and decorated it with shells and as 4:00 rolled around, the time when he was born, we wrote out George's 1st birthday letters in his Birthday Book.
Twenty four "official" minutes of life is so brief. It is a half hour sitcom devoid of commercials. It is the amount of time it takes me to shower and get ready for bed every night. It is the amount of time it takes to eat a packed lunch or read an article in a magazine. George lived for twenty four minutes, although I assume he was gone for some minutes before they actually declared him dead. So very miniscule in the grand scheme of time. Not much more than a spark in the dark.
I picked wildflowers for George along the scramble back up the cliff and the walk through the fields. Purples and blues and yellows, all tiny little blooms. A bouquet of wild growing flowers made from blossoms that exist for such a short time each year. They sprout in the cool early weeks of spring only to return back to the soil a piddling time later. A fitting gift for our own little wildflower. A gift we will add to the letters and the photographs and the stories every year on his birthday.
To where ever you are, even if you only exist in my dreams, Happy Birthday son. We love you forever.
We didn't anticipate that contrast between this year and last but spring, in all of its vibrancy and softness, has come to this part of the world. After one of the wettest winters on record here, all the wildflowers have begun to stretch toward the sky to gratefully meet the sun. Small, delicate stems and buds belie their tenacity to grow in even the most peculiar places. Flowers ornament the empty lots and poke through the cracks in the sidewalk. Brightly colored graffiti, splashed on the dirty concrete walls, reach down to meet equally brightly colored tiny flowers growing through the asphalt.
When George's birthday finally came upon us we didn't have any big plans. Just a drive out of town, two kites -a goldfish and a phoenix- and a wish for some seclusion. I wore my new blue dress. Leif; his favorite chambray shirt. We found ourselves driving along side vast swathes of yellow and purple wildflowers, spreading over the green hillside opposite the blue of the Pacific Ocean.
After some time we stopped for brunch and then into a children's store with the intent of buying a toy for a one year old that we could donate to a local charitable organization. We figured that we would continue with the tradition that we started in December so that every holiday or birthday some other child who is the age that George would be gets a new toy to play with they way we wish George could. In the end we picked a wooden duck push toy that flaps its wings and quacks; something we would have gotten for George.
Before heading out to find a beach we purchased a simple unlined, black moleskin journal that we decided will be George's Birthday Book. Each year we will write to him and tell the story of what we did to remember the anniversary of the day he was born. There will be photos of his day and, hopefully, notes from his siblings. Something that will grow and change as we grow and change.
After driving around for almost an hour, looking for a suitable beach (one without throngs of college students), we took a chance and parked alongside a trail that led into a thicket of wildflowers. Not sure of where we were going, but knowing the general direction of the beach, we walked along the path for about twenty minutes before coming to the edge of a steep cliff that dropped off above the beach.
There was no easy way to climb down but we eventually found a precarious little path weaving around the jettied rocks and outcroppings. About two thirds of the way down we realized that it was not the wisest thing for a woman five months pregnant to be trying to traverse but I made it down safe and sound.
A view of the path we came down. Would not recommend for pregnant women. Especially those in short dresses.
As it turns out, scrambling down a very steep pathway is not for everyone so we ended up nearly completely by ourselves, aside from the occasional ambler from the nearby nude beach (life certainly has a sense of humor, even in the least humorous of times). Those next couple of hours we spent assembling kites, attempting to fly them with no real success due a pathetic lack of the requisite wind, and generally just feeling the absence of our son. Together we wrote George's name in the sand and decorated it with shells and as 4:00 rolled around, the time when he was born, we wrote out George's 1st birthday letters in his Birthday Book.
Had to fake this shot as our poor kites never did make it very far off the ground.
Twenty four "official" minutes of life is so brief. It is a half hour sitcom devoid of commercials. It is the amount of time it takes me to shower and get ready for bed every night. It is the amount of time it takes to eat a packed lunch or read an article in a magazine. George lived for twenty four minutes, although I assume he was gone for some minutes before they actually declared him dead. So very miniscule in the grand scheme of time. Not much more than a spark in the dark.
I picked wildflowers for George along the scramble back up the cliff and the walk through the fields. Purples and blues and yellows, all tiny little blooms. A bouquet of wild growing flowers made from blossoms that exist for such a short time each year. They sprout in the cool early weeks of spring only to return back to the soil a piddling time later. A fitting gift for our own little wildflower. A gift we will add to the letters and the photographs and the stories every year on his birthday.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Thank you to everyone who remembered George on his birthday and offered kind words of encouragement. You have touched our hearts. Family and friends shared with us the ways they remembered him as well and it touched us to know that his existence has not gone forgotten.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
our son
I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love my husband until there was George. Made from love. Perfect and beautiful.
We miss him so much.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
seven days
This time last year my baby was still alive and each kick I felt was breaking fragments of my heart away, knowing that any one of them might be the last.
Sometimes I am left stock-still by the shock of it all. I went into the hospital to give birth knowing that my son would die and I would be going home without him. Yet I still went! How did I not run the other way, screw my health, and just take off running in the other direction? How is it even possible that it all happened? How does anyone go to the hospital very pregnant and leave with an empty belly and no baby?
Now I have an urn and three terrible quality photographs for that horrible experience.
I'm feeling very alone these days. I love my family and friends and am especially appreciative of the ones who have been reaching out recently to see if I'm ok -I'm not really- but I want someone who knows how I am because they've been where I am. But there is no one I know in my every day life.
I want to take the next week off of work, close my eyes and try to remember every moment of that last week. As hard as it was, I still had him with me and I would rather it be hard like it was then, than hard like it is now.
Sometimes I am left stock-still by the shock of it all. I went into the hospital to give birth knowing that my son would die and I would be going home without him. Yet I still went! How did I not run the other way, screw my health, and just take off running in the other direction? How is it even possible that it all happened? How does anyone go to the hospital very pregnant and leave with an empty belly and no baby?
Now I have an urn and three terrible quality photographs for that horrible experience.
I'm feeling very alone these days. I love my family and friends and am especially appreciative of the ones who have been reaching out recently to see if I'm ok -I'm not really- but I want someone who knows how I am because they've been where I am. But there is no one I know in my every day life.
I want to take the next week off of work, close my eyes and try to remember every moment of that last week. As hard as it was, I still had him with me and I would rather it be hard like it was then, than hard like it is now.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
pulling teeth, or might as well because it'd be easier
Words are not always so easy for me to come by. My thoughts race around and bump into each other and I often don't have the capability to gather them neatly into sentences and paragraphs with any kind of discernible message. I want to write something beautiful, like my favorite passage from Mark Helprin which I've written about here before:
"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 image 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."
or something honest, like this from Anne Morrow Lindbergh:
"Don't wish me happiness
I don't expect to be happy all the time...
It's gotton beyond that somehow.
Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor.
I will need them all"
or something funny, like this from my beloved Oscar Wilde:
"I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability."
or something profound, like this from Kurt Vonnegut:
"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."
I want to write something that does justice to how much his brief life has impacted my own.
Instead my words fumble and tumble. My sentences: disjointed. My syntax: sucky. My hyperboles: cliched. My message: repetitive. My use of semicolons and colons: probably incorrect.
There is so much I want to write about. So much I want to say about being lonely and about being bereaved and feeling unlucky but also about being in love and living life as best as I can. But, especially lately, I can't find the way to say those things and make them make sense to anyone but me.
So I stay quiet because what I want is poetry but what I get is a textbook.
If only I could capture the thoughts and emotions that are bubbling up. Capture them and turn their nebulousness into something more tangible. That would be good. That would be good.
"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 image 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."
or something honest, like this from Anne Morrow Lindbergh:
"Don't wish me happiness
I don't expect to be happy all the time...
It's gotton beyond that somehow.
Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor.
I will need them all"
or something funny, like this from my beloved Oscar Wilde:
"I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability."
or something profound, like this from Kurt Vonnegut:
"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."
I want to write something that does justice to how much his brief life has impacted my own.
Instead my words fumble and tumble. My sentences: disjointed. My syntax: sucky. My hyperboles: cliched. My message: repetitive. My use of semicolons and colons: probably incorrect.
There is so much I want to write about. So much I want to say about being lonely and about being bereaved and feeling unlucky but also about being in love and living life as best as I can. But, especially lately, I can't find the way to say those things and make them make sense to anyone but me.
So I stay quiet because what I want is poetry but what I get is a textbook.
If only I could capture the thoughts and emotions that are bubbling up. Capture them and turn their nebulousness into something more tangible. That would be good. That would be good.
Monday, March 7, 2011
As if starting a new job isn't stressful enough...
add an entirely new career,
one in which I am responsible for people's actual physical health
while I'm pregnant,
still mourning the loss of our son
and trying to navigate that mine field of emotions.
All while watching the date on the calendar get closer and closer to the anniversary of his death.
Even though I work with nice people (really I do) there are days I come home and just want to crawl in bed and pretend that I don't have to get up and go back the next day. I want the confidence that comes from practicing medicine for years even though I know full well that I am actually going to have to put those years in before that happens.
Years.
Suck. Why didn't I pick a career with less stress? Like billionaire heiress.
add an entirely new career,
one in which I am responsible for people's actual physical health
while I'm pregnant,
still mourning the loss of our son
and trying to navigate that mine field of emotions.
All while watching the date on the calendar get closer and closer to the anniversary of his death.
Even though I work with nice people (really I do) there are days I come home and just want to crawl in bed and pretend that I don't have to get up and go back the next day. I want the confidence that comes from practicing medicine for years even though I know full well that I am actually going to have to put those years in before that happens.
Years.
Suck. Why didn't I pick a career with less stress? Like billionaire heiress.
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