Ode to Joy

As I am typing this, a neighbour's daughter is in my living room, learning to play Ode to Joy on her school guitar.

She started this process in September, and tonight, she is struggling a bit. The base line, she tells me, moves notes unpredictably, and she just can't seem to get the hang of this song. The strings make awkward notes, and her fingers hurt from uncomfortable and unfamiliar movements.

It sounds funny, she says. Small and tin-ny and lacking something. She is one small instrument and not so practiced either. It does not help that there are no words, and only the music for one instrument. She cannot get a sense of timing or syncopation, and me trying to sing along is not helping.

She does not know of Beethoven, of towering cathedrals that require a great amount of music to fill them. She has never stood at a funeral for a much beloved lady, who brought such joy to the world. We sang her Ode to Joy, to speed her way home to our Father. We sang of joy to remind others, and ourselves, of the joy that is in this world, even in the midst of death and sorrow. We sang the hymn to remind ourselves that there is joy that outlives death, that death is not the end, and the promise and power of Resurrection is stronger. She does not know that there is a set of words that are different from the "Joyful, Joyful we adore thee" set that many of us know. That the old lyrics are poetry and power.

I don't play at all, but I want her to understand something of the power of the song. I cannot bring her to that funeral, but I want to reach into the soul of a 15 year old young woman, a young woman who is wholly remarkable and smart and kind and funny, and on the cusp of being a woman. A young woman who, as a result of a stupid and senseless and tragic accident had to say good-bye to her father long before she should have.

I want her to understand something of resiliency, of courage and strength. Characteristics that will serve her in her life, but are taught in the process of learning to play a piece of music. I want her to understand that even when you are only a small instrument, you play with all your heart, and somehow the creator of the universe plugs you into his world, and your tune is larger and louder and carries more weight.

And so I dig - into my CD collection first, and then on iTunes and I find her a copy of it - the entire Red Army Choir, singing the song.

I tell her to sit, and I turn it up.

She listens, and nods.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her, again picking at her guitar strings. Plugging back in.

Advent - Day 10

The Morning After The Night Before

I suppose we could say, that as I walked into a new room on the maternity floor, as they offered me a room on the gynecology floor, the geriatric floor, any floor but "that" floor - the post-partum ward - I suppose as I smiled at them and told them there were still babies in the world, and I would just have to get used to it, bear it, I suppose that we could say today was the first day of the rest of my life.

I tell people, others in this situation that it doesn't get better, but it does get easier. I believe that still. There came a point, a few weeks ago, when I realized that if a one year anniversary meant anything, it meant that this was forever. It meant that the days I was surviving to face would pass, however I chose to mark them. I was looking at the rest of my life, knowing that I would always miss Gabriel. If there is a choice to be had, it is how I will live, how I will remember and honour and find meaning.

I will spend the rest of my life living in dead baby land. Perhaps I will inhabit other lands too, I am always a wife, a friend, an employee, a volunteer and a child of God. And I am always Gabriel's mother. By virtue of our connection, by virtue of his short life, I shall always spend time in this place. Part of me is here.

Heaven became real to me for the first time when my niece's mum died. I remembered Carrie at her daughter's wedding. She was so vibrant, so full of life, so in love with the world. I remember her dancing, throwing her hands in the air, shouting "Opa!", looking around at all of us, inviting us into her joy.

I woke up one year ago this morning, and realized that my son was there. And I wondered if Carrie, if my grandmother, my aunts, dear friends, my father, had rushed to greet him. I wondered if his great-grandparents were there, waiting for him, if Christ himself had woken them up that night, and told them to come, to watch, to be ready. I wonder if heaven held their breath.

I wonder if those who have gone before were waiting. That as soon as he left our sight, our world, in another world, another place they were taking up the cheer. They were whispering and shouting, "he's coming, he's here." I believe they waited that night, waiting for their grandson, their nephew, their great-grandson, their cousin, their grandnephew, their beloved friend's babe. I believe they scooped him up and held him, told him it would only seem a moment until we were there again. I believe a community awaited him, whispering in his ear, singing him lullabies, providing love and comfort. I believe they hold him still, telling him of our families, our stories, telling him of who we are.

This is the last of the advent reflections. It does not mean that this time is necessarily over, only that we have traversed this particular portion of the land of grief, with your help. One year has passed, and as I chose on the 11th last year, I must again choose life. I must again choose to live in this world, take part, give back. Use my days wisely, until I am called home. There is still work to do, even for a broken woman. I must again chose to believe that God knows more than I do, hearing and believing:

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God. (Job 19:25-26)

Advent too, is a time of waiting together for something monumental to happen. It is a time of knowing, but still of waiting, wondering, abiding. In much the same way have I heard your voices and your prayers. In much the same way have you walked this path with us, slowly, carefully, mindfully. Abiding. In much the same way have all of you held out hope that there is another side to this land, that as terrible as my memories are, you are with us, and Mr. Spit and I are not alone.

I have come through the memories of this time, marked by words and prayers, your emails and phone calls and memento's, flowers and your tears. Marked by the many of you that have borne silent witness. We owe debts that we cannot repay. Please, do not think for a moment that Mr. Spit and I are not aware of this.

A light has shone in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

And if there must be a lesson to Gabriel's short life, I suspect this should suit.

Happy Birthday

We stood around your cake, singing happy birthday, with voices that were weak and cracking.

We sang the song, wishing you were here to hear us, even when we could barely carry the tune.

But behind us, we heard a whole host of voices. We are not the only ones signing.

When our voices fail, there are always those behind us.

Thank you.

Gabriel

You were here, and then you were gone.
They tell me that the Lord gives and he takes away.
And I am to bless his name.

And I just need to remember, to say your name.

I was a mother, and then my son was gone.
Blessed be the mother of sons, they say.
And I am, just barely, mummy.

My mind is full.
Words that will never escape your lips.
There will be no kisses for mummy.
No flowers in your chubby hands.

But I remember, and say your name.

There was no clean smell of baby,
rather blood and fear and sorrow.
The joy of creation barely welled up on my lips.
I barely had time to praise His name, your name,
any name
Before the gall of sorrow, it over took me.

In Him was the light, and in you was our light,
and a light shone in the darkness, and the darkness
did not understand it.

Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh
A piece of my heart,
My treasure, in heaven

And Gabriel, I remember.

********

Dear friends and loved ones,

With great joy and heartbreak, we wish to announce: at 10:26 PM on December 10, 2007, Gabriel Anton was born into the hands of Cathy, his midwife, sang to in the arms of his mother, rocked in the arms of his father, bathed in the arms of his grandmother, and baptized in the arms of Regula, his Parish Priest.

At just after 11 PM, he was carried to Heaven in the arms of the angels, where we will meet him again one day.

At 520 grams (1 pound 2.4 ounces), and 33 cm (13 inches) he was wee, with 10 fingers and toes, and a full head of hair. He was a perfect, but very tiny baby.

Many of you have asked how you can help. Until now, we didn't know how important it would be for us to talk to you about Gabriel. You can help us by allowing us to share in the magic and the sorrow of Gabriel's life. Please ask us questions and let us tell you how we feel. It will take time, but your support will help us to continue living and remembering our precious baby, Gabriel.

We will welcome your visits. Please don't feel the need to find the perfect words to say, there are no good words, and that's okay.

Matthew 6:20,21
But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

In Christ's love,
Cheryl and Owen

Advent - Day 8

Today I entered the shadow lands. Through my head ran a song. Seasons in the Sun.

Mostly just the chorus.

Good-bye my friends, it's hard to die
When all the birds are singing in the sky.
Now that spring is in the air
Pretty girls are everywhere
Think of me and I'll be there.

And I remember this day, in snatches. I remember my mother having me up and walking - to bring the labour pains faster. I remember sitting in the cafeteria and seeing a classmate from high school, now a nurse. Turning my body so that she would not see me.

I didn't know how to tell her, what to say. That I was pregnant but dying, and waiting for a baby to come, a baby that wouldn't live?

Normally, you see, labour is about anticipation. It's about bringing a baby into this world. The child who became Gabriel, a child whose gender we didn't even know. I was convinced that this was a girl. And I remember the discussion about names. Gabriel as a girl was to be Eleanor-May Genvieve. The Genevieve for my best friend. And suddenly I realized that this was a different baby, a different expectation, a different life, and this baby needed a name of their own. I picked out a girls name, and Mr. Spit chose a boy's name.

I remember weeping in the shower, and my mother trying to comfort me. But there was no comfort. The tears, however empty, however powerless to change anything, they were the only escape of the agony.

I remember the pain increased throughout the day, the feeling of cramping. Telling the nurse, and her quiet hand, telling me this was good. Good, I thought? What could be good about this? Nothing about this was as it should be. Around me I heard the cries of babies. I had been warned that Gabriel would be born still and silent.

I remember the blood tests, every 4 hours, the increasing doses of blood pressure drugs. My resting BP increasing. Loading doses. A note on the door to check with the nurses station before seeing me. A friend that came by to pray, and my mum telling her we didn't want company. This was too much for us, we needed to hold together and wait.

I remember my mother's panic and exhaustion. I remember never being afraid for my life. I remember residents and doctors parading in and out, nurses changing shift. I remember the nurse who sat for a while, stroking my hand, telling me that she was sorry.

I remember care and concern and mercy.

Even in the shadow lands, there is memory.

Advent - Day 7

LORD, you have searched me and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.

People frequently assume that the 10th of December must have been the worst day of my life. I can see why - the day of my son's birth and death is a day filled with so many emotions. But it was not the worst day. That day was today.

You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.

The home care nurse arrived for my first appointment. And I failed the test to stay home. My blood pressure was too high and there was too much protein in my urine. And so I found myself back in the case room at the hospital. Laying on a narrow bed, shivering.

Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD.

It seems strange when I think of it, that I would shiver. I am always warm. Always. But the coldness, it sunk it my very being. It did not matter the number of blankets they brought me, I shivered. It was not a physical coldness, but the weight of fear and sorrow and terror that had pervaded my very soul. It was cold in my heart.

You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me.

I remember sitting on the bathroom floor at home that morning as Mr. Spit packed my bags and made phone calls, cancelling the meals that were to be arriving, letting others know that things had changed, again. I remember petting the dogs, and weeping, I just couldn't keep living with this sense of fear and dread and hopelessness. I remember sobbing that I couldn't keep doing this, that I couldn't be this powerless, this weak, this fragile.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.

It seems strange to me, but I don't recall a definitive moment when they told me this was the end of the road for Gabriel and I. It just seemed as if things got worse and worse, darker and darker, and I shivered more and more. Every test, the news was worse.

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?

I remember trying to read The Shipping News, and when I look up from my computer, it sits on the shelf unread. I remember knitting Mr. Spit a cabled hat, but unable to concentrate on the stitches, unable to make my numb and swollen hands co-operate, form stitches.

If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

I suppose the end was when the Perinatologist on call came in, with a better ultrasound machine. She ran the wand around my belly, and then reached over and turned off the machine. Handed me Kleenex to wipe the goop off.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea,

I remember her sitting down. I imagine she took a deep breath. And I started hearing words. No amniotic fluid, the baby was sending all the blood to its brain, to keep itself alive. Baby had dropped 100 grams or so. My blood pressure. Low platelets, high urine. Kidneys failing. Baby dying. Me dying.

even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

It seems strange, I should think those words, the words she used to tell me that it was time, this road had come to an end, it seemed as if I should remember those words, they should be etched into my very being.

If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,"

And it is like a vacuum has sucked them out of my memory. I remember the last kick, but no memory of the words that signaled the end of Gabriel's life.

even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

I remember discussing next steps. Phoning my mother, my midwife. I remember making decisions. Not to intubate, not to save my child. I remember the pain, gasping out the words that I didn't want him to suffer.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I remember the C-section vs. natural birth discussion, and the choice to try to do this on my own. I remember the offer, my mother's wish that I could just have this done, and I remembered the words in a Yarn Harlot story about it being a certain truth that a thing begun must be ended. I remembered the words from my school, that the end of the matter is better than its beginning.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

I remember the God awful realization that God had given me my son on the 28th of June, and now he asked for him back. As the world around me celebrated Advent, this was Good Friday, and I was Mary by the cross. I would be Mary preparing her son for burial, one last act of service to a child my body brought forth. I remember the words to a worship song running through my head, lines about Blessed be the Name of the Lord, though there's pain in the offering.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

I remember the phone calls I made, and the phone calls Mr. Spit made. I remember my best friend's cry of "No, surely there must be some hope". I remember telling her there was none, it had to be this way.

your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me

were written in your book before one of them came to be.

I remember my niece offering to get on a plane that night, friends offering to come to the hospital. I remember hushed discussions and my insistence that Mr. Spit bring the scrabble game from home.

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

I remember waiting for an IV pump, and a student nurse that I smiled at, and told her that she could practice her IV skills on me. I remember apologizing that I would be her first labour patient, wishing that she could have a happy memory for her first birth.

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.

When I awake, I am still with you.

I remember my midwife and my mum. I remember my mum asking Cathy how long an induction would take, and I remember Cathy biting her lip and shaking her head. I remember her saying a long time, that my body would not so easily give up this child it sheltered.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.

I remember Cathy sitting with me, putting me in the shower. I remember the start of the Mag drip, and finally I remember Cathy reading this psalm to me, flipping the pages in my bible.

See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

Psalm 139:1-18, 23-24

The Toby Award

Excuse me,

Ahem,

(sips water)

Testing 1, 2, 3,

Testing.

Ok, we're good.

Now then, ladies and gentlemen.

I'd like to introduce a new feature here at Mrs. Spit Spouts Off.

The Toby Award

Given to those who perform silent but heroic acts.

Those that would never think of praising themselves.

Those who possibly don't even think of themselves as brave or heroic. Named after the Vinyl Cafe's Arthur awards - where in people nominate themselves, their family, their friends and even complete strangers for the award. The award celebrates the family dog - Arthur, and the quiet way he improves the life around him.

I awoke this morning to 26 pounds of cat on my feet. Toby is large and timid, but he shows up every night, for a pet and a drool (I pet him, he drools). His mission in life is simple - eat, drink, give love. It seemed appropriate to name these awards after him.

I decided this award was in order after I posted about having to be a grown up, and many of you commented about how good this was. It gave me that extra bit of strength to carry on, to believe in what I was doing. I saw Felix Hominum's blog, and thought, yes, I can do this.

So often we don't think of what we are doing as brave, as important, as anything other than hard work. I wanted to recognize the Toby spirit in the world, where we try to leave it a better place than what we see now.

I have 2 nominees for this week.

Nominee One.
C at My Resurfacing, who wrote about taking joy in some one's pregnancy. Who wrote so beautifully about extending a form of grace and mercy to a young woman who likely had not seen much of that. Who did so at a time when her heart is bruised and battered. Who did something at tremendous cost, and made the world a slightly better place. I doubt anyone around her realized that she had to dig deep, but I did.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you would join me in raising your glass to C. Who is lovely and brilliant and kind and gracious, and is doing so incredibly well at being Callum's mum, when it is a hard trudge, every single step of the way.

To C.

And Nominee Two:
Jane, from Pink Heebee. Jane is a Guider - that is she is responsible for a troop of Brownies, and a Troop of Guides. And as far as I am concerned, anyone who spends that amount of time working with children, completely without compensation, deserves a medal. It is those adults who work with our pre-teens that show them they have worth, that show them they matter, and that show them what it means to be a part of a community.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you would join me in raising your glass to Jane, who works tirelessly, to give this world's children a better lot in life, to teach them about kindness and gentleness and care and concern for the world around them, and does so quietly and often without thanks.

To Jane.

The Nomination Process

This award is not like others, where you can give it to others on your blog. It would be great if you could send me an email and let me know of some deserving soul. It can be you, or someone else. I will post the award on Sunday's, as I have nominations.