Pregnancy was bewildering. People didn't ask what I thought about being pregnant, they asked how I felt. And if that wasn't enough, what I felt was ill. Vilely sick. Nauseous. And truly, no amount of thought and rationalization makes up for vomiting so much you lose 20 pounds in 3 months.
I was about 3 months along, feeling like I had re-subordinated my body to my brain, when I went to yoga for the first time. Imagine, moving your back in parts, curling up to stand up, feeling your spine move vertebrae by vertebrae, not moving your body as a plank. Imagine finally understanding how your body connects to itself. Imagine how moving your hips can release your back, understanding that an inability to quiet my mind is wear and tear on my body. A mind is not the only thing that paces. Imagine that. Discovering your body for the first time, as you discover the child within your body. Awareness, feeling, body emotion. Becoming your own lover.
Pre-eclampsia is inexorable, inflexible, inhuman, beginning the instant a blastocyst begins to burrow in your uterine lining, a relentless march to a forgone conclusion. Gabriel was doomed before I knew he was here. Before anyone knew he was here, his days were marked out in placental decline, kidney failure. His life ebbing away in exact and relentless correlation to the pressure increasing on my arterial walls. Pre-eclampsia is your body, it is you, that kills your children. There is no blind, dumb luck, no second chances, nothing.
I tried to go back, after, but I couldn't. I couldn't go back to that space, I couldn't give my self over to my body. I have refused to listen to my body, filling it with cigarettes and alcohol, stuffing sorrow into bags of white sugar and flour, hiding behind brown chocolate and black coffee. I have plugged my ears, I would not listen.
I have been pregnant 4 times in 16 months, and I am child-less. My arms as empty as ever, and I would not listen to them ache.
There was a need to punish, to batter, to lash. Suffering mind and body together. My body has been speaking, and I will not listen. I ignore. No, more than ignore. I have shouted: Betrayal, murder, unfaithful body. Hurling curses and threats and pain and anger.
I went back to yoga again yesterday, seeking more balance, more sanity. Seeking quietude and silence. Discipline. I spoke to the yoga instructor, and she reminded me, my internal strength comes from my body. I have endured, still endure, I walk on legs that can carry me, I hold my head up on a neck that bears weight. I knit and write and touch with hands.
I am more flexible than I imagined, and through the poses, the stretching, the attempts to tame my mind and bend it to my body, my body spoke, remembered.
It talked of the sickness, it reminded me of death. I went back to that room, almost unconscious at times, with monitors beeping, and drugs.
Mercy. Grace.
*****
It is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, which I must confess seems a bit silly, if only that I always remember Gabe, and your children too. But, perhaps today can be a day to reach out to others and remind them - 1 in 200 babies will die from 20 weeks gestation to 28 days after birth. We are not alone.
Showing posts with label Baby Loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baby Loss. Show all posts
Bite Your Tongue
I found myself biting my tongue a few weeks ago. And I will tell you, that if Gabriel's death has taught me anything, it's to bite my tongue. I'm still not as good at listening to others, behaving with gentleness and kindness and compassion, as I would like to be. I'm still learning the discipline of silence, shutting down my need to be right, to appear smart and with it, and capable. I'm still learning the truth behind the words that I'd rather have someone think me a fool because of my silence, than open my mouth and conclusively prove it.
As the taste of blood filled my mouth, I heard a woman telling me that she understood exactly what it was like to lose Gabriel, based on her very recent 10 week miscarriage. I'd rather the blood filled my mouth than boiled in my body. I'd rather I clenched my jaw and my hands, than feel my heart clench and my mouth open as a result of the sting in the words.
Because that's not true. And it isn't that this wasn't a painful, horrible and traumatic experience. She loved her baby, she wanted her baby, she was going to have a baby, and then in a sudden moment that hope and dream and wish was gone. And that hurts. It just plain does.
But it hurts me that she used my very different experience, it feels like she co-opted it. Because a miscarriage is different than giving birth to a dying baby.
Glow in the Woods had a post from a grief counsellor today, and this grief counsellor remarked that we each need to feel companionship and support from those around us, while still having others acknowledge our unique experiences. This well, resonated with me. I believe it. That we need commonality, but also to be allowed to have different things to grieve. And I was trying to error on the side of her feeling not so alone, that there were others out there. But. . . .
My dead baby is not yours. Wrapped up in Gabriel's life, encoded in the DNA of memory, is the last kick, the need to push, sitting on the floor holding him. Wrapped up in Gabriel is a child who gasped for breath, with us for 30 minutes. Wrapped up in the memory is holding my son as he died. Wrapped up in my memory is passing 12 weeks of pregnancy, and thinking, believing, really, knowing, that all the risk was over. I was going home with a baby.
Wrapped up in my grief is not just the loss of Gabriel, but the loss of any right to have a carefree pregnancy in the future. In the middle is the confession that Mr. Spit made 6 months after Gabe's birth, that they told him I was going to die. The knowledge that I am extremely high risk. I will get sick again. Wrapped up in Gabriel's death is the knowledge that we cannot seem to have another child. In the midst of the grief for Gabriel is the sad statement that we have a baby in heaven, and we aren't very able to have more.
And it cost me something to bite my tongue. It cost me something to not correct her. I bite my tongue. Sometimes hard. In the end, I'd rather bite my tongue, until the metallic taste of blood hits my senses, than shut down or shut out some one's story.
But, it hurt. Stories are so different.
As the taste of blood filled my mouth, I heard a woman telling me that she understood exactly what it was like to lose Gabriel, based on her very recent 10 week miscarriage. I'd rather the blood filled my mouth than boiled in my body. I'd rather I clenched my jaw and my hands, than feel my heart clench and my mouth open as a result of the sting in the words.
Because that's not true. And it isn't that this wasn't a painful, horrible and traumatic experience. She loved her baby, she wanted her baby, she was going to have a baby, and then in a sudden moment that hope and dream and wish was gone. And that hurts. It just plain does.
But it hurts me that she used my very different experience, it feels like she co-opted it. Because a miscarriage is different than giving birth to a dying baby.
Glow in the Woods had a post from a grief counsellor today, and this grief counsellor remarked that we each need to feel companionship and support from those around us, while still having others acknowledge our unique experiences. This well, resonated with me. I believe it. That we need commonality, but also to be allowed to have different things to grieve. And I was trying to error on the side of her feeling not so alone, that there were others out there. But. . . .
My dead baby is not yours. Wrapped up in Gabriel's life, encoded in the DNA of memory, is the last kick, the need to push, sitting on the floor holding him. Wrapped up in Gabriel is a child who gasped for breath, with us for 30 minutes. Wrapped up in the memory is holding my son as he died. Wrapped up in my memory is passing 12 weeks of pregnancy, and thinking, believing, really, knowing, that all the risk was over. I was going home with a baby.
Wrapped up in my grief is not just the loss of Gabriel, but the loss of any right to have a carefree pregnancy in the future. In the middle is the confession that Mr. Spit made 6 months after Gabe's birth, that they told him I was going to die. The knowledge that I am extremely high risk. I will get sick again. Wrapped up in Gabriel's death is the knowledge that we cannot seem to have another child. In the midst of the grief for Gabriel is the sad statement that we have a baby in heaven, and we aren't very able to have more.
And it cost me something to bite my tongue. It cost me something to not correct her. I bite my tongue. Sometimes hard. In the end, I'd rather bite my tongue, until the metallic taste of blood hits my senses, than shut down or shut out some one's story.
But, it hurt. Stories are so different.
Lunch Time Suits
She walked in, I think, late. At the least, she walked in after her friends were sitting down. She had a harried look I know, a meeting running late, deadlines, demands. There was the mother with the new babe, on maternity leave, her pregnant friend, another mother, and she came in - not flying, let's call it urgent.
A grey suit, stunning heels that were a thoughtful and explosive punch of colour, styled hair, manicured hands. A warrior like me, who does not quite have the luxury of laziness in looks. How we dress still matters, still affects how we are treated, it is part of our image, the bedrock of our armor.
I watched her, this woman that is so often me. I watched her greet the mother, hand over the gift, talk to the little boy, the other mother, the pregnant woman. I watched her look at her watch. I felt the stirrings of almost anger in me. It seemed I looked, I perceived, I understood. A kinship, that I at least, felt.
I watched her pick up the baby, hold it. And she was practiced, she knew what to do, the crooning, the movement, the smiles. Holding focus. I could see other customers looking at this odd group, wondering. The food, the table, well, this place is not family dining.
And in the middle of this, such is the power, the draw of mother and child. A woman in a suit and nice heels does not quite match. Hours later, I find myself angry on her behalf, on mine, that we the well dressed ones do not quite measure up, apathetic clothes and dingy shoes are somehow a mark of honour.
And I watched her, and I almost saw myself. The only suit at the table - in the room. The woman with the high heels, wearing make up. A clean and co-ordinated outfit. The woman who, gasp, got a full night's sleep last night. Who slept in last Saturday. An achiever whose announcements, news, promise, promotion, success, fall flat compared to a baby that rolled over.
Perhaps not an interloper, but surely a guest, at a club. There on sufferance, present, but with sanctions. Held back by those silly ropes and stanchions - a discreet sign that says "members only". I watched her, me, the others. I watched and I remembered. More than memory, cogitation. Not then, but also now. Perhaps, perhaps is what was so singular, so unique, so poignant about my pregnancy with Gabe -
I was, for a few moments, part of the club. If you asked what I grieved in Gabe's death, oh, the answer is so many things. But, somewhere, somewhere in all of this, is live memory, that I am no longer part of the club.
A grey suit, stunning heels that were a thoughtful and explosive punch of colour, styled hair, manicured hands. A warrior like me, who does not quite have the luxury of laziness in looks. How we dress still matters, still affects how we are treated, it is part of our image, the bedrock of our armor.
I watched her, this woman that is so often me. I watched her greet the mother, hand over the gift, talk to the little boy, the other mother, the pregnant woman. I watched her look at her watch. I felt the stirrings of almost anger in me. It seemed I looked, I perceived, I understood. A kinship, that I at least, felt.
I watched her pick up the baby, hold it. And she was practiced, she knew what to do, the crooning, the movement, the smiles. Holding focus. I could see other customers looking at this odd group, wondering. The food, the table, well, this place is not family dining.
And in the middle of this, such is the power, the draw of mother and child. A woman in a suit and nice heels does not quite match. Hours later, I find myself angry on her behalf, on mine, that we the well dressed ones do not quite measure up, apathetic clothes and dingy shoes are somehow a mark of honour.
And I watched her, and I almost saw myself. The only suit at the table - in the room. The woman with the high heels, wearing make up. A clean and co-ordinated outfit. The woman who, gasp, got a full night's sleep last night. Who slept in last Saturday. An achiever whose announcements, news, promise, promotion, success, fall flat compared to a baby that rolled over.
Perhaps not an interloper, but surely a guest, at a club. There on sufferance, present, but with sanctions. Held back by those silly ropes and stanchions - a discreet sign that says "members only". I watched her, me, the others. I watched and I remembered. More than memory, cogitation. Not then, but also now. Perhaps, perhaps is what was so singular, so unique, so poignant about my pregnancy with Gabe -
I was, for a few moments, part of the club. If you asked what I grieved in Gabe's death, oh, the answer is so many things. But, somewhere, somewhere in all of this, is live memory, that I am no longer part of the club.
Wide Awake and Dreaming
I woke from my nap with the yell dying on my lips. I know that I must have yelled, the smaller dog was standing over me, looking at me with concern in her eyes. The cat was half sitting up, looking at me with cat-disdain, his peaceful slumber interrupted.
My dreams lately have been vivid, technicolour movies, that seem so real I struggle to believe that I was asleep. Right after Gabriel's death, my head would hit my pillow, and I would struggle to pray. I would whimper, "Father, this hurts. Hurts, hurt, hurting." My usual ability to articulate so absent from both my conversations and my prayers. This not so right now. My prayers are long - not words, but sentences evolving into paragraphs. My head hits my pillows, and the cares, the pain, the burden and the sorrow my days, of Gabriel's death, 3 subsequent miscarriages and an inability made of iron that bars me from conceiving again. Over and over I say the same words, the same thoughts. Over and over I tell God that I am confused, hurting, sad. My sense of justice is offended, and I am confused about what happens next.
The dream was so real, I could hear the argument with a familiar person. Indeed, the argument was an old one, as much a part of the dance of my relationship with this person as it had been for the last 20 years of my life. I could believe that I was wide awake and dreaming if only because the argument could have occurred in real life. His abhorrent behaviour, lacking consideration for others, my attempts to procure justice, his threats. He was threatening this time about my son's birth and death, threatening to report me for having my baby at home. No, I awoke, screaming, "My son was born in the hospital. We did everything we could do to keep him safe. No, you can't threaten me. No, I won't let you make me feel powerless and small. I won't let you twist things into your version of the truth."
Perhaps because I seldom remember my dreams, perhaps because my dreams do not stretch into waking, because it is so rare to wake up and struggle to remember what was sleep and what is awake, because my dreams do not often carry over, and almost never in such technicolour vividness, I am left with a feeling of unease, disquietude. My dreams seem so disconnected from my waking feelings, those of ennui, listlessness, dissatisfaction. What ever it is that I am doing awake, I wish to be doing something else. I am never quite content. My dreams are filled with strange and confusing realities, so different from my life.
I woke myself up, and carried on, running errands. I went to visit a friend in the hospital, ignoring my hesitancy to return to the place that I had delivered Gabe. Reminding myself that this was now, and that was then, and a hospital is merely a building, with no power to harm me. It was simply a place, and places have no power apart from that we give them.
It was not until I finished visiting, walking out to my car, that I remembered the first part of the dream. And when I think back, that night, and even now, I am surprised. This has never happened. I have dreamt of being pregnant, but never of holding a child.
In my dream, I had been holding a baby, a baby that was vomiting everywhere, and as I held it, with others all around me, as they commented that this was hard, I cradled a red headed little baby girl in my arms, and I thought "You are mine. I don't care what you do, I don't care how hard this is, you are mine."
My dreams lately have been vivid, technicolour movies, that seem so real I struggle to believe that I was asleep. Right after Gabriel's death, my head would hit my pillow, and I would struggle to pray. I would whimper, "Father, this hurts. Hurts, hurt, hurting." My usual ability to articulate so absent from both my conversations and my prayers. This not so right now. My prayers are long - not words, but sentences evolving into paragraphs. My head hits my pillows, and the cares, the pain, the burden and the sorrow my days, of Gabriel's death, 3 subsequent miscarriages and an inability made of iron that bars me from conceiving again. Over and over I say the same words, the same thoughts. Over and over I tell God that I am confused, hurting, sad. My sense of justice is offended, and I am confused about what happens next.
The dream was so real, I could hear the argument with a familiar person. Indeed, the argument was an old one, as much a part of the dance of my relationship with this person as it had been for the last 20 years of my life. I could believe that I was wide awake and dreaming if only because the argument could have occurred in real life. His abhorrent behaviour, lacking consideration for others, my attempts to procure justice, his threats. He was threatening this time about my son's birth and death, threatening to report me for having my baby at home. No, I awoke, screaming, "My son was born in the hospital. We did everything we could do to keep him safe. No, you can't threaten me. No, I won't let you make me feel powerless and small. I won't let you twist things into your version of the truth."
Perhaps because I seldom remember my dreams, perhaps because my dreams do not stretch into waking, because it is so rare to wake up and struggle to remember what was sleep and what is awake, because my dreams do not often carry over, and almost never in such technicolour vividness, I am left with a feeling of unease, disquietude. My dreams seem so disconnected from my waking feelings, those of ennui, listlessness, dissatisfaction. What ever it is that I am doing awake, I wish to be doing something else. I am never quite content. My dreams are filled with strange and confusing realities, so different from my life.
I woke myself up, and carried on, running errands. I went to visit a friend in the hospital, ignoring my hesitancy to return to the place that I had delivered Gabe. Reminding myself that this was now, and that was then, and a hospital is merely a building, with no power to harm me. It was simply a place, and places have no power apart from that we give them.
It was not until I finished visiting, walking out to my car, that I remembered the first part of the dream. And when I think back, that night, and even now, I am surprised. This has never happened. I have dreamt of being pregnant, but never of holding a child.
In my dream, I had been holding a baby, a baby that was vomiting everywhere, and as I held it, with others all around me, as they commented that this was hard, I cradled a red headed little baby girl in my arms, and I thought "You are mine. I don't care what you do, I don't care how hard this is, you are mine."
When you think you can't.
I don't often talk about how close of a thing it was - that Gabriel was born on the margin, and the wrong side of the margin.
750g was what our hospital called the tipping point. The point at which a baby born had a good chance of a meaningful life.
Gabriel was 520 grams at birth.
230 grams
8 oz.
1/2 a pound.
A hair's breadth and a heartbeat too small. A tiny gap, and a gap that is miles wide and kilometres deep.
20 years ago a baby born at 32 weeks was a dicey thing.
10 years ago a baby born at 28 weeks was a dicey thing.
10 years from now, perhaps we will have a cure for pre-eclampsia, and perhaps we will be able to handle a baby with a gestational age of 23 weeks - when our Gabe stopped growing.
Jen is trying to help.
If you can, could you help her, help our babies, well that would be great.
Jen at the March of Dimes.
750g was what our hospital called the tipping point. The point at which a baby born had a good chance of a meaningful life.
Gabriel was 520 grams at birth.
230 grams
8 oz.
1/2 a pound.
A hair's breadth and a heartbeat too small. A tiny gap, and a gap that is miles wide and kilometres deep.
20 years ago a baby born at 32 weeks was a dicey thing.
10 years ago a baby born at 28 weeks was a dicey thing.
10 years from now, perhaps we will have a cure for pre-eclampsia, and perhaps we will be able to handle a baby with a gestational age of 23 weeks - when our Gabe stopped growing.
Jen is trying to help.
If you can, could you help her, help our babies, well that would be great.
Jen at the March of Dimes.
Qualificiation
An unexpected thing happened Wednesday. Well, two things.
The first was that I hoped to call someone out. A few some one's to be honest: people who had talked about abortion in a particular way, and with a particular tone, and frankly, they'd made me feel uncomfortable, and it's pretty hard to make me feel that way. So, I wanted to point out the error in absolutes - which did not seem to work. I was hopeful that perhaps my story, the reminder that we are talking about real people, would remind others to chose their words carefully, to be kind when disagreeing. I was preaching to the converted, which, in some sense, is nice, because you all said really lovely things about me, but wasn't what I intended.
The second thing was much more troubling. Much, much, much more troubling. I would not have thought that we had membership rules and sub-clauses to be a dead baby mum. I wouldn't have thought that you had to qualify, based on your circumstances. And I struggled with what to write about this. I have not been around this community all that long, and I wasn't sure if it is my place to speak. But, in the voices of other dead baby mum's (dbms), I heard these words:
I didn't think I fit in.
I didn't think I qualified.
I thought it was my fault.
I had to convince myself I made the best/the only decision I could.
What? No, really. Excuse me? There's a qualification test other than your child dying? It's not enough that our babies died? Now, we have to pass some sort of other test? We need to be socially acceptable? We need to grieve the right way? We need to fit a religious or a societal exemption? We have to believe in the right things - the right God? We can't offend your ideas of how we should grieve? Your kidding, right? And I don't know if I get to set the rules for this community. It seems like no one is. No one does. And maybe that's why it works. But. . . .
We are a group of women, those of us who lost our babies later in pregnancy, or shortly after birth, who miss, and want our children with us. For some it was last week we said good-bye to our babies, and for some it was ten years ago. Together we are a group. And we are only as strong as the care and concern and love we give to each other. When we set rules, when we tell others the right way to grieve, when we try to limit who gets in and who stays out, based on our feelings, our own sense of right and wrong, well, the group falls apart. Broken people get more hurt.
Here's the thing about grieving - it's individual. It's your story, your show. You are here because your baby is dead. How you handle your baby's death, well, it's how you handle it. There's no right, and there's no wrong. You grieve how you grieve. There's no exam, and no one's marking you. (And if you are marking others, knock it off.) I assure you, there are no medals for grieving properly, and no one is going to hold you up as an example of how to do it well. No prizes, no models, no best-practices. There's no great way to do this. Do what you can, with what you have. Tell your story.
And when someone is grieving in a way that you wouldn't? For the love of all that's holy, would you remember that there is someone who is looking at you and thinking that you are wrong?
Whether your baby died before you got a chance to say good-bye, to beg the universe to allow your child to stay. Whether your baby died before you felt their kicks, picked out a name. Whether you had to make a choice, whether your life was up against the wall, or just your heart. Whether you came home to an empty room, or packed up the nursery furniture. Whether they slept in their crib, or in a NICU isolette, or never slept here on earth at all. Whether they were born still, or born alive and gone to soon. Whether you gave your child a name, whether you held them, baptized them. Whether their ashes are at home, or they are in the ground. However. Whatever. Whenever. Our babies are not with us. And you have a right to grieve. A part of your heart is not with you. It belongs to your baby, and your baby is gone.
If you have to ask, the answer is yes, you belong.
The first was that I hoped to call someone out. A few some one's to be honest: people who had talked about abortion in a particular way, and with a particular tone, and frankly, they'd made me feel uncomfortable, and it's pretty hard to make me feel that way. So, I wanted to point out the error in absolutes - which did not seem to work. I was hopeful that perhaps my story, the reminder that we are talking about real people, would remind others to chose their words carefully, to be kind when disagreeing. I was preaching to the converted, which, in some sense, is nice, because you all said really lovely things about me, but wasn't what I intended.
The second thing was much more troubling. Much, much, much more troubling. I would not have thought that we had membership rules and sub-clauses to be a dead baby mum. I wouldn't have thought that you had to qualify, based on your circumstances. And I struggled with what to write about this. I have not been around this community all that long, and I wasn't sure if it is my place to speak. But, in the voices of other dead baby mum's (dbms), I heard these words:
I didn't think I fit in.
I didn't think I qualified.
I thought it was my fault.
I had to convince myself I made the best/the only decision I could.
What? No, really. Excuse me? There's a qualification test other than your child dying? It's not enough that our babies died? Now, we have to pass some sort of other test? We need to be socially acceptable? We need to grieve the right way? We need to fit a religious or a societal exemption? We have to believe in the right things - the right God? We can't offend your ideas of how we should grieve? Your kidding, right? And I don't know if I get to set the rules for this community. It seems like no one is. No one does. And maybe that's why it works. But. . . .
We are a group of women, those of us who lost our babies later in pregnancy, or shortly after birth, who miss, and want our children with us. For some it was last week we said good-bye to our babies, and for some it was ten years ago. Together we are a group. And we are only as strong as the care and concern and love we give to each other. When we set rules, when we tell others the right way to grieve, when we try to limit who gets in and who stays out, based on our feelings, our own sense of right and wrong, well, the group falls apart. Broken people get more hurt.
Here's the thing about grieving - it's individual. It's your story, your show. You are here because your baby is dead. How you handle your baby's death, well, it's how you handle it. There's no right, and there's no wrong. You grieve how you grieve. There's no exam, and no one's marking you. (And if you are marking others, knock it off.) I assure you, there are no medals for grieving properly, and no one is going to hold you up as an example of how to do it well. No prizes, no models, no best-practices. There's no great way to do this. Do what you can, with what you have. Tell your story.
And when someone is grieving in a way that you wouldn't? For the love of all that's holy, would you remember that there is someone who is looking at you and thinking that you are wrong?
Whether your baby died before you got a chance to say good-bye, to beg the universe to allow your child to stay. Whether your baby died before you felt their kicks, picked out a name. Whether you had to make a choice, whether your life was up against the wall, or just your heart. Whether you came home to an empty room, or packed up the nursery furniture. Whether they slept in their crib, or in a NICU isolette, or never slept here on earth at all. Whether they were born still, or born alive and gone to soon. Whether you gave your child a name, whether you held them, baptized them. Whether their ashes are at home, or they are in the ground. However. Whatever. Whenever. Our babies are not with us. And you have a right to grieve. A part of your heart is not with you. It belongs to your baby, and your baby is gone.
If you have to ask, the answer is yes, you belong.
Baby Born Still
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.I know lots of American voters have been pushing for the passage of H.R. 5979 - Stillbirth Awareness and Research Act. I wish them luck. Like so many things with baby loss, it is astounding that so many babies are lost and so little is said.
I will remember the broken hearts and shattered dreams of the broken. I will remember mother's and father's with empty arms. I will remember only children that aren't supposed to be. I will remember siblings who miss the other half of their family.
I will remember grandparents that longed to rock and sing to the next generation. The death of our children is the death of our future.
Memento Mori.
