I woke up this morning to snow. And there's something about snow in November that makes me blue.
Amidst the swirling snow did I leave the hospital that day 2 years ago. In an almost blizzard I left the hospital, and the swirling snow became an atmospheric metaphor for the loss in my soul.
I have long maintained that I can handle a cold Alberta winter. It may be bitter cold, but there is bright blue sky and yellow sun, and miles of space. Alberta is anything but colourless in the Winter. Even the snow reflects the dazzled glory. Alberta is a land of deep colours, blue and grey mountains, green conifers, and brilliant snow.
I am, at my heart, a prairie girl. I always will be. And yet, when the snow closes in, when it swirls around I cannot take refuge or find comfort. I used to look at a blizzard as a wonderful thing, a chance to curl up, light the house, put on a fire, get a blanket. Comfort. Blizzards are soft and tender when you are in the house. The cloud cover keeps the light level low, playing hide and seek with illumination. It is dark and then lighter, in a random sense of play.
And I woke up this morning, looking at the snow all around me, and I remembered that day, the way the snow stung my face, my hands. I felt the scrape and blemish of ice crystals on fragile skin. There is no comfort, the snow, the wind, it is oppressive. There are no wide open space, reflected glory. Trudging to the car, arms and heart empty. Leaving Gabriel behind, looking back at the morgue in the basement, thinking of my son on cold, hard stone.
There's something about snow in Alberta, in November, that takes me back to that terrible place, where I am, once again, small and fragile. Newly born and so very old.
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Made-Over
I sent my tailoring to Sigrun, 3 or 4 suits, a few skirts and some pants taken in, and she did a spectacular job. One of the suits was the suit I bought for Gabe's funeral. The suit fitted me badly, and so Sigrun has tailored it beautifully, finishing the corners, tucking in the ends - making it an ideal fit. It is the most remarkable work of sewing I have seen in a long time. I saw myself in the mirror this morning, and I looked and I thought that it was like a new suit.
And yet.
It will never be a new suit, it will be anything, all of Sigrun's care aside, other than an old suit made over. And lest you think that I am in some way complaining, that this is a grievance, it's truly not.
Thinking historically, this notion of made over is not unique. Indeed, it is singularly unique that we throw out our clothes. My mother, she speaks fondly of her first suit, made in Toronto, by a tailor, of solid wool. A suit that was made just for her. A suit that lasted 15 years, and was changed in that time. A suit that became completely hers.
I am an old suit, made over. Grieving Gabriel has changed me, altered me, tailored me. I have been trimmed and tucked, stretched, given ease and and short-shift, all at the same time. I am old, made new. Changed, transformed.
The world does not like made over. We would rather have badly made new from Wal-mart than well constructed old from Value Village. We like the smell and look of shiny-newness. New speaks to us of of comfort, of prosperity, of good times, a bright future. Made-over we instinctively associate made-over with poverty and dour-ness, sadness, the taste of bitter root heavy on our tongues, our worries weighing down our shoulders.
Being a made-over woman has not been comforting. The suit fits me far better than grief and sorrow ever did. I am, in a particular way, a pariah. When I speak of pregnancy, of child birth, and I do, I see looks on other women's faces. I see them and they wish I would be silent. Gabriel's name startles them, they are uncomfortable, and he floats between us, weighing on them, they are uncomfortable with death so close. They wish to continue in new-ness, leaving my made-over self in a silent corner.
Gal wrote on GITW the other day, about being a better person after Tikva's death. And that resonated with me. For all of my isolation, my protestations against new, for all the times that new silences my made-over self, it seems to me, I have some choices in the made over business, my horizons are broader than buying new. New is a fait d'acompli. No, these are not the horizons that I wanted, expected, wished for. But they are the horizons that I am given, and in them, I have choice.
There is Only San Franciso
There is only San Francisco, because there is no Gabriel. And I don't want to be one of those crazy dead baby mum's. I worry I make too much out of it already, I talk about him too much as it is. I worry that my friends, my neighbours, my colleagues, they are telling themselves that I am not quite right since his death, that I am touched in the head, on the long, slow decline. But, I wish I could make you understand:
There is only San Francisco, and I am only one of those lucky people who has "all this money", because I didn't chose to be a DINK, I wanted my son. I went back to work because I had to keep living even though at times it seemed less painful to stop.
There is only San Francisco, and I have all this spare time and I can only phone a friend and say "Let's go" because no one needs me to tell them a story or change their diaper.
There is only San Francisco because when I went to bed tonight, it was with no boy child to crawl in and give cuddles, no boy child to nurse. There are only ugly sobs, tears down my face. There is only me sitting with his scrap book, tracing the outline of his feet, running my hands over them while I sob, and your words in my ears.
There is only San Francisco because I make a choice, even though my sorrow and grief overwhelms me this exact instant. I chose joy. I chose to enjoy. I chose to keep living. And I will chose to enjoy myself in San Francisco.
And when you tell me that I am lucky, and that you wish you were me, forgive me, but I do not think so.
For me, there is only San Francisco.
And on the balance, I do not think you would chose that.
There is only San Francisco, and I am only one of those lucky people who has "all this money", because I didn't chose to be a DINK, I wanted my son. I went back to work because I had to keep living even though at times it seemed less painful to stop.
There is only San Francisco, and I have all this spare time and I can only phone a friend and say "Let's go" because no one needs me to tell them a story or change their diaper.
There is only San Francisco because when I went to bed tonight, it was with no boy child to crawl in and give cuddles, no boy child to nurse. There are only ugly sobs, tears down my face. There is only me sitting with his scrap book, tracing the outline of his feet, running my hands over them while I sob, and your words in my ears.
There is only San Francisco because I make a choice, even though my sorrow and grief overwhelms me this exact instant. I chose joy. I chose to enjoy. I chose to keep living. And I will chose to enjoy myself in San Francisco.
And when you tell me that I am lucky, and that you wish you were me, forgive me, but I do not think so.
For me, there is only San Francisco.
And on the balance, I do not think you would chose that.
You Can Learn From Anything
I was in Michael's, picking up a stamp for the thank-you cards I sent after Gabe's death, and there was this magnet, and I have wished, ever since, that I bought it.
You can learn from anything
I reject, completely, the notion that these sorts of things happen for a reason. Gabriel did not die so that Mr. Spit and I could be more compassionate, he didn't die because God needed him more, he didn't die to teach us to depend on God, he didn't die because of something I did, or did not do. He didn't die so that Mr. Spit and I could grow closer, he didn't die because of my mother's heart attack the week before. He simply died. It was and is hellish and awful, and there's no great meaning in it.
If you must have a reason, let it be this: Gabriel Anton died because pre-eclampisa is a terrible disease. It is a disease first recognized 2000 years ago, and even today, it takes a mother's life every 12 minutes. Gabriel died because pre-eclampsia kills. Gabriel died because the only cure for pre-eclampsia, 2000 years after its discovery, is to deliver the baby.
You can learn from anything.
I remember the magnet, because it was part of a choice I made, on December 11, 2007 and on September 3, 2009. I made a choice that I would learn from this. And that decision never has rested easily. I don't want to find meaning in Gabe's death, particularly, if only because it seems to me that if I can find meaning, Gabe's death meant something, in some sense, it happened for a reason. Maybe, my brain whispers, if it happened for a reason, it should have happened. It wasn't merely evil that touched our lives that day, it was planned, it had to happen. It wasn't just some sort of dumb luck.
In spite of my misgivings, it seems to me that it is the nature of human's, it is the image of God in us, to find some sort of meaning in things. When we can't find reason, we try to find at least something we can take from the experience. So, I decided if there wasn't any reason to find, at least there was learning.
And I think, at least part of what I have learned is the danger of apathy.If Gabriel's death has taught me anything, it has taught me the danger of the halfway gesture, of giving just enough, of not going all in.
******
And thank you for your very kind words and your support yesterday. I still don't have a paved road, but I do have people to call at the City, to start demanding answers. I cannot help but think that if I lived in one of the Tony neigbourhoods, it would only have taken a month or so to replace light standards, sidewalks, curbs and re-pave the road, not 3.5 months. And that makes me angry indeed.
******
And thank you for your very kind words and your support yesterday. I still don't have a paved road, but I do have people to call at the City, to start demanding answers. I cannot help but think that if I lived in one of the Tony neigbourhoods, it would only have taken a month or so to replace light standards, sidewalks, curbs and re-pave the road, not 3.5 months. And that makes me angry indeed.
Most Days
I went to go and see a doctor a few weeks after Gabriel was born. I could not sleep. I would lay myself down and stare at the ceiling, and I could not close my eyes. I was, quickly, becoming frantic. Terrified. So, I went to go and see the doctor who was filling in for my GP, and I explained that my son had died 14 days before, and I could not sleep, and could I have something to help me? Because it was bad already, and I knew it would be worse if I couldn't sleep. He gave me, as if he was doing me the favour of all eternity, 7 nights worth of pills. He looked at me and told me that I would have to learn to cope. It's a level of cruelty that astounds me still.
A week later I sat in my GP's office and he told me that he wasn't sure that 3 months would do it, but it was a start - come back if I needed more. There is, for the record, 1 pill left in that bottle.
Perhaps it would surprise you, those of you who have not lost a child, if I told you that there are places in my grief life I do not - cannot go. At some point in this process, you look hard at places in your sorrow, and you shake your head, and you realize that if you go down that path, madness lies at the end. However much, in the midst of our most personal moments of agony, we might wish for madness, we seem to know that it is not an option. We sit in our doctor's office and we quietly explain that our baby has died, and we are very sorry to trouble, but we cannot sleep, and could we have some help with that. Not Valium or laudanum or entire bottles of rum, but a pill so that when we close our eyes, we can sleep. Our overworked brains can rest, if only for a few hours. And our outward behaviour does not match the pain and the fear and the sorrow in our hearts.
The truth is, I can see him at 18 months - reddish hair, his mother's temper, his father's logic. It doesn't take much, and those thoughts are never very far from me. But I do not spend time there. That way madness lies.
I'm talking real madness. Not slightly crazy, distraught. No, I'm talking the have-you-committed, lose-your-job-your-house-your-car-your-will-to-live. You can spend so much time on what should have been, and the gross unfairness of it all, that you stop living. You can spend all of your time in what should have been, and lose your grip on what is.
I have never really lost it at Gabriel's death. I have never screamed or wailed in public. Indeed, I've never done either in front of Mr. Spit. I have screamed once. Wailed beyond all comprehension twice. That way madness lies.
And so, most days, well, really all days, I move through my life. And more than moving through life, I actually like my life. It's not what I wanted, what I planned, but it is what it is. And it`s a good life.
"Did you hear the announcement about our baby in church?"
A note on my Facebook page asking if we had heard the announcement at church about the new baby. An announcement on Father`s day. And I looked at this note, turning my head sideways, trying to figure out how to explain. Struck by this gap. I understand how they wouldn't "get" the conjunction of the day and the news, and how hard that would be for Mr. Spit. I understand that. I get it, even if they don't. And I am left confused and saddened. Because there is no way to explain a hurt that is so wide or deep. There are no physical signs of it. I am, solidly sane.
Because I do not scream, because I ask for mild sleeping pills and not tranquilizers, that doesn't mean that some times don't hurt more than others, and that doesn't mean that we are the way we were, and that doesn't mean that some days don't take us too close to those places that madness lies.
A week later I sat in my GP's office and he told me that he wasn't sure that 3 months would do it, but it was a start - come back if I needed more. There is, for the record, 1 pill left in that bottle.
Perhaps it would surprise you, those of you who have not lost a child, if I told you that there are places in my grief life I do not - cannot go. At some point in this process, you look hard at places in your sorrow, and you shake your head, and you realize that if you go down that path, madness lies at the end. However much, in the midst of our most personal moments of agony, we might wish for madness, we seem to know that it is not an option. We sit in our doctor's office and we quietly explain that our baby has died, and we are very sorry to trouble, but we cannot sleep, and could we have some help with that. Not Valium or laudanum or entire bottles of rum, but a pill so that when we close our eyes, we can sleep. Our overworked brains can rest, if only for a few hours. And our outward behaviour does not match the pain and the fear and the sorrow in our hearts.
The truth is, I can see him at 18 months - reddish hair, his mother's temper, his father's logic. It doesn't take much, and those thoughts are never very far from me. But I do not spend time there. That way madness lies.
I'm talking real madness. Not slightly crazy, distraught. No, I'm talking the have-you-committed, lose-your-job-your-house-your-car-your-will-to-live. You can spend so much time on what should have been, and the gross unfairness of it all, that you stop living. You can spend all of your time in what should have been, and lose your grip on what is.
I have never really lost it at Gabriel's death. I have never screamed or wailed in public. Indeed, I've never done either in front of Mr. Spit. I have screamed once. Wailed beyond all comprehension twice. That way madness lies.
And so, most days, well, really all days, I move through my life. And more than moving through life, I actually like my life. It's not what I wanted, what I planned, but it is what it is. And it`s a good life.
"Did you hear the announcement about our baby in church?"
A note on my Facebook page asking if we had heard the announcement at church about the new baby. An announcement on Father`s day. And I looked at this note, turning my head sideways, trying to figure out how to explain. Struck by this gap. I understand how they wouldn't "get" the conjunction of the day and the news, and how hard that would be for Mr. Spit. I understand that. I get it, even if they don't. And I am left confused and saddened. Because there is no way to explain a hurt that is so wide or deep. There are no physical signs of it. I am, solidly sane.
Because I do not scream, because I ask for mild sleeping pills and not tranquilizers, that doesn't mean that some times don't hurt more than others, and that doesn't mean that we are the way we were, and that doesn't mean that some days don't take us too close to those places that madness lies.
Where Your Writing Will Take You
I brought my Yarn Harlot books to Saskatchewan, all 5 of them. I was truly not sure that I would have the courage to ask. It's one thing to ask a favourite author to sign a book, 5 books seems a bit excessive, and signing 1 story about a baby born still seems just off.
I was looking forward to the book, in early November, 2007, when it shipped with the Amazon order: a few of Dr. Sear's books, Barb Colorosso's Kids are Worth it, and The Secret Life of a Knitter. And I will tell you now, as I go and look at these books on my shelf, knowing that I gave away the book on ages and stages - because I knew that I would read it after Gabriel's death, read it and imagine things as they were not, could never be - I will tell you that it seems slippery, illusory, transitory, that I should remember any of this, any of that time, at all.
I fell into bed that night and I started reading. The Yarn Harlot is a humorist. Or at least - you will find her books as Knitting - Humour. It is, as she she said in her talk, a niche market. And it's true, the Yarn Harlot is uproariously funny. She is a story teller. To tell stories, all stories, and especially funny stories, is to see life, truly. And I suppose when you see life this way, all things are not funny.
Some women, some women, tell me that they knew their baby was going to die. There was a sign, a feeling, a knowing. I will tell you that I did not know. I did not know Gabriel's story. I did not know that babies died.
I brought the book to the front on Saturday night, my name tag marking page 153. I asked her to sign a story, and opened the book.
"You liked this story?" She asked, question in her voice. 
No, no. A thousand times, no. But at the start of November, 2007, I did not know that babies' died. I did not know.
A month later, in a dark hospital room, my midwife quilting in the corner:
"It is a horrible truth that you must finish what you start, even though it seems too sad to do."
*********
Pearl McPhee, Stephanie. "'One Little Sock': The Secret Life of a Knitter". (Kansas City: Andrews McMeel Publishing) 153-156.
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.
I'd like to scream
Really, I'd like to scream.
I packed up at least some of my maternity clothes today, to give to a co-worker. And I'm glad that's she's expecting. That's not what makes me want to scream.
But, I've told a few people today, that I was going to give her some of my clothes. And no one has said a word.
I went into those boxes, and I picked up and folded again. I picked up the shirt I wore to the hospital, when Gabe was born. I packed up my favourite maternity shirt, red and tan polka-dots. I packed up the first maternity shirt I bought. I packed up a few things I never even got to wear. I packed up my hopes and dreams. I packed up the best time of my life, and tomorrow I'm carrying them into work.
And no one has even noticed that this might be a bit hard.
ED: I have to confess, it's not the lack of reaction on the part of my co-workers that bothers me. It was a few friends and my mother, that I told last night, and they just carried on with their conversations. I don't think that most of my co-workers would understand. My friends? My mother?
I packed up at least some of my maternity clothes today, to give to a co-worker. And I'm glad that's she's expecting. That's not what makes me want to scream.
But, I've told a few people today, that I was going to give her some of my clothes. And no one has said a word.
I went into those boxes, and I picked up and folded again. I picked up the shirt I wore to the hospital, when Gabe was born. I packed up my favourite maternity shirt, red and tan polka-dots. I packed up the first maternity shirt I bought. I packed up a few things I never even got to wear. I packed up my hopes and dreams. I packed up the best time of my life, and tomorrow I'm carrying them into work.
And no one has even noticed that this might be a bit hard.
ED: I have to confess, it's not the lack of reaction on the part of my co-workers that bothers me. It was a few friends and my mother, that I told last night, and they just carried on with their conversations. I don't think that most of my co-workers would understand. My friends? My mother?
Memento Mori
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
Mother's Day
I had other thoughts for today, but given the events of yesterday, they have flown from my mind.
And somewhere in Calgary today there is a little blonde girl who cannot give the card and the craft she made, to her mother. Somewhere in Calgary today there is a little girl named Emma, who loves to chatter who is silent and lost and alone.
And somewhere in Calgary there is a mother who will bury her daughter and her second grandchild, and who will not hear any greetings on this day.
Somewhere there is a father and a husband - a good and kind and quiet and gentle man who is lost and broken.
And in heaven today, Anna is smiling.
And I do not understand.
Scrap Booking
I have been scrap booking, catching up on several years of work, finishing up books, going back to older, happier times.
Sorting through photo's, as I sort through memories, trips, friends, weddings.
Wishing I could organize my thoughts and my sorrows as easily.
Sorting through photo's, as I sort through memories, trips, friends, weddings.
Wishing I could organize my thoughts and my sorrows as easily.
Due Date
A due date is a funny thing. It's probably not something you really remember if your baby lives, but if your baby doesn't, well it becomes one more thing in the litany of memories, the ritual of remembrance. It becomes one more day we mark.And today was Gabe's due date. Perhaps, a year later, I have a better perspective. This time last year I was standing at the ocean, at San Simeon, watching waves in moonlight. I watched them crash over rocks, making you think that they would sweep away everything in their wake, and I watched the ocean roll back out, and the rocks remained. And I suddenly understood, with a bolt of clarity, what grief was.
It is to be a rock in the ocean, at high tide. Struggling to keep your head above water, struggling to understand, struggling to keep breathing and not be overwhelmed. This was our test, Mr. Spit and I, to hold on to each other, to hold on to Gabe's memory, but to carry on.
And we have. We still do. It is a daily choice, to live in this world, and not the world that we want to be in. There are daily reminders. I don't know that it won't ever stop hurting me to see women complain about their kids. I think it will always hurt that Gabe is not here.
But, we are here, and here we remain. In lives with joy and sorrow. Holding on and hanging in. Changed.
I declare to you, brothers, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory." "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
1 Cor 15:50-57
Judy
I'm not sure what happened yesterday. I forgot it was Wednesday. I thought it was, I dunno, some weird, previously undiscovered day of the week, perhaps Tursday? Anyway, The Etiquette Lady will come back next Wednesday. (provided I don't make up another day).
*****
In November, a colleague literally dropped dead. I'm sorry, it's not the most gentle way to put it, but that's exactly what happened. She went to have a nap on a Saturday, and she didn't wake up. Today I was working on something, and I looked up at the person I was working with, and I said "I miss Judy." I said it with a fervor that surprised me. I miss her when I have to talk to another lawyer, and Judy is in the corner of the room, and we navigate around her, around her absence, around the unfinished files we are slowly picking up. I miss her for her acumen. I miss her for her gentleness, I miss her for her kindness. I simply miss walking into a conference room, and seeing her there.
I remember a meeting after I returned to work last year. No one outside my department knew what had happened. The more observant among them knew that I had been pregnant, and I now wasn't, and that I clearly hadn't been gone for a year. A few thought I came back early. Most didn't really ask - they just stared. I still don't know what's worse, the asking or the not.
But, we were in this meeting, wrapping up. Chatting, the way we do at the end of meetings. I think I was likely apologizing that whatever we had been discussing had been dropped when I left on 'medical leave'.
And there was that moment. You know it. When someone is about to say something about what happened, about to ask a question, about to express some sort of sympathy. And truthfully, I was probably fed up with talking about it. I used to joke that I was going to hand out a card. With a timeline on one side, the frequently asked questions on the other. I was tired of explaining my son's death in corridors and elevators and on the thresholds of meeting rooms. I was tired of his short and wondrous and miraculous life reduced to 2 sentences. I was tired of talking about it, of thinking about it, of re-living it, just to give someone the Cole's Notes version. I was, just tired.
But this moment, in which Judy looked as if she wanted to say something, was going to say something: I did that almost instinctive thing, where we start speaking really quickly and stop looking at the person, and change the subject, and hope the moment passes, silently.
Perhaps I was resentful, I had worked on an entire project, for months, with my belly getting slowly, and silently larger. Others commented. They laughed at my snacking and my brain dead tendencies. Judy, well, Judy said nothing, which seemed strange. She surely noticed, and she was the sort of woman who you would think would say something.
I read the obituary, those tiny words towards the end - pre-deceased by her daughter. Suddenly, with 8 months of experience at this grieving thing, suddenly I saw that look in her eyes the day she tried to, wanted to speak to me. I understood why she wouldn't say anything to me while pregnant.
I wrote her husband a letter a few days after her death. Telling her family, and especially her young daughters how wonderful it was to work with her. Telling them how much I missed Judy. And I closed my eyes, and my heart broke for her husband and son and daughters here on earth. I hurt for them, for no mother, no wife. But my heart also soared. For a tiny little girl who waited such a long time for mummy to come home.
*****
In November, a colleague literally dropped dead. I'm sorry, it's not the most gentle way to put it, but that's exactly what happened. She went to have a nap on a Saturday, and she didn't wake up. Today I was working on something, and I looked up at the person I was working with, and I said "I miss Judy." I said it with a fervor that surprised me. I miss her when I have to talk to another lawyer, and Judy is in the corner of the room, and we navigate around her, around her absence, around the unfinished files we are slowly picking up. I miss her for her acumen. I miss her for her gentleness, I miss her for her kindness. I simply miss walking into a conference room, and seeing her there.
I remember a meeting after I returned to work last year. No one outside my department knew what had happened. The more observant among them knew that I had been pregnant, and I now wasn't, and that I clearly hadn't been gone for a year. A few thought I came back early. Most didn't really ask - they just stared. I still don't know what's worse, the asking or the not.
But, we were in this meeting, wrapping up. Chatting, the way we do at the end of meetings. I think I was likely apologizing that whatever we had been discussing had been dropped when I left on 'medical leave'.
And there was that moment. You know it. When someone is about to say something about what happened, about to ask a question, about to express some sort of sympathy. And truthfully, I was probably fed up with talking about it. I used to joke that I was going to hand out a card. With a timeline on one side, the frequently asked questions on the other. I was tired of explaining my son's death in corridors and elevators and on the thresholds of meeting rooms. I was tired of his short and wondrous and miraculous life reduced to 2 sentences. I was tired of talking about it, of thinking about it, of re-living it, just to give someone the Cole's Notes version. I was, just tired.
But this moment, in which Judy looked as if she wanted to say something, was going to say something: I did that almost instinctive thing, where we start speaking really quickly and stop looking at the person, and change the subject, and hope the moment passes, silently.
Perhaps I was resentful, I had worked on an entire project, for months, with my belly getting slowly, and silently larger. Others commented. They laughed at my snacking and my brain dead tendencies. Judy, well, Judy said nothing, which seemed strange. She surely noticed, and she was the sort of woman who you would think would say something.
I read the obituary, those tiny words towards the end - pre-deceased by her daughter. Suddenly, with 8 months of experience at this grieving thing, suddenly I saw that look in her eyes the day she tried to, wanted to speak to me. I understood why she wouldn't say anything to me while pregnant.
I wrote her husband a letter a few days after her death. Telling her family, and especially her young daughters how wonderful it was to work with her. Telling them how much I missed Judy. And I closed my eyes, and my heart broke for her husband and son and daughters here on earth. I hurt for them, for no mother, no wife. But my heart also soared. For a tiny little girl who waited such a long time for mummy to come home.
March 16
Last year at this time, I was in a strange warp zone, not sure where I was, but quite sure that I had been swept up in the backdraft of an alien space ship, and sooner or later they would put me down. How is it possible to grieve a baby, to have a baby that is dead and gone, a full 14 weeks before that baby should have come? How do you explain, how do you go from 26 weeks pregnant to not pregnant and mum to a dead baby, in just a few moments? How do you do that? And how do you live out that time? I did it, but still don't know quite how.
I remember it felt like I was living out of time. I breathed a sigh of relief, in some sense, when Gabe's due date passed. That time out of time sensation was gone. It didn't hurt any less, but at least I knew where I was in time.
And I'm back in that feeling. In the normal world, the real world, the just world, the world I want to live in, I would be going back to work today, for the first time. My years' maternity leave would have ended today. Starting today, I am supposed to be here. Another period of time out of time is over.
This morning, for the first time, I would have driven a station wagon to work, dropping my son off at daycare first. I would have picked him up out of his car seat, I would have kissed him good-bye, and probably cried myself, as I drove off to work.
I would have parked in the same spot, I would have crossed the street, walked through the doors of my office tower, taken the elevator up to my floor, and sat at my desk. I would walk in, be happy, tell stories of my year off. I would have a frame with a photo of my child for my desk. I would complain that I was tired, not used to wearing heels and a suit. I would maybe laugh that I had cut my hair short, too busy, needed mum hair.
Perhaps I would have logged in to the CCTV that the daycare I chose had. Perhaps I would have called the lovely owner. I can hear myself calling. "How is he doing?" Laughing. "I know, neurotic. Harder on me than him. He's doing fine. I know. We tried this out before I came back. I know it will get easier. "
I would have done all those things today.
Most days I can remember what is, and not spend too much time focusing on what should have been. Most days, I can live in the here and now, and in the here and now, Gabriel is not a little boy that I dropped off at daycare, he's dead.
Some days, this day, the space between those two worlds, the space between what is and what should be, it is so tiny, and so frustratingly huge. Small enough for me to see what should have been, to almost taste it, but far, far too wide for me to navigate my way across.
All I can do is wake up and carry on: knowing, remembering, aware, telling you all, this could have been a different day.
I remember it felt like I was living out of time. I breathed a sigh of relief, in some sense, when Gabe's due date passed. That time out of time sensation was gone. It didn't hurt any less, but at least I knew where I was in time.
And I'm back in that feeling. In the normal world, the real world, the just world, the world I want to live in, I would be going back to work today, for the first time. My years' maternity leave would have ended today. Starting today, I am supposed to be here. Another period of time out of time is over.
This morning, for the first time, I would have driven a station wagon to work, dropping my son off at daycare first. I would have picked him up out of his car seat, I would have kissed him good-bye, and probably cried myself, as I drove off to work.
I would have parked in the same spot, I would have crossed the street, walked through the doors of my office tower, taken the elevator up to my floor, and sat at my desk. I would walk in, be happy, tell stories of my year off. I would have a frame with a photo of my child for my desk. I would complain that I was tired, not used to wearing heels and a suit. I would maybe laugh that I had cut my hair short, too busy, needed mum hair.
Perhaps I would have logged in to the CCTV that the daycare I chose had. Perhaps I would have called the lovely owner. I can hear myself calling. "How is he doing?" Laughing. "I know, neurotic. Harder on me than him. He's doing fine. I know. We tried this out before I came back. I know it will get easier. "
I would have done all those things today.
Most days I can remember what is, and not spend too much time focusing on what should have been. Most days, I can live in the here and now, and in the here and now, Gabriel is not a little boy that I dropped off at daycare, he's dead.
Some days, this day, the space between those two worlds, the space between what is and what should be, it is so tiny, and so frustratingly huge. Small enough for me to see what should have been, to almost taste it, but far, far too wide for me to navigate my way across.
All I can do is wake up and carry on: knowing, remembering, aware, telling you all, this could have been a different day.
Taking a Toll
There is, to put baldly, a ranking of grief when your baby dies. People assume that mum feels it the most, then dad, and then others. If the others get any attention at all, it's of a scant nature. Frankly, by the time most people have enquired after mum, they forget anyone else who might have been involved in this life. Everyone else is peripheral.
My mother was, to put it mildly, tickled pink to be a nanny. The day I phoned to tell her I was pregnant, "Good Morning Nanny", that was the day she put the sign on her office door:
"I'm not allowed to tell you that my daughter is pregnant, so I'll tell you that I'm going to be a grandma!".
When I got pregnant, well, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, my mother announced her intention to join GANG. It's an initiative from the Stephen Lewis foundation, helping grandmothers in Africa, who, as a result of the scourge that is HIV/AIDS, are raising their grandchildren. Like all Anglican women, they run garage sales and pasta suppers and concerts to help the foundation. I've been eaten the spaghetti, I've been to the concerts, and I own a variety of useless kitchen implements, as a result of the garage sale.
It's funny, but I could tell you all the many things I've missed out on as Gabe's mum. I can tell you the little losses that quickly add up into big ones. I can tell you the things I looked forward to, and the pain that was mother's day. I can enumerate all the loss from the death of your baby. Perhaps, I think actually, almost certainly, grief has blinders. We are so wrapped up in our terrible pain, we forget that others lost something.
Last night we were at HomeSense. Looking around, poking. Nothing in particular. Debating the merits of an armchair - she thought it was comfortable, I thought it was horrible. We both liked the fabric.
And for just a moment, I followed her eyes. To the little boy things. To the furniture and bedding and toys. I watched her look. And look away. A lifetime of competing moments passed through her eyes, as I watched.
My mother did indeed join GANG. A kind and compassionate woman called my mother this time last year, and merely asked what job she wanted in planning the garage sale. No question of the semantics of joining, no question if this was appropriate, simply a request. "What do you want to do to help?" A question, that after the pain of grief, my mother found easy to answer.
And suddenly in HomeSense, I saw the terrible cost to a grandma. I could see my mother, as women crowded around, sharing pictures and stories, moving away to organize things. I could see her working quietly in the corner, moving away, leaving the conversation. My mother, for all her voice and strength, she wouldn't advocate. She wouldn't tell you that she's a grandma, unless you asked.
And what stories does she have to tell? While other women tell of presents, does my mother tell them of the blanket she bought? A first and last gift? When they tell the story of rescuing their daughters, of giving them a break, does she tell the story of taking a cab to the hospital, because she was too upset to drive? When they say that their daughters are exhausted from child rearing, does she say that her daughter is exhausted from grief and trying to get pregnant again?
My mother calls my son "our baby". He was born to not just Mr. Spit and I, but into a family. With a history and traditions and values, and now a future doesn't include him, and I'm not the only one who grieves. His tree is surrounded by 4 roses, and a set of tulip bulbs, called Wendy Love. She planted them with care last fall.
Perhaps it is enough to say that grief can take a terrible toll. And it is not specific about whom it hurts or when. Simply because no one realizes the toll, does not mean it is not there. Our baby. Our past. Our future. Our sorrow.
My mother was, to put it mildly, tickled pink to be a nanny. The day I phoned to tell her I was pregnant, "Good Morning Nanny", that was the day she put the sign on her office door:
"I'm not allowed to tell you that my daughter is pregnant, so I'll tell you that I'm going to be a grandma!".
When I got pregnant, well, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, my mother announced her intention to join GANG. It's an initiative from the Stephen Lewis foundation, helping grandmothers in Africa, who, as a result of the scourge that is HIV/AIDS, are raising their grandchildren. Like all Anglican women, they run garage sales and pasta suppers and concerts to help the foundation. I've been eaten the spaghetti, I've been to the concerts, and I own a variety of useless kitchen implements, as a result of the garage sale.
It's funny, but I could tell you all the many things I've missed out on as Gabe's mum. I can tell you the little losses that quickly add up into big ones. I can tell you the things I looked forward to, and the pain that was mother's day. I can enumerate all the loss from the death of your baby. Perhaps, I think actually, almost certainly, grief has blinders. We are so wrapped up in our terrible pain, we forget that others lost something.
Last night we were at HomeSense. Looking around, poking. Nothing in particular. Debating the merits of an armchair - she thought it was comfortable, I thought it was horrible. We both liked the fabric.
And for just a moment, I followed her eyes. To the little boy things. To the furniture and bedding and toys. I watched her look. And look away. A lifetime of competing moments passed through her eyes, as I watched.
My mother did indeed join GANG. A kind and compassionate woman called my mother this time last year, and merely asked what job she wanted in planning the garage sale. No question of the semantics of joining, no question if this was appropriate, simply a request. "What do you want to do to help?" A question, that after the pain of grief, my mother found easy to answer.
And suddenly in HomeSense, I saw the terrible cost to a grandma. I could see my mother, as women crowded around, sharing pictures and stories, moving away to organize things. I could see her working quietly in the corner, moving away, leaving the conversation. My mother, for all her voice and strength, she wouldn't advocate. She wouldn't tell you that she's a grandma, unless you asked.
And what stories does she have to tell? While other women tell of presents, does my mother tell them of the blanket she bought? A first and last gift? When they tell the story of rescuing their daughters, of giving them a break, does she tell the story of taking a cab to the hospital, because she was too upset to drive? When they say that their daughters are exhausted from child rearing, does she say that her daughter is exhausted from grief and trying to get pregnant again?
My mother calls my son "our baby". He was born to not just Mr. Spit and I, but into a family. With a history and traditions and values, and now a future doesn't include him, and I'm not the only one who grieves. His tree is surrounded by 4 roses, and a set of tulip bulbs, called Wendy Love. She planted them with care last fall.
Perhaps it is enough to say that grief can take a terrible toll. And it is not specific about whom it hurts or when. Simply because no one realizes the toll, does not mean it is not there. Our baby. Our past. Our future. Our sorrow.
Sweet Memory
Happy Birthday Myles.
Wishing with all my heart, that you were here with your mummy and daddy.
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
Revelation 21:4
Wishing with all my heart, that you were here with your mummy and daddy.
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
Revelation 21:4
Without You I'm Not Ok
Songs seem to get stuck in my head. I clicked on to my personalized google home page, and I noticed that the How Stuff Works question was about why songs get stuck in your head.
I know why.
Perhaps one of the most galling aspects of Gabriel's death is how people have failed to realize that I am broken. Perhaps this is my own fault. People might call me a variety of things, but broken is not apt to be one of them. I don't look broken, I wear clean clothes, I have finished a renovation, I work hard, I'm presentable. I don't dissolve into tears at the slightest provocation. If I do sob, I do so quietly, late at night, on my own. Holding a stuffed animal that should have been my son's, looking at his photo's, my fingers tracing the outline of his footprints. Whatever the state of my heart and soul, I look fine.
And Mr. Spit and I quickly discovered very shortly after Gabriel's death, starting after his funeral, but absolutely 6 weeks after his death, that people expected us to be all better now. They seemed to expect that we would arise one morning, brush aside our heartbreak and sorrow, move past this tragedy, and be just fine, be the people we had always been.
And 11 months later, there is still a kleenex box on the table. The small and silent testimony that we are not ok. I remember the words from my aunt's poem, that our heart's are shattered, in a million pieces on the ground, and that our mind's have spoken of never coming round.
We received notification of a new baby last night. Or rather, Mr. Spit did. I didn't rate notification. Perhaps they have decided that I am an awful enough person that I can't work up excitement that a baby is here. And I suppose that this is true. I can't. I'm pleased the baby is here and well, but I simply can't understand why my baby died. I can't accept that the rain falls on the just and unjust. I am again, still, always, broken. Not okay.
There will be a new baby in church on Sunday. A father will walk up the aisle and introduce his son to the congregation. There will be clapping and cheering. And Mr. Spit and I will sit in the second pew on the Gospel side, and I doubt that anyone will remember that Mr. Spit never got the chance to do this. I doubt they will remember the couple who's memories of their son are only memories of a hospital room. Our memories of our son in church are only those of the funeral, and I'm hoping that other's will forgive us for not wanting to remember much of that. I doubt that anyone will remember that Mr. Spit and I, we are parents too.
And the pell mell rush of time, it will continue. Gabriel's day will come. And I have booked it off, because I cannot bear the thought that no one will remember. That it will be just another day. That my phone and doorbell will not ring, that no one will stop and say that they too remember a life that was and then was not. That I will sit alone in a puddle of tears and memories and broken dreams. We will perhaps have a birthday cake, but we will not invite anyone. Who would come? Who would come to celebrate a dead baby? Who would walk into broken dreams and minds and hearts?
And after his day, Christmas, a Christmas that will not be baby's first. There will be glass ornaments to the bottom of the tree, and I will not purchase baby toys. The house will be perfect, and I will feed many people, praying that so much joviality around me will uplift my battered heart.
And finally, the week after Christmas, there will be a baptism Sunday. And again, Mr. Spit and I will sit on the Gospel side, and we will bow our heads, and remember that this was to be our Son's day. We will remember a hasty baptism, without the benefit of liturgy to soothe our soul, because things had to be hasty. We will stand in silent communion with a set of God parents, miles away, because there is no need for them to be here. Instead of promises to raise a child in God's love, they read the Old Testament reading at his funeral. They spoke of heart break and pain and read of Our Redeemer living, in the midst of the death of our dreams.
Without him, I'm not Ok.
I know why the song is stuck in my head.
I know why.
Without you I'm not okay
And without you I've lost my way
My heart's stuck in second place
ooh Without you
Perhaps one of the most galling aspects of Gabriel's death is how people have failed to realize that I am broken. Perhaps this is my own fault. People might call me a variety of things, but broken is not apt to be one of them. I don't look broken, I wear clean clothes, I have finished a renovation, I work hard, I'm presentable. I don't dissolve into tears at the slightest provocation. If I do sob, I do so quietly, late at night, on my own. Holding a stuffed animal that should have been my son's, looking at his photo's, my fingers tracing the outline of his footprints. Whatever the state of my heart and soul, I look fine.
And Mr. Spit and I quickly discovered very shortly after Gabriel's death, starting after his funeral, but absolutely 6 weeks after his death, that people expected us to be all better now. They seemed to expect that we would arise one morning, brush aside our heartbreak and sorrow, move past this tragedy, and be just fine, be the people we had always been.
And 11 months later, there is still a kleenex box on the table. The small and silent testimony that we are not ok. I remember the words from my aunt's poem, that our heart's are shattered, in a million pieces on the ground, and that our mind's have spoken of never coming round.
We received notification of a new baby last night. Or rather, Mr. Spit did. I didn't rate notification. Perhaps they have decided that I am an awful enough person that I can't work up excitement that a baby is here. And I suppose that this is true. I can't. I'm pleased the baby is here and well, but I simply can't understand why my baby died. I can't accept that the rain falls on the just and unjust. I am again, still, always, broken. Not okay.
There will be a new baby in church on Sunday. A father will walk up the aisle and introduce his son to the congregation. There will be clapping and cheering. And Mr. Spit and I will sit in the second pew on the Gospel side, and I doubt that anyone will remember that Mr. Spit never got the chance to do this. I doubt they will remember the couple who's memories of their son are only memories of a hospital room. Our memories of our son in church are only those of the funeral, and I'm hoping that other's will forgive us for not wanting to remember much of that. I doubt that anyone will remember that Mr. Spit and I, we are parents too.
And the pell mell rush of time, it will continue. Gabriel's day will come. And I have booked it off, because I cannot bear the thought that no one will remember. That it will be just another day. That my phone and doorbell will not ring, that no one will stop and say that they too remember a life that was and then was not. That I will sit alone in a puddle of tears and memories and broken dreams. We will perhaps have a birthday cake, but we will not invite anyone. Who would come? Who would come to celebrate a dead baby? Who would walk into broken dreams and minds and hearts?
And after his day, Christmas, a Christmas that will not be baby's first. There will be glass ornaments to the bottom of the tree, and I will not purchase baby toys. The house will be perfect, and I will feed many people, praying that so much joviality around me will uplift my battered heart.
And finally, the week after Christmas, there will be a baptism Sunday. And again, Mr. Spit and I will sit on the Gospel side, and we will bow our heads, and remember that this was to be our Son's day. We will remember a hasty baptism, without the benefit of liturgy to soothe our soul, because things had to be hasty. We will stand in silent communion with a set of God parents, miles away, because there is no need for them to be here. Instead of promises to raise a child in God's love, they read the Old Testament reading at his funeral. They spoke of heart break and pain and read of Our Redeemer living, in the midst of the death of our dreams.
Without him, I'm not Ok.
I know why the song is stuck in my head.
Christmas
Perhaps because I have been so consumed with the thought of the first anniversary of Gabriel's birth and death, perhaps because the year seems to have moved so quickly, and yet so slowly.
Was it not just yesterday that I held my son in my arms? The moment seems so close, but the calendar pages, they tell me that so much time has passed. Was it not just a short while ago, when Mr. Spit and I were shattered? I saw a woman in our support group, and her grief and pain and sorrow were so palpable, that I could not seem to figure out how we could have ever been that lost. I cannot imagine what other's must have thought. I cannot fathom what it must have been like to know us. I can see time has passed, I can see we are better.
I was in Costco a month ago. I walked into an aisle, taking a wrong turn. And I walked into this aisle, and there were toys. Baby toys. Things I would have been buying for Gabriel.
Suddenly, without warning, leaving me gasping, breathless, I realized. After Gabriel's day, after that, comes Christmas.
Was it not just yesterday that I held my son in my arms? The moment seems so close, but the calendar pages, they tell me that so much time has passed. Was it not just a short while ago, when Mr. Spit and I were shattered? I saw a woman in our support group, and her grief and pain and sorrow were so palpable, that I could not seem to figure out how we could have ever been that lost. I cannot imagine what other's must have thought. I cannot fathom what it must have been like to know us. I can see time has passed, I can see we are better.
I was in Costco a month ago. I walked into an aisle, taking a wrong turn. And I walked into this aisle, and there were toys. Baby toys. Things I would have been buying for Gabriel.
Suddenly, without warning, leaving me gasping, breathless, I realized. After Gabriel's day, after that, comes Christmas.
You Just Don't do That
" You just don't do that, you just don't.
You have no idea who I am, or what I could have done to your child."
I was sitting, in the midst of my study group, when I watched this mother. She walked around the corner, had a hissy fit, put her 9 month old baby on the floor, walked away and left. She was all the way around the corner, way out of sight of this wee one.
This, in a busy downtown office building, on the mezzanine floor. A concourse, with the office towers above, and the entrance to the subway 200 feet away. With the street people and the homeless, and the odd drug addict, and busy office workers in suits. And no one looking down on the filthy floor, for a 9 month baby.
And I leaped out my chair. I stood there in my suit and heels and not even debating, I walked over to this baby. Who was sitting and crying on the floor. I knelt down and picked her up. Snuggled her up against my hip.
Began walking the 100 feet to where her mother was.
And her mother was heading towards me.
"That's my baby", she said.
"You don't know who I am. I could have grabbed her and run, and you would have never seen that. You just don't leave them like that. You just don't."
"But I had to get my son." I'm watching her. She put her daughter down out of sight, in the middle of a busy concourse, in an office tower, to go and get her son, from the same place she picked her daughter up.
"You just don't leave them. Children are precious. You never put them down and walk away. Never." I thrust the baby at her, and walked away. Back into my real world.
I wanted to say "His name was Gabriel, and when the time came, I had to put him down. Dressed and washed and loved. Rocked and sang to, I had to lay him down. And every morning I remember. And my heart breaks again. Please, for the love of all that's holy and true and real in this world, please, she's a beautiful little girl, and you just don't leave her. Ever."
Tonight is one of those nights that I'm screaming "Why me, and not her?"
Echoing
There was another world that I lived in, a while ago. Suddenly, on December 2, 2007, I was bundled into a plane, destination unknown. I didn't get a chance to pack. I wouldn't have known what to pack. What do you bring when the destination is terror and chaos? What do you bring when the medical world is screaming at you to get on the plane and do your seat belt up and be quiet? I can tell you what you do. You get on the plane, and you do up your seat belt, and you stop asking questions, if only because you know that you don't want the answers.
On December 10, 2007, our plane landed. And we joined a new world. This world called dead baby land. This world where we didn't speak the language. We had no home, no clothes, no nothing. We landed in an airport in the dead of winter, with no idea of where we were. There was no tourist bureau, no maps, no destination signs, no place to catch a taxi cab, no place to rest our weary bodies and broken souls.
And I have lived in this place for the last 10 months. 10 months and 2 days to be accurate. And this place has become more familiar, more recognizable. I know my way around. I can find the essentials, the grocery store for Kleenex, the clothing store for more mourning garments. I can speak the language: fetal demise, perinatal loss, Doppler's with no heart beats, screaming, sobbing. I can speak the language of memory loss and pain and sorrow. I have found fellow immigrants here. You can always recognize them - the lost and broken look around the eyes. The hands that are never still, always waiting to hold a baby that isn't. The heart that is in a million pieces, and the mind that has spoken of never coming round.
But, slowly, I have learned to cope in this world. To accept this as my home. Not my home for now, but my forever home. A place that is far from perfect, a place that is not where I want to be. But it is where I am. And I have made what peace I can. What I once described as an anguish so deep and wide that there are no words, has slowly faded. It is merely anguish. The ever present reminder that I am here, and Gabriel is not. That Mr. Spit and I are two, not three. We are a stronger two, and we are more thankful than ever for each other, but we are aware of the child who is within us, not with us.
Every so often though, there are echo's. Echo's from another world. Echo's that remind me I wasn't always here, I didn't always live and breath and move in pain and sorrow. Echo's that remind me I believed in the essential fairness of the world once, I did not know of the terrible power that evil has to destroy our lives. Echo's that remind me I was once whole and strong and brave.
I am cleaning out what would have been the nursery. Turning it for now, into a craft room, and eventually, perhaps, if God smiles upon me, into a nursery again. I have pulled out the detritus of the last 10 months. I have pulled out the things hastily shoved in that room, as if removing them from our sight could so easily mend the rips and tears in our hearts. I have come across the hidden away things. Tonight it was the books we read to Gabriel. Robert Munch. I'll Love You Forever. Mortimer. Wait and See.
And it was that terrible nexus of what was and what could have been and what is. That terrible place where you are left gasping, breathless by yet another round of pain. And while I can and will tell you that they come less frequently, and they do not last as long, they are no less bewildering and perplexing and painful when they do happen. Hurriedly thrown in a dresser that was mine as a child and should have been Gabriel's, was a reminder of the world I used to live in.
Tonight my baby, you sleep with Jesus.
You don't need my stories.
But I'll read you a story still.
My heart wants to remember.
I'll love you forever.
I'll like you for always.
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be.
On December 10, 2007, our plane landed. And we joined a new world. This world called dead baby land. This world where we didn't speak the language. We had no home, no clothes, no nothing. We landed in an airport in the dead of winter, with no idea of where we were. There was no tourist bureau, no maps, no destination signs, no place to catch a taxi cab, no place to rest our weary bodies and broken souls.
And I have lived in this place for the last 10 months. 10 months and 2 days to be accurate. And this place has become more familiar, more recognizable. I know my way around. I can find the essentials, the grocery store for Kleenex, the clothing store for more mourning garments. I can speak the language: fetal demise, perinatal loss, Doppler's with no heart beats, screaming, sobbing. I can speak the language of memory loss and pain and sorrow. I have found fellow immigrants here. You can always recognize them - the lost and broken look around the eyes. The hands that are never still, always waiting to hold a baby that isn't. The heart that is in a million pieces, and the mind that has spoken of never coming round.
But, slowly, I have learned to cope in this world. To accept this as my home. Not my home for now, but my forever home. A place that is far from perfect, a place that is not where I want to be. But it is where I am. And I have made what peace I can. What I once described as an anguish so deep and wide that there are no words, has slowly faded. It is merely anguish. The ever present reminder that I am here, and Gabriel is not. That Mr. Spit and I are two, not three. We are a stronger two, and we are more thankful than ever for each other, but we are aware of the child who is within us, not with us.
Every so often though, there are echo's. Echo's from another world. Echo's that remind me I wasn't always here, I didn't always live and breath and move in pain and sorrow. Echo's that remind me I believed in the essential fairness of the world once, I did not know of the terrible power that evil has to destroy our lives. Echo's that remind me I was once whole and strong and brave.
I am cleaning out what would have been the nursery. Turning it for now, into a craft room, and eventually, perhaps, if God smiles upon me, into a nursery again. I have pulled out the detritus of the last 10 months. I have pulled out the things hastily shoved in that room, as if removing them from our sight could so easily mend the rips and tears in our hearts. I have come across the hidden away things. Tonight it was the books we read to Gabriel. Robert Munch. I'll Love You Forever. Mortimer. Wait and See.
And it was that terrible nexus of what was and what could have been and what is. That terrible place where you are left gasping, breathless by yet another round of pain. And while I can and will tell you that they come less frequently, and they do not last as long, they are no less bewildering and perplexing and painful when they do happen. Hurriedly thrown in a dresser that was mine as a child and should have been Gabriel's, was a reminder of the world I used to live in.
Tonight my baby, you sleep with Jesus.
You don't need my stories.
But I'll read you a story still.
My heart wants to remember.
I'll love you forever.
I'll like you for always.
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be.
