So this morning I came across this very powerful cartoon... http://theoatmeal.com/comics/plane
It hit me so hard. Go read it before continuing here or this might not make much sense!
The image of the plane descending, uncontrollably, on fire...if you haven't walked in my shoes this might sound overdramatic: but this is exactly, exactly, exactly how the last two years have felt. Orion's death and birth, completely out of my control but clothed in a measure of grace. Continuing on almost instantly to Iris's pregnancy...total chaos and surrender. Tumbling through the night sky, heading for earth at a frightening un-survivable speed. Time standing still as mortality hangs thick in the air. Feeling completely helpless...not being able to save my children or myself, only being able to hope for a miracle and fight like hell to do whatever I could to give us the best chance possible. Knowing that I had zero control over any of it. That my "best" was not good enough. Mortality, death, is not something we can outwit. I could not save my son, and it was not me who saved Iris. I laid on that operating table as they pulled her out of me wondering which one of us was going to die, or if it was going to be both of us this time.
It has changed me. It just went on so long...I couldn't just get through it and move on. I had to learn how that blind burning freefall was not something I had any control over and no power to avoid. And then I had to continue with that helplessness every single moment of every single day. I had to transform, mid-crash. That burning airplane became my chrysalis. Because that was my only choice: chrysalis or coffin. It had to be one or the other. Either I transformed, and held onto the essential grains of truth of who I am, or I died. There was no walking away from this plane crash.
I grew some pretty delicate wings. It has been a struggle to understand what happened and where I am now. Who I am now. Its hard to know how these clumsy wings work.
But when I forget everything else and submerge myself entirely into the joy of the moment with my girls, I soar. When I reach out to other families facing loss, I fly. When I remember to take a deep breath instead of yelling at my husband, I am worthy of those wings. As my photography grows, it is revealing me to myself. And so the choice is made again and again, a million times a day: chrysalis or coffin? Which will it be? Its hard work to transform and fly. So it is something I struggle with. There are butterfly pictures being taped to walls in my house, as reminders. There are quotes and inspiration everywhere, because I need them. I need to remember that there is goodness, and strength, and bravery all around and I can be a part of that.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Friday, October 30, 2015
Open Invitation
Over the last year and a half since Orion died, I've heard some brutal things. People said them trying to offer comfort, though it certainly did not comfort. Two people told me they were "relieved" that he died. Relieved. That my son died. I had to try to tactfully understand where they were coming from, find the seed of what I hoped they were trying to say, give them the benefit of the doubt...when I was the one who had just gone through childbirth and the death of my child. Those words were in fact very cruel and created deep scars. I've also heard that I shouldn't have a memorial service because its not like anyone got to know him. Again, gashing wounds were left in my most vulnerable places. I knew him, intimately. He was unique from my other children. Scarlet danced to the sound of his heartbeat. I felt him kick every day. I felt him die. I held him in my hands. He was very real. And anyone who loves me should be able to see that they would attend a memorial out of love for ME, out of support for my family, as a witness to my grief and his brief life. And, perhaps most painful of all, my husband left while I was in labor. I feel like I'm confessing to sins, but I'm not the one who did these things!
And I haven't shared these things openly because I don't want to hurt anyone...and the people who did these things are those closest to me. I know they didn't mean harm. But harm has been done. I was wronged, deeply, and no apologies will ever arise because the people think they were doing the right thing. (Except my husband: for the sake of our marriage we've had to tear that moment apart with tears and screaming and distance and more tears.)
But the truth is, I've largely been left holding my grief alone. In silence. Or through typed words that people read thousands of miles away. My community has not created a space to witness the grief of his death. They are not standing with me as I shake with tears. They are not singing hymns while I weep. They are not offering practical help or spiritual help.
The cost of this is a deep anger that is changing who I am. And I don't like it and I will not sit here and let it happen. So I am giving voice to my deepest wounds: it was not a relief my child died. It was a tragedy. He does deserve a memorial service and so do I. My husband should have never left that hospital for any reason. He did exist and he does matter.
So I'm letting you all know that there will be a memorial service. It was supposed to be in June, then July, and then August, and then September, and then we were going to get a small gravestone in October...and none of those things have happened. It makes me feel small and unimportant that none of those things have happened, that my grief and my son don't matter enough for even a memorial service. There have been moments I've been able to share stories and cry with someone. There was a beautiful Mother Blessing during my pregnancy with Iris. But for the most part it has been quickly mentioned in passing and ignored.
But there will be a memorial service and I don't care that "too much time has passed" because it hasn't. And anyone who wants to truly be there for us, bear witness to this grief, celebrate a tiny and short life, is invited. Anyone who understands that my child died, and nothing less than that happened, is invited. Anyone who would want me there with them if their child died is invited.
A time and date will follow, but if you would like an invitation please let me know.
And I haven't shared these things openly because I don't want to hurt anyone...and the people who did these things are those closest to me. I know they didn't mean harm. But harm has been done. I was wronged, deeply, and no apologies will ever arise because the people think they were doing the right thing. (Except my husband: for the sake of our marriage we've had to tear that moment apart with tears and screaming and distance and more tears.)
But the truth is, I've largely been left holding my grief alone. In silence. Or through typed words that people read thousands of miles away. My community has not created a space to witness the grief of his death. They are not standing with me as I shake with tears. They are not singing hymns while I weep. They are not offering practical help or spiritual help.
The cost of this is a deep anger that is changing who I am. And I don't like it and I will not sit here and let it happen. So I am giving voice to my deepest wounds: it was not a relief my child died. It was a tragedy. He does deserve a memorial service and so do I. My husband should have never left that hospital for any reason. He did exist and he does matter.
So I'm letting you all know that there will be a memorial service. It was supposed to be in June, then July, and then August, and then September, and then we were going to get a small gravestone in October...and none of those things have happened. It makes me feel small and unimportant that none of those things have happened, that my grief and my son don't matter enough for even a memorial service. There have been moments I've been able to share stories and cry with someone. There was a beautiful Mother Blessing during my pregnancy with Iris. But for the most part it has been quickly mentioned in passing and ignored.
But there will be a memorial service and I don't care that "too much time has passed" because it hasn't. And anyone who wants to truly be there for us, bear witness to this grief, celebrate a tiny and short life, is invited. Anyone who understands that my child died, and nothing less than that happened, is invited. Anyone who would want me there with them if their child died is invited.
A time and date will follow, but if you would like an invitation please let me know.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
In Honour #captureyourgrief
Another Facebook post worth sharing: from the Carly Marie Photo Challenge
Day 3: In Honour #captureyourgrief Orion's life changed mine forever. It stripped me bare. I have spent the last year and a half struggling to make sense of my identity because so much has changed. But I don't think Orion's life took anything away from mine: I think it REVEALED me, and that is incredibly uncomfortable, to be honest. I think its made me a much better mother, to all 3 of my children, but its made it difficult to be married to me. Or to be me. The only way I can describe it is like a butterfly: they are going along as a happy caterpillar and one day something changes and they find themselves in a cocoon of their own making. They liquefy and all their parts rearrange on a cellular level to create a magnificent butterfly. That's what happened when I found out Orion was going to die, I went into a cocoon. The night he died he had massive painful seizures and I couldn't help him except to rub my belly and tell him how much I loved him and that it was okay to move on if he was ready. It was the hardest thing of my life. It was the toughest thing I will ever be called upon to do as a mother: to tell my child that its okay to die. I liquefied. And my heart and soul went into chaos for a time. With Iris's birth I think I was reborn too...but it was shocking, terrifying, new. It did not go well for either one of us and there were all kinds of new things to grieve. I had no idea how to move around with wings. I knew they were there, I could feel the weight of them, but I was still trying to crawl from place to place. It didn't work. Everything fell apart. I went to my mom's for a month. I shared Orion with her openly, flooded her home with my tears, let myself die so I could embrace life again. And I have. It sucks not knowing how to fly...not knowing how to be a good mother to Scarlet and Iris and Orion...not knowing how to react when well-meaning people try to understand who he is and how he fits in our family and hurting me in the process. Learning that every moment of searing pain was just cutting away the tether that secured me to the ground. Panicking when I realized it was truly gone and I was truly free. And then great rejoycing. Re-joy-cing. Re-Joy-Sing. Yes. Freedom and love and flying and life like I have never known it before. Sometimes its hard to relate to others as I try out these new wings. But surrender and grace have been my mantras, and I hope I can honor ALL of my children! Scarlet: with miracles. Orion: with the sacred. And Iris: with surrender. What a beautiful, amazing life they have given me! Give the choice, I would choose to be Orion's mom over and over and over again. He is such a blessing and I hope to honor him by sharing him with all of you. (The photo is of a doll, not Orion.)
Day 3: In Honour #captureyourgrief Orion's life changed mine forever. It stripped me bare. I have spent the last year and a half struggling to make sense of my identity because so much has changed. But I don't think Orion's life took anything away from mine: I think it REVEALED me, and that is incredibly uncomfortable, to be honest. I think its made me a much better mother, to all 3 of my children, but its made it difficult to be married to me. Or to be me. The only way I can describe it is like a butterfly: they are going along as a happy caterpillar and one day something changes and they find themselves in a cocoon of their own making. They liquefy and all their parts rearrange on a cellular level to create a magnificent butterfly. That's what happened when I found out Orion was going to die, I went into a cocoon. The night he died he had massive painful seizures and I couldn't help him except to rub my belly and tell him how much I loved him and that it was okay to move on if he was ready. It was the hardest thing of my life. It was the toughest thing I will ever be called upon to do as a mother: to tell my child that its okay to die. I liquefied. And my heart and soul went into chaos for a time. With Iris's birth I think I was reborn too...but it was shocking, terrifying, new. It did not go well for either one of us and there were all kinds of new things to grieve. I had no idea how to move around with wings. I knew they were there, I could feel the weight of them, but I was still trying to crawl from place to place. It didn't work. Everything fell apart. I went to my mom's for a month. I shared Orion with her openly, flooded her home with my tears, let myself die so I could embrace life again. And I have. It sucks not knowing how to fly...not knowing how to be a good mother to Scarlet and Iris and Orion...not knowing how to react when well-meaning people try to understand who he is and how he fits in our family and hurting me in the process. Learning that every moment of searing pain was just cutting away the tether that secured me to the ground. Panicking when I realized it was truly gone and I was truly free. And then great rejoycing. Re-joy-cing. Re-Joy-Sing. Yes. Freedom and love and flying and life like I have never known it before. Sometimes its hard to relate to others as I try out these new wings. But surrender and grace have been my mantras, and I hope I can honor ALL of my children! Scarlet: with miracles. Orion: with the sacred. And Iris: with surrender. What a beautiful, amazing life they have given me! Give the choice, I would choose to be Orion's mom over and over and over again. He is such a blessing and I hope to honor him by sharing him with all of you. (The photo is of a doll, not Orion.)
I support women
From my Facebook Post on Sept 24th, 2015
I support women. All women. And I've been very disheartened by what I've been reading in my newsfeed this week. More than disheartened: upset and sometimes very angry. Because what it boils down to is that I support women. I support women who are infertile, child-free by choice, enjoying a motherhood of bliss, longing for their babies in heaven, or trying to balance mothering children on earth with mothering children gone too soon, and all the women who don't fit into categories. I support the 15 year old who had an abortion, the married woman who has miscarried, the unwed mother, the adoptive mother, the mother who has faced an impossible choice: birth your baby now and they die through "termination", birth them later and they die "naturally" but suffer, and even the mother addicted to drugs. Yes, even SHE deserves my compassion as a human being because I have not lived her life. I AM NOT FIT TO JUDGE. I may wish for many women to get the help they deserve, my heart may ache for children to get the help they deserve, but I'm not going to withhold love and compassion. I believe it is fine to say, "I was pregnant and I ended the pregnancy." It is fine to say, "I was pregnant and I continued the pregnancy." It is fine to say, "I have never been pregnant." It is fine to say, "I was pregnant but didn't raise the baby" (adoption, or any other reason). However, as soon as we start using phrases like "I am pro-choice BUT..." OR "I am pro-life except when..." we are being hypocrites and saying some women matter and some don't. They ALL matter. And before someone starts in on "doesn't the baby matter?" just stop yourself. I am Orion's mother and frankly, all we have done as a nation is discuss the rights of the unborn. They often, in more states than you would believe, have MORE rights than the woman gestating them and creating them out of their own flesh and bone and blood. I've heard enough about it. What I do not hear are discussions about women. I don't hear, from either side, enough about how THEY matter. Not just their life itself, but their happiness, safety, autonomy, goals and dreams...those ALL matter. And when we discuss legal abortions that needs to be a part of the discussion, because that is at the heart of it. And we have ignored it. We pretend that no woman is in danger by being pregnant, ignore that domestic violence increases with pregnancy, that women lose their jobs, and that women lose their LIVES due to pregnancy. Women deserve for us to acknowledge the imperfection of reproduction and that love does not create babies. Women deserve for us to say that they matter too. And they deserve to tell their stories: relief when an unwanted pregnancy ends naturally or through abortion, and grief when a pregnancy ends naturally or through abortion, not just shame and guilt and silence. They deserve to be able to say motherhood sometimes sucks just as much as they are allowed to say how amazing it is. Infertile women deserve to have their pain and struggle validated and grieved out in the open. Child-free women should be able to state their reasons without remorse. Women who had babies die should be able to talk about them as freely as they talk about their living children. Death sucks, and we're terrified of it, but it happens. AND ALL WOMEN, REGARDLESS OF WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THEIR WOMB, DESERVE SUPPORT, LOVE, AND COMPASSION. PERIOD. You can define what happened however you want, but she ultimately decides how to process that in the context of HER own beliefs, and no matter what...if you withdraw support and compassion you need to consider what is going on in your own heart, not hers.
I support women. All women. And I've been very disheartened by what I've been reading in my newsfeed this week. More than disheartened: upset and sometimes very angry. Because what it boils down to is that I support women. I support women who are infertile, child-free by choice, enjoying a motherhood of bliss, longing for their babies in heaven, or trying to balance mothering children on earth with mothering children gone too soon, and all the women who don't fit into categories. I support the 15 year old who had an abortion, the married woman who has miscarried, the unwed mother, the adoptive mother, the mother who has faced an impossible choice: birth your baby now and they die through "termination", birth them later and they die "naturally" but suffer, and even the mother addicted to drugs. Yes, even SHE deserves my compassion as a human being because I have not lived her life. I AM NOT FIT TO JUDGE. I may wish for many women to get the help they deserve, my heart may ache for children to get the help they deserve, but I'm not going to withhold love and compassion. I believe it is fine to say, "I was pregnant and I ended the pregnancy." It is fine to say, "I was pregnant and I continued the pregnancy." It is fine to say, "I have never been pregnant." It is fine to say, "I was pregnant but didn't raise the baby" (adoption, or any other reason). However, as soon as we start using phrases like "I am pro-choice BUT..." OR "I am pro-life except when..." we are being hypocrites and saying some women matter and some don't. They ALL matter. And before someone starts in on "doesn't the baby matter?" just stop yourself. I am Orion's mother and frankly, all we have done as a nation is discuss the rights of the unborn. They often, in more states than you would believe, have MORE rights than the woman gestating them and creating them out of their own flesh and bone and blood. I've heard enough about it. What I do not hear are discussions about women. I don't hear, from either side, enough about how THEY matter. Not just their life itself, but their happiness, safety, autonomy, goals and dreams...those ALL matter. And when we discuss legal abortions that needs to be a part of the discussion, because that is at the heart of it. And we have ignored it. We pretend that no woman is in danger by being pregnant, ignore that domestic violence increases with pregnancy, that women lose their jobs, and that women lose their LIVES due to pregnancy. Women deserve for us to acknowledge the imperfection of reproduction and that love does not create babies. Women deserve for us to say that they matter too. And they deserve to tell their stories: relief when an unwanted pregnancy ends naturally or through abortion, and grief when a pregnancy ends naturally or through abortion, not just shame and guilt and silence. They deserve to be able to say motherhood sometimes sucks just as much as they are allowed to say how amazing it is. Infertile women deserve to have their pain and struggle validated and grieved out in the open. Child-free women should be able to state their reasons without remorse. Women who had babies die should be able to talk about them as freely as they talk about their living children. Death sucks, and we're terrified of it, but it happens. AND ALL WOMEN, REGARDLESS OF WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THEIR WOMB, DESERVE SUPPORT, LOVE, AND COMPASSION. PERIOD. You can define what happened however you want, but she ultimately decides how to process that in the context of HER own beliefs, and no matter what...if you withdraw support and compassion you need to consider what is going on in your own heart, not hers.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Mother's Beach
Iris has been alive out here in the world almost as long as she was alive inside of me. I'm not sure why this milestone matters, but I've been yearning for it with some kind of superstitious fervor...perhaps if she reaches that date alive she'll finally be free of my death-dealing body and be safe.
Sounds harsh, yes. But I'm learning I have to be more honest with my word choices if I'm going to come out of this alive too, or at least without destroying everything that matters. Fear and depression have been complicated by the unique demands of post-partum depression. I am afraid anything I love will die soon, tragically, and destroy the world with its death. I know these thoughts are not really mine, so I let my children ride in cars and play in waves and try new foods. But each of these things terrify me. It has been destroying me slowly, and taking my marriage down with it. And I wind up feeling like I'm struggling for my life, once again, and that thought triggers another avalanche of depression....those real life-and-death struggles that occurred where birth was supposed to be make it so hard to rationalize my way out of this darkness. I have no fight left.
I can only surrender.
(And if you go back to things I wrote during Iris's pregnancy, "surrender" was the theme all along.)
But surrendering to depression could be fatal. I do not surrender to it. I surrender to LIFE. I surrender to its tenacity and persistence and inevitability. I surrender to love. I surrender to joy. It takes all my blind strength and faith to do this...letting love and joy back in is the most dangerous choice I can make. It means, eventually, I will get hurt again. Please God, just don't let it mean more tiny urns on my dresser. (Shut up, depression!)
Yesterday we went to the ocean. We went to a darling Maine seacoast town, on a perfect day, on Labor Day Weekend. It was packed. I felt overwhelmed and upset and claustrophobic as we drove in circles trying to find a parking spot to get some lunch. I wanted to freak out. So we left all that touristy adorableness and headed for the beach. Mother's Beach. No parking spots there either. We unpacked the screaming kids and piled kids and blankets and bags onto the stroller and Derrick drove off to find a place to park the car. I discovered my heavy double stroller wouldn't budge an inch in the sand. I felt stupid, and flustered. There was no shade and I started to put sunblock on the baby and realized the bottle was empty. More panic. No food, no sunblock, no way to move the kids...but Derrick returned and we asked the lifeguard where to find lunch and he pointed us up the road and said it was about a mile. Fearing the meltdowns if we loaded the kids back up in the car, we walked. And it was peaceful and quiet in the neighborhood we found ourselves in. Lunch was delicious and everyone was happy. I had struggled through the darkness and found peace. We returned to the beach a new family.
That's worth repeating: we returned to the beach a new family. Love flowed in all directions. On the way back my husband and I flirted and held hands and kissed. The baby slept. The toddler ate the lunch she was too distracted to eat earlier. So with full bellies and full hearts we found ourselves on the softest sand, with rolling waves slowing our heartbeats to something more life-filled and true. We spread an old quilt on the wet sand to be near the water and explored fabulous tide pools and let the sun warm our souls (I got more sunscreen at the diner!!!). Orion was present in all of nature. We laughed and played with waves, to the music of Scarlet shouting to the ocean, "More, please!" and the squeals of pure joy bubbling from Iris. It was magic. And then Scarlet ran too fast and there were rocks just under the surface of the water and she fell. I was a hand-length too far away and she went under. I grabbed her and ran for the shore, heart pounding, blinded by fear. She was fine, of course - just said her eyes stung. But my chest hurt and my heart was beating too fast and I wanted to cry. Scarlet wanted to run back to the fun immediately, so daddy ran off with her while I snuggled the baby on our old quilt and found my center again. And it didn't ruin anything.
I won't claim a day at the beach will cure depression. Depression, true depression, is a chemical imbalance. Its as real and as deadly as cancer. It is not sadness, it can not be loved away.
But a day at the beach occurred at just the right moment for my little family. We found each other again, after a year and a half of fear tearing us apart. There will still be bad days again, I'm sure. But we've been hanging on through it all due to this blind hope that some day, somehow, we would find each other through the eyes of love again. The darkness would lift and hopefully something salvageable would still be there. We went home covered in salt and sand, scrubbed off the old skin of fear and regret and anger and bitterness and blame, and came out with fresh souls sparkling in the joy of pure love.
p.s. we went to Mother's Beach because they have an awesome playground, but when it comes to "ocean and rocks and tide pools" vs "huge creative playground"...no contest. We had to walk straight through the playground to get to the beach and Scarlet didn't even slow down. :)
Sounds harsh, yes. But I'm learning I have to be more honest with my word choices if I'm going to come out of this alive too, or at least without destroying everything that matters. Fear and depression have been complicated by the unique demands of post-partum depression. I am afraid anything I love will die soon, tragically, and destroy the world with its death. I know these thoughts are not really mine, so I let my children ride in cars and play in waves and try new foods. But each of these things terrify me. It has been destroying me slowly, and taking my marriage down with it. And I wind up feeling like I'm struggling for my life, once again, and that thought triggers another avalanche of depression....those real life-and-death struggles that occurred where birth was supposed to be make it so hard to rationalize my way out of this darkness. I have no fight left.
I can only surrender.
(And if you go back to things I wrote during Iris's pregnancy, "surrender" was the theme all along.)
But surrendering to depression could be fatal. I do not surrender to it. I surrender to LIFE. I surrender to its tenacity and persistence and inevitability. I surrender to love. I surrender to joy. It takes all my blind strength and faith to do this...letting love and joy back in is the most dangerous choice I can make. It means, eventually, I will get hurt again. Please God, just don't let it mean more tiny urns on my dresser. (Shut up, depression!)
Yesterday we went to the ocean. We went to a darling Maine seacoast town, on a perfect day, on Labor Day Weekend. It was packed. I felt overwhelmed and upset and claustrophobic as we drove in circles trying to find a parking spot to get some lunch. I wanted to freak out. So we left all that touristy adorableness and headed for the beach. Mother's Beach. No parking spots there either. We unpacked the screaming kids and piled kids and blankets and bags onto the stroller and Derrick drove off to find a place to park the car. I discovered my heavy double stroller wouldn't budge an inch in the sand. I felt stupid, and flustered. There was no shade and I started to put sunblock on the baby and realized the bottle was empty. More panic. No food, no sunblock, no way to move the kids...but Derrick returned and we asked the lifeguard where to find lunch and he pointed us up the road and said it was about a mile. Fearing the meltdowns if we loaded the kids back up in the car, we walked. And it was peaceful and quiet in the neighborhood we found ourselves in. Lunch was delicious and everyone was happy. I had struggled through the darkness and found peace. We returned to the beach a new family.
That's worth repeating: we returned to the beach a new family. Love flowed in all directions. On the way back my husband and I flirted and held hands and kissed. The baby slept. The toddler ate the lunch she was too distracted to eat earlier. So with full bellies and full hearts we found ourselves on the softest sand, with rolling waves slowing our heartbeats to something more life-filled and true. We spread an old quilt on the wet sand to be near the water and explored fabulous tide pools and let the sun warm our souls (I got more sunscreen at the diner!!!). Orion was present in all of nature. We laughed and played with waves, to the music of Scarlet shouting to the ocean, "More, please!" and the squeals of pure joy bubbling from Iris. It was magic. And then Scarlet ran too fast and there were rocks just under the surface of the water and she fell. I was a hand-length too far away and she went under. I grabbed her and ran for the shore, heart pounding, blinded by fear. She was fine, of course - just said her eyes stung. But my chest hurt and my heart was beating too fast and I wanted to cry. Scarlet wanted to run back to the fun immediately, so daddy ran off with her while I snuggled the baby on our old quilt and found my center again. And it didn't ruin anything.
I won't claim a day at the beach will cure depression. Depression, true depression, is a chemical imbalance. Its as real and as deadly as cancer. It is not sadness, it can not be loved away.
But a day at the beach occurred at just the right moment for my little family. We found each other again, after a year and a half of fear tearing us apart. There will still be bad days again, I'm sure. But we've been hanging on through it all due to this blind hope that some day, somehow, we would find each other through the eyes of love again. The darkness would lift and hopefully something salvageable would still be there. We went home covered in salt and sand, scrubbed off the old skin of fear and regret and anger and bitterness and blame, and came out with fresh souls sparkling in the joy of pure love.
p.s. we went to Mother's Beach because they have an awesome playground, but when it comes to "ocean and rocks and tide pools" vs "huge creative playground"...no contest. We had to walk straight through the playground to get to the beach and Scarlet didn't even slow down. :)
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
The Day I Went Blind
One day I was walking down a sidewalk and rammed right into a man. I didn't stop or apologize. I didn't even realize it had happened until I was a block away...and I ran into him hard enough to stumble. I turned then, but he was too far away to run after and offer an apology at that point and seemed unfazed. I kept walking.
It was February 13th, 2014. I know the date not because of my rudeness, but because it was the day they confirmed Orion had trisomy 18 and was going to die soon. He died in the early hours of the next morning, in fact. I had just left the hospital and we were stopping for lunch and my mind was swirling in chaos and grief and racing to think of some way to save my son. I could feel him kicking as I walked down the sidewalk and it just didn't make any sense that I would never have a hope of hearing him cry. I could feel him! He was there, kicking away in my belly, alive!
But I failed to see anyone around me. The man I ran into clings to my memory and I hope I never forget the lesson: it was a day I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I literally didn't SEE another human being. And no matter how justified my pain was, it still doesn't make it okay to not see another human standing there.
The thing is, I do this all the time. We all do. We have a bad day, we get frightening news, we are grieving, we are stressed about money or love or loneliness or work or the kids or the asshole who cut us off while driving...and we get so wrapped up in our own pain that we stop seeing the people around us. We hurt them accidentally, usually in little ways. And its not okay. We can do better. I can do better. I can look up from my own hurt long enough to see the man on the sidewalk. Maybe he was texting, or hunched down in the bitter cold wind, or just got bad news of his own. Maybe it was the best day of his life.
I can look up from my grief long enough to see a frustrated toddler who needs my attention. I can look up from my fatigue long enough to see a beautiful smiling baby. I can look up from my fears long enough to see a husband who loves me but doesn't know how to reach me anymore. I can look up from my own concerns long enough to see that everyone else out there has a million things going on too and maybe they just need a smile, or someone to not bump into them, or someone to hold the door for them or offer a kind word or a hug or patients or forgiveness or love. I fear that we are living in a time of disconnectedness, of electronics replacing human touch, of a strange illness of entitlement where no one else even exists enough to have feelings or needs or rights. Where we don't have a duty to care for each other in big and small ways, to care for our loved ones, and to care for strangers. Where people brag about their selfishness with pride.
Don't be like I was...don't be so wrapped up in yourself that you can't even see the people around you. Open your eyes with a sense of curiosity and compassion, no matter how hard your day is. And be willing to forgive the rudeness of a stranger...you never know what kind of day they might be having.
I'm going to try to do a little better by my fellow humans each day...I'm a work in progress, but I hope you'll join me.
It was February 13th, 2014. I know the date not because of my rudeness, but because it was the day they confirmed Orion had trisomy 18 and was going to die soon. He died in the early hours of the next morning, in fact. I had just left the hospital and we were stopping for lunch and my mind was swirling in chaos and grief and racing to think of some way to save my son. I could feel him kicking as I walked down the sidewalk and it just didn't make any sense that I would never have a hope of hearing him cry. I could feel him! He was there, kicking away in my belly, alive!
But I failed to see anyone around me. The man I ran into clings to my memory and I hope I never forget the lesson: it was a day I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I literally didn't SEE another human being. And no matter how justified my pain was, it still doesn't make it okay to not see another human standing there.
The thing is, I do this all the time. We all do. We have a bad day, we get frightening news, we are grieving, we are stressed about money or love or loneliness or work or the kids or the asshole who cut us off while driving...and we get so wrapped up in our own pain that we stop seeing the people around us. We hurt them accidentally, usually in little ways. And its not okay. We can do better. I can do better. I can look up from my own hurt long enough to see the man on the sidewalk. Maybe he was texting, or hunched down in the bitter cold wind, or just got bad news of his own. Maybe it was the best day of his life.
I can look up from my grief long enough to see a frustrated toddler who needs my attention. I can look up from my fatigue long enough to see a beautiful smiling baby. I can look up from my fears long enough to see a husband who loves me but doesn't know how to reach me anymore. I can look up from my own concerns long enough to see that everyone else out there has a million things going on too and maybe they just need a smile, or someone to not bump into them, or someone to hold the door for them or offer a kind word or a hug or patients or forgiveness or love. I fear that we are living in a time of disconnectedness, of electronics replacing human touch, of a strange illness of entitlement where no one else even exists enough to have feelings or needs or rights. Where we don't have a duty to care for each other in big and small ways, to care for our loved ones, and to care for strangers. Where people brag about their selfishness with pride.
Don't be like I was...don't be so wrapped up in yourself that you can't even see the people around you. Open your eyes with a sense of curiosity and compassion, no matter how hard your day is. And be willing to forgive the rudeness of a stranger...you never know what kind of day they might be having.
I'm going to try to do a little better by my fellow humans each day...I'm a work in progress, but I hope you'll join me.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Redemption and Resurrection
My totem animal is the butterfly. A butterfly is ALL about rebirth, emerging from the darkness, transformation, and basically resurrection. A very powerful symbol in such a delicate package. And obviously, this is THE holiday for butterflies...whether you see the Christian symbolism or the Pagan symbolism, its pretty much the same story (and there is power in that!).
And it fits me. It always has. I always felt capable of transformation, and capable of rising above adversity. I love the idea. I love putting it into practice. I love that we can all transform ourselves as many times as we need to.
But eventually all the difficulties and darkness overcame me. I broke. I let go of hope. And I can tell you the exact second it happened...
You might think its when I felt like I was dying the day Scarlet was born, and then all the doctors rushed in and told us that my blood wasn't clotting enough for a spinal, but they were about to do major surgery on me. They asked if I wanted a clergy called, that there wasn't time to call one from my own church (if I had one) but they had one on staff...they explained to Derrick that Scarlet would be brought back to the room, but that I would likely go to another floor on life support. They asked if I had an Advanced Directive. They asked if I wanted "extreme measures" taken to save me if my heart stopped. They asked if I was an organ donor. And that's the moment panic first took my breath...organ donation? That's not a standard question. That is not a question filled with hope, at least for me. But I told them I was an organ donor but that I would beat the odds, to not give up on me, that my willpower to be a mother would pull me through when I shouldn't be able to survive...that I was Determined to mother Scarlet. I went under anesthesia that day unsure if my eyes would ever open again. But they did, and that experience did not break me.
You might think it was when Orion was diagnoses with a fatal condition and my heart struggled to understand how I could feel him kick right now but I'd never hear him cry. Or the night I felt him die, violent seizures I could not prevent or do anything about...only tell him that I loved him and that he didn't have to suffer anymore, even though my mind screamed to not let go of him. Or the night, 3 days later, when I finally gave birth to his tiny body. Maybe the moment my legs gave out when I had to walk out of the hospital without my baby. Or the moment milk flowed through my breasts the first time I picked up his tiny urn, an incredibly strange and unexpected reaction to a pile of ash. My body knew, my body called to him, and he wasn't there. But none of that broke me.
It wasn't even when they told me I had pre-eclampsia with Iris, and that she would be born within hours. My heart racing in panic at the thought that she was premature, and hadn't had steroids for her lungs, but there wasn't time to give them to her. The thought that my body had failed, again, and another one of my children was paying the brutal price for it. No, it wasn't even then, though the crack was starting. Selfishly, its when they told me that I would be on magnesium again. Because I knew that I wouldn't even be able to remember most of the birth if I was on magnesium. That it would affect Iris if I was on magnesium (and it did - they believe the one "episode" she had where she needed assistance to keep on living was because of the magnesium). That I would be overwhelmed with the feeling of hell ripping through my body, and would be struggling. That I was THAT sick again to need it. That things were happening so fast again, so out of control. This is the precise reason we saved and scrimped for a birth photographer: so that pictures could fill in where my memory would fail. I think I was still struggling for hope at that point, though it had slipped from my grasp. And then they told me that Iris might not cry, and because my last baby had been born dead they wanted to warn me. It wouldn't mean she was dead. It would just be because of the (fucking) magnesium and her prematurity, but they had a team there to help her so I shouldn't worry. Hope was gone with just the thought of her being born silent. She came out crying, but it was such a weak sound, and it was too late. She was trying so hard to be loud and let us know she was angry, but it was like a little animal, not like a baby, to my ears. It broke my heart. I wanted to cry with sadness, not joy, and so I just shut down...it was unclear how I was "supposed" to feel or respond anymore. I could not be happy my baby had been born prematurely. I could not be happy in this moment. This moment I had dreamed of all my life, hearing my baby's first cry, was filled with fear and sadness. It was so traumatic on so many levels because it reminded me of everything we had already been through. It reminded me of Scarlet's birth, and how present death was, and Orion's birth, and how present death was...I didn't know how it would go this time, which of us would survive...and I broke. I shattered. I went numb.
And since then I have been walking in darkness. I was numb while Iris was in the NICU. I was numb when she stopped breathing at home and turned grey and I held her and urged her to live. I've been numb at home with my husband, and with my beautiful daughters, and with Orion. Tears of crept through, and moments Scarlet makes me laugh in spite of myself, and a lot of anger. But there has been such a profound emptiness where hope and love and redemption and resurrection used to live. I was no longer Jill. I was no longer a butterfly.
Until this last week. Holy Week. A week of death and loss and darkness leading up to rebirth and light and spring and renewal and all joy and light and love and hope. I skipped the services for the last supper and the death and all of that. We've had enough of that. I held my dead son in my own body for three days before birthing him into heaven. I get it.
But this morning I took my family to church for Easter Sunday. I needed the hallelujah. I needed the message of hope and rebirth. I needed an official moment to find myself again, to commit to my family again, to commit to myself again...and I found it. I don't think this rebirth is going to be quick or easy. I think I am profoundly changed, and that's okay. I'm still depressed. I'm still haunted by memories of leaving 2 babies behind...one in the NICU and one in the morgue. I'm still angry that we've been through so much in such a short time. But I'm ready to see Orion's death as a glorious and beautiful moment in his life again...a moment of transformation and as full of miracle as any other birth. I'm ready to see the magical gift in Iris's smile as my tears fell on her tiny hands in church today. I'm ready to believe in a universe of wonder and mystery. I'm ready to look for butterflies. I'm ready to do the hard work of emerging from darkness, one step at a time.
And it fits me. It always has. I always felt capable of transformation, and capable of rising above adversity. I love the idea. I love putting it into practice. I love that we can all transform ourselves as many times as we need to.
But eventually all the difficulties and darkness overcame me. I broke. I let go of hope. And I can tell you the exact second it happened...
You might think its when I felt like I was dying the day Scarlet was born, and then all the doctors rushed in and told us that my blood wasn't clotting enough for a spinal, but they were about to do major surgery on me. They asked if I wanted a clergy called, that there wasn't time to call one from my own church (if I had one) but they had one on staff...they explained to Derrick that Scarlet would be brought back to the room, but that I would likely go to another floor on life support. They asked if I had an Advanced Directive. They asked if I wanted "extreme measures" taken to save me if my heart stopped. They asked if I was an organ donor. And that's the moment panic first took my breath...organ donation? That's not a standard question. That is not a question filled with hope, at least for me. But I told them I was an organ donor but that I would beat the odds, to not give up on me, that my willpower to be a mother would pull me through when I shouldn't be able to survive...that I was Determined to mother Scarlet. I went under anesthesia that day unsure if my eyes would ever open again. But they did, and that experience did not break me.
You might think it was when Orion was diagnoses with a fatal condition and my heart struggled to understand how I could feel him kick right now but I'd never hear him cry. Or the night I felt him die, violent seizures I could not prevent or do anything about...only tell him that I loved him and that he didn't have to suffer anymore, even though my mind screamed to not let go of him. Or the night, 3 days later, when I finally gave birth to his tiny body. Maybe the moment my legs gave out when I had to walk out of the hospital without my baby. Or the moment milk flowed through my breasts the first time I picked up his tiny urn, an incredibly strange and unexpected reaction to a pile of ash. My body knew, my body called to him, and he wasn't there. But none of that broke me.
It wasn't even when they told me I had pre-eclampsia with Iris, and that she would be born within hours. My heart racing in panic at the thought that she was premature, and hadn't had steroids for her lungs, but there wasn't time to give them to her. The thought that my body had failed, again, and another one of my children was paying the brutal price for it. No, it wasn't even then, though the crack was starting. Selfishly, its when they told me that I would be on magnesium again. Because I knew that I wouldn't even be able to remember most of the birth if I was on magnesium. That it would affect Iris if I was on magnesium (and it did - they believe the one "episode" she had where she needed assistance to keep on living was because of the magnesium). That I would be overwhelmed with the feeling of hell ripping through my body, and would be struggling. That I was THAT sick again to need it. That things were happening so fast again, so out of control. This is the precise reason we saved and scrimped for a birth photographer: so that pictures could fill in where my memory would fail. I think I was still struggling for hope at that point, though it had slipped from my grasp. And then they told me that Iris might not cry, and because my last baby had been born dead they wanted to warn me. It wouldn't mean she was dead. It would just be because of the (fucking) magnesium and her prematurity, but they had a team there to help her so I shouldn't worry. Hope was gone with just the thought of her being born silent. She came out crying, but it was such a weak sound, and it was too late. She was trying so hard to be loud and let us know she was angry, but it was like a little animal, not like a baby, to my ears. It broke my heart. I wanted to cry with sadness, not joy, and so I just shut down...it was unclear how I was "supposed" to feel or respond anymore. I could not be happy my baby had been born prematurely. I could not be happy in this moment. This moment I had dreamed of all my life, hearing my baby's first cry, was filled with fear and sadness. It was so traumatic on so many levels because it reminded me of everything we had already been through. It reminded me of Scarlet's birth, and how present death was, and Orion's birth, and how present death was...I didn't know how it would go this time, which of us would survive...and I broke. I shattered. I went numb.
And since then I have been walking in darkness. I was numb while Iris was in the NICU. I was numb when she stopped breathing at home and turned grey and I held her and urged her to live. I've been numb at home with my husband, and with my beautiful daughters, and with Orion. Tears of crept through, and moments Scarlet makes me laugh in spite of myself, and a lot of anger. But there has been such a profound emptiness where hope and love and redemption and resurrection used to live. I was no longer Jill. I was no longer a butterfly.
Until this last week. Holy Week. A week of death and loss and darkness leading up to rebirth and light and spring and renewal and all joy and light and love and hope. I skipped the services for the last supper and the death and all of that. We've had enough of that. I held my dead son in my own body for three days before birthing him into heaven. I get it.
But this morning I took my family to church for Easter Sunday. I needed the hallelujah. I needed the message of hope and rebirth. I needed an official moment to find myself again, to commit to my family again, to commit to myself again...and I found it. I don't think this rebirth is going to be quick or easy. I think I am profoundly changed, and that's okay. I'm still depressed. I'm still haunted by memories of leaving 2 babies behind...one in the NICU and one in the morgue. I'm still angry that we've been through so much in such a short time. But I'm ready to see Orion's death as a glorious and beautiful moment in his life again...a moment of transformation and as full of miracle as any other birth. I'm ready to see the magical gift in Iris's smile as my tears fell on her tiny hands in church today. I'm ready to believe in a universe of wonder and mystery. I'm ready to look for butterflies. I'm ready to do the hard work of emerging from darkness, one step at a time.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Iris's birth
Iris Serenity is two months old today. We were hoping for a calm, planned c-section on February 20th, just six days before her due date. Instead she came to us on January 18th, at 34 weeks and 3 days gestation. We had gone to the hospital that day for routine follow-up of blood work and to drop off a 24-hour urine collection. They were going to let me drop off my gallon jug of pee and go, but we insisted that they run the blood work that the other doctor had requested two days earlier. They hooked me up to monitors while we waited for the results, which can take several hours. My blood pressure was surprisingly high - I wasn't nervous or worried, and was just laying in the bed bored but comfortable. The contractions I had been having had disappeared. There was no reason for my blood pressure to be high. I had a dull, strange headache and spots in my vision. It was nothing terrible, nothing like the pain of a migraine, and it didn't really worry me. It didn't worry the on-call resident, who told me I'd be sent home soon, she just had to run things past the attending doctor. With my blood pressure that high I just wasn't comfortable with that and was gearing up to insist I be admitted at least overnight for observation, given how far away we live. Hours passed, we kept Scarlet entertained, no one came in my room. Finally the attending came in and pulled up a chair next to me. I knew if everything was okay he wouldn't have even come in. He meticulously went over my symptoms, asking very detailed questions about things I was just brushing off. And then he told me I would be having Iris that night, as soon as it was safe from when I had eaten last - maybe as early as 6pm (it was around 5 by that point). I was shocked. I started to cry. Things were moving fast, Iris was too early, and there wasn't time to give her steroids for her lungs. I was happy my platelets were good enough to be awake this time, but the dreaded magnesium was ordered immediately. We started dialing family members to come get Scarlet and our photographer to get to the hospital, but of course the weather was terrible - icy roads making things dangerous for everyone. I didn't know if anyone would get there before I was taken in for the c-section. Two or three nurses failed to get my IV in. They brought in the anesthesiologist with a special ultrasound machine to try. He failed several times as well, before finally getting it in. The magnesium was started and hit like a ton of bricks. It makes me feel like throwing up, and I sweat like I have the worst fever ever, and it makes me ache all over and feel very very detached from everything. I knew from before that I wouldn't remember much and asked the photographer to detail everything she could - her pictures would fill in for what my brain couldn't hang onto. I complained that the IV really hurt. They came to get me and I asked to walk into the OR on my own, instead of being wheeled in a bed. Being wheeled into the OR would have felt too much like Scarlet's birth - too terrifying to do again. I thought if I could walk in on my own that I must be okay. When we got in they saw that my IV had infiltrated and my arm was swollen to a size I didn't even believe with my own eyes. I had no idea the human body could stretch out like that so fast. It hurt very badly. They pulled it out, told me it would be fine, and started working on a new one on the other side. Once in, they realized they now couldn't put a blood pressure cuff on either arm (one too swollen to give a reading, the other with the IV in it) and they put it around my wrist and got to work on the spinal. Two of them discussed the difficulty in placing it, but I was too out of it by then to be worried. They helped me lay down and began to prep me. I told them it was hard to breath,. I became very peaceful feeling and there was some shouting over some medication RIGHT NOW. I felt nothing. I saw nothing. From very, very, very far away I could hear my name over and over and "You have to remember to breathe! Come on, breathe Jill! Take a deep breath! Good!" and lights came back into view while one anesthesiologist explained to the other that this is what he had warned him about. I heard my monitor sounding out each beat of my heart slowly increase. I focused on that beep for the rest of the procedure, and when it started to go lower I would try to breathe deeper. Instead of focusing on Iris, or what was happening, or Derrick, or how I felt, I had to focus on the beat of my heart. I knew my one job here was to just keep my heart beating. Derrick was brought in, along with the photographer and neonatologist. He was very kind and came over and explained that Iris probably wouldn't cry when she was born, and might need some help to breathe, but that it was normal and expected. I thanked him, and he said he saw that we had had a loss in the previous pregnancy, and he didn't want me to be worried when she didn't cry. It was such a compassionate thing to do...to take that time to explain to me. He was right that it would have terrified me if she didn't cry, but with the warning I would know that it didn't mean she wasn't alive. They got started and Derrick watched the whole thing over the screen they had up. I focused on the beep of my heart monitor. Doctors switched places and suddenly there was a strange weak cry - it broke my heart into a million pieces. This was not a full-term newborn cry. They held her up for me to see, and I just couldn't even focus on what
was happening. I was so happy she was alive, and so sad to hear her tiny cry. They took her over to the warmer to do whatever it is they do (clean her, weigh her, let Derrick cut the cord off) and I closed my eyes and focused on the beep of my heart monitor. All bundled, Derrick carried her over to me, and held her near my cheek. I wanted to hold her, my arms were free, but I couldn't quite figure out how to do it. I whispered apologies for her early arrival and told her how much I loved her, how beautiful she was, and then the neonatologist said he needed to take her now, and off everyone went - baby, Derrick, photographer, and the nicu team. I tried to rest while they stitched me up. Again, that overwhelmingly warm and dark and peaceful feeling came over me, only to be interrupted by my name being shouted again from far off, the darn beep of my heart monitor slow and low and far away. Oxygen put back over my face, the beep becoming faster and higher pitched, the world coming back into view. I went back to focusing on that sound, of not relaxing or resting, to remembering to breathe. But I don't remember leaving the OR. There is a picture of me viewing Iris in the NICU that I have no recollection of. I don't know how I got into my hospital bed in my room. They brought be toast and peanut butter since I hadn't eaten in over 12 hours, but I wasn't really hungry. I ate it anyway. Derrick was there, and then left to sleep in Iris's room. I was too tired to worry anymore, and drifted off. Nurses made sure I could wiggle my toes, but that might have been in the recovery room. Its all blurry and confused and out of order in my mind from the magnesium. I did not feel like I had just had a baby. They brought in a breast pump and woke me every 3 hours for vitals and every 4 hours for pain meds, and then again when the doctors were doing rounds and then again when the nurses changed shifts. I later found out that I had pre-eclampsia with severe features, my kidneys were shutting down, and my blood oxygen levels dropped to nearly fatal levels during the c-section due to shock. It wasn't as bad as when Scarlet was born, but its only due to great doctors that we cheated death again.
The next day though I needed to see her. I couldn't stand that she wasn't in my room and asked for a wheelchair to go down to her. They told me I couldn't while I was on magnesium. I told them I was going to go see her. They told me they would have to ask the NICU for permission. I told them to go ask then. I got to go see her. :) I'm not sure if I had to wait until I got my catheter out or not. I'm not sure what time of day it was. I don't remember much but how hard it was to get from the wheelchair to the lounge chair even with people helping, and then my IV getting tangled with hers. We got untangled though, and I held her against my skin and the whole world felt right. It didn't take long before they took her back and put her back in the isolet to stay warm and not overstimulated and shooed me back to my own room on my own floor to rest and be bored and long for my baby while people visited and even random strangers congratulated me. Those congratulations felt so wrong. It all felt so wrong.
On the third day they told me I could go home. It made no sense. My baby was still in the NICU. I was still so swollen I couldn't bend my legs. They told me there was no medical reason for me to stay and about 10 different people told us about the Ronald McDonald House but we thought it would be better for Scarlet to go sleep at home. I went down to visit Iris, even though we wouldn't be leaving until much later in the day. As Derrick wheeled me out of her room I began to cry. As we rounded the first corner I began to audibly sob. I couldn't breathe or speak or do anything but hysterically cry. He held me until I could choke out that I couldn't leave her there - it was too much like leaving Orion. Time shattered and every cell overflowed with grief and pain and confusion. I imagined them giving me a little white box again instead of a baby, walking out with a paper bag instead of my child. Instead, when the time came, I held Scarlet on my lap and focused on her needs instead of my own.
After two days of driving back and forth we went to the Ronald McDonald House. We were given the only room left with a queen sized bed (the only other room available had 3 twin sized beds). It was room 214 and had an iris painted next to the room number. It was obviously meant to be. We spent our days with Iris and our nights at "Ronny's" while we waited for Iris to achieve developmental goals we had no control over. She was a good size, but size means very little. She was still a preemie and unable to survive outside the NICU. Scarlet made friends everywhere and came home with countless new stuffed animals, books, stickers, and toys. Siblings get very spoiled when they hang out at the hospital every day, but she deserved all of it - she was amazing coping with a difficult situation and adapting to wherever she was.
If anyone is curious: Iris is our last baby. It doesn't make sense to take the risk again and our family feels pretty perfect now. We are so lucky to all be here together with our girls, with Orion dancing among the stars.
I feel like I missed out on her birth in a lot of ways, but I treasure the photos we have of it. I am so glad its over and behind us and everyone is alive, It was not the calm, healing birth Derrick and I had longed for, but it was a whole lot better than it could have been.
The next day though I needed to see her. I couldn't stand that she wasn't in my room and asked for a wheelchair to go down to her. They told me I couldn't while I was on magnesium. I told them I was going to go see her. They told me they would have to ask the NICU for permission. I told them to go ask then. I got to go see her. :) I'm not sure if I had to wait until I got my catheter out or not. I'm not sure what time of day it was. I don't remember much but how hard it was to get from the wheelchair to the lounge chair even with people helping, and then my IV getting tangled with hers. We got untangled though, and I held her against my skin and the whole world felt right. It didn't take long before they took her back and put her back in the isolet to stay warm and not overstimulated and shooed me back to my own room on my own floor to rest and be bored and long for my baby while people visited and even random strangers congratulated me. Those congratulations felt so wrong. It all felt so wrong.
On the third day they told me I could go home. It made no sense. My baby was still in the NICU. I was still so swollen I couldn't bend my legs. They told me there was no medical reason for me to stay and about 10 different people told us about the Ronald McDonald House but we thought it would be better for Scarlet to go sleep at home. I went down to visit Iris, even though we wouldn't be leaving until much later in the day. As Derrick wheeled me out of her room I began to cry. As we rounded the first corner I began to audibly sob. I couldn't breathe or speak or do anything but hysterically cry. He held me until I could choke out that I couldn't leave her there - it was too much like leaving Orion. Time shattered and every cell overflowed with grief and pain and confusion. I imagined them giving me a little white box again instead of a baby, walking out with a paper bag instead of my child. Instead, when the time came, I held Scarlet on my lap and focused on her needs instead of my own.
After two days of driving back and forth we went to the Ronald McDonald House. We were given the only room left with a queen sized bed (the only other room available had 3 twin sized beds). It was room 214 and had an iris painted next to the room number. It was obviously meant to be. We spent our days with Iris and our nights at "Ronny's" while we waited for Iris to achieve developmental goals we had no control over. She was a good size, but size means very little. She was still a preemie and unable to survive outside the NICU. Scarlet made friends everywhere and came home with countless new stuffed animals, books, stickers, and toys. Siblings get very spoiled when they hang out at the hospital every day, but she deserved all of it - she was amazing coping with a difficult situation and adapting to wherever she was.
If anyone is curious: Iris is our last baby. It doesn't make sense to take the risk again and our family feels pretty perfect now. We are so lucky to all be here together with our girls, with Orion dancing among the stars.
I feel like I missed out on her birth in a lot of ways, but I treasure the photos we have of it. I am so glad its over and behind us and everyone is alive, It was not the calm, healing birth Derrick and I had longed for, but it was a whole lot better than it could have been.
Monday, March 16, 2015
To Scarlet on your 2nd Birthday
Dear Beautiful Scarlet on Your Second Birthday,
I was working on some very simple, but life changing, ideas while I was pregnant with you. I felt like you were teaching me to just accept what IS instead of longing for some idealist dream I had mapped out in my head. Your birth certainly threw my birth plan right out the window. Every single detail of it. Every one. We took you home, thrown into the chaos of new titles and roles we knew nothing about. I fought against it so often. I hadn't learned, after all. It was supposed to be the bliss I had felt caring for other people's children but it wasn't. I couldn't accept that this new reality was different, but still good. I told myself I was a bad mother, and then I repeated it every day.
Your brother's diagnoses and death shook me to the core, it ripped control from my hands violently. I could see that I was the only one in the world who knew how to mother Orion, and so I was the only one who knew how to mother you. I stopped telling myself I was a bad mother so often, I enjoyed the role, felt blessed to know you. Felt privileged to receive every smile and twinkle of laughter you offered me. The depth of my sorrow was matched by the depth of my gratitude and joy in you. I look back on those months fondly, despite it being the time of my most profound loss and grief.
When I saw the tiny lines indicating your sister was on her way I felt terror. Actual blood chilling terror. I put you in the car and we drove back roads through the woods, holding this secret in my heart. I bought you a shirt that said "Best Sister Ever". I let you break the news to your father that way. I faked joy for a long, long time. I gave you less and less, and told myself I was a bad mother again because I felt fear where there should be joy. Should be. That awful phrase haunting our lives again, telling me it wasn't good enough, that I wasn't good enough. Depression descended. And we are still adjusting to all of our new roles with little Iris changing the family dynamics and demanding space of her own in our hearts and demanding so much of our time.
I will tell you that I have made mistakes as your mother. There have been moments I've failed you. Moments I failed myself. But you are such a miracle, always ready to forgive and try again. Hugs and kisses and "I'm sorry" still seem to repair these little hurts. Your light cannot be dimmed, your joy is contagious, your curiosity and affection are enlightening. You deserve a good mother.
So my gift to you, on your 2nd birthday is this: I promise to tell myself that I am a bad mother less often. Because I can't be a good mother if I'm always insisting that I'm not. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, maybe you think I should just promise to be a better mother. But one day you will understand that it would never work if I was still telling myself how bad I was at it. I will strive to be my very best for you, and I think that requires me deleting the phrase "I am a bad mother" from my inner dialogue. You deserve the time and attention that it takes up. You deserve the joy that it steals. You deserve a mama who isn't focused on the broken pieces, but on the amazing mosaic our family has created together. You deserve me. Whole.
Love,
Mama
I was working on some very simple, but life changing, ideas while I was pregnant with you. I felt like you were teaching me to just accept what IS instead of longing for some idealist dream I had mapped out in my head. Your birth certainly threw my birth plan right out the window. Every single detail of it. Every one. We took you home, thrown into the chaos of new titles and roles we knew nothing about. I fought against it so often. I hadn't learned, after all. It was supposed to be the bliss I had felt caring for other people's children but it wasn't. I couldn't accept that this new reality was different, but still good. I told myself I was a bad mother, and then I repeated it every day.
Your brother's diagnoses and death shook me to the core, it ripped control from my hands violently. I could see that I was the only one in the world who knew how to mother Orion, and so I was the only one who knew how to mother you. I stopped telling myself I was a bad mother so often, I enjoyed the role, felt blessed to know you. Felt privileged to receive every smile and twinkle of laughter you offered me. The depth of my sorrow was matched by the depth of my gratitude and joy in you. I look back on those months fondly, despite it being the time of my most profound loss and grief.
When I saw the tiny lines indicating your sister was on her way I felt terror. Actual blood chilling terror. I put you in the car and we drove back roads through the woods, holding this secret in my heart. I bought you a shirt that said "Best Sister Ever". I let you break the news to your father that way. I faked joy for a long, long time. I gave you less and less, and told myself I was a bad mother again because I felt fear where there should be joy. Should be. That awful phrase haunting our lives again, telling me it wasn't good enough, that I wasn't good enough. Depression descended. And we are still adjusting to all of our new roles with little Iris changing the family dynamics and demanding space of her own in our hearts and demanding so much of our time.
I will tell you that I have made mistakes as your mother. There have been moments I've failed you. Moments I failed myself. But you are such a miracle, always ready to forgive and try again. Hugs and kisses and "I'm sorry" still seem to repair these little hurts. Your light cannot be dimmed, your joy is contagious, your curiosity and affection are enlightening. You deserve a good mother.
So my gift to you, on your 2nd birthday is this: I promise to tell myself that I am a bad mother less often. Because I can't be a good mother if I'm always insisting that I'm not. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, maybe you think I should just promise to be a better mother. But one day you will understand that it would never work if I was still telling myself how bad I was at it. I will strive to be my very best for you, and I think that requires me deleting the phrase "I am a bad mother" from my inner dialogue. You deserve the time and attention that it takes up. You deserve the joy that it steals. You deserve a mama who isn't focused on the broken pieces, but on the amazing mosaic our family has created together. You deserve me. Whole.
Love,
Mama
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Orion's 1st Birthday
Our trip to the ocean was delayed a bit by bad weather, so we finally got there today (2/22/15) instead of his birthday (2/17/15). We stopped for lunch first, at a Mexican restaurant, and got fried ice cream with a birthday candle, for tradition's sake. We blew it out together. But I felt pulled to the ocean for this celebration of life, and didn't really understand why until we got there. The vastness of the ocean as a symbol made sense...as he is our star-child, dancing among the celestial realms in a vastness I cannot comprehend. So we went.
When we arrived there was a calmness. A silence in the roar of the ocean. And it all suddenly felt right...the salty water, holding all the tears of all the women who have ever lost a child in all of time...held there together by a common sorrow and a common witness to their lives, their importance. I read off a short list of names of babies gone too soon. (We've all been touched it sometimes seems.) The pull and release of those magnificent waves, slow and steady, like grief and joy: one so completely dependent on the other to be understood fully. There was peace there, and motion, the past and the future and hopes and sorrows and all the complicated messiness of life held into something quite simple. There were several lighthouses within view of that little cliff, all promising to guide us home, to help us navigate a difficult journey.
We cried, and huddled together in the face of the salty wind, a family bound by love.
We laughed and chased bubbles and Scarlet squealed with delight at the flock of birds, and the clouds glimmered in the sun and the snow was blinding.
All that space felt so intimate, like a small chapel hidden in the woods, empty and smelling of cedar and old books. Those smells make me think of Orion, and I can't explain why. Or how those smells were there, on this winter cliff overlooking the ocean. Or how those smells were there the night he was born in that antiseptic hospital room. But somehow they belong to him. And he was there with us, our little family of five.
When we arrived there was a calmness. A silence in the roar of the ocean. And it all suddenly felt right...the salty water, holding all the tears of all the women who have ever lost a child in all of time...held there together by a common sorrow and a common witness to their lives, their importance. I read off a short list of names of babies gone too soon. (We've all been touched it sometimes seems.) The pull and release of those magnificent waves, slow and steady, like grief and joy: one so completely dependent on the other to be understood fully. There was peace there, and motion, the past and the future and hopes and sorrows and all the complicated messiness of life held into something quite simple. There were several lighthouses within view of that little cliff, all promising to guide us home, to help us navigate a difficult journey.
We cried, and huddled together in the face of the salty wind, a family bound by love.
We laughed and chased bubbles and Scarlet squealed with delight at the flock of birds, and the clouds glimmered in the sun and the snow was blinding.
All that space felt so intimate, like a small chapel hidden in the woods, empty and smelling of cedar and old books. Those smells make me think of Orion, and I can't explain why. Or how those smells were there, on this winter cliff overlooking the ocean. Or how those smells were there the night he was born in that antiseptic hospital room. But somehow they belong to him. And he was there with us, our little family of five.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Dear Iris: I trust you.
Dear Iris,
I never wanted your birthday to be so close to your brother's. I never wanted to be pregnant on his birthday at all, in fact. And I tried to conceive you a month earlier so that it could be avoided entirely. I even thought about skipping the month you were conceived, but figured if I did that you would just come early anyway and land on the same day as him no matter what I did. Your c-section is scheduled for 3 days after his birthday, and the doctors refused to move it up. Just 3 days. I went home and sobbed. The closer we get the more unraveled my grace becomes. I don't want to face this, but last night, in the darkness as everyone else slept, I came to this realization: I think you meant for it to be this way.
You see, I asked him for permission to carry you. I wrote him a letter, like this, asking him if it was okay if he shared his sacred space on this earth for just a little bit with you, as a living brother would share his toys. I felt a calm peace after I wrote that letter, and knew it would be okay with him.
And since all of us come from stardust, and are returned to stardust, I truly believe that you and him connected out there in the vastness of creation and hatched a plan for your birth. And it wasn't going to be the "easy" way for me...it would be the most challenging scenario for me in fact. But I have to trust the two of you. I have to trust that you knew what you were doing, as stardust, in sending Iris to us when you did. Its likely just one more of those things I will not understand until I return to stardust myself. I just have to see the challenge for what it is, and accept it without explanation.
Your name is Iris because she was a messenger between the gods and mortals. She sent the messages on rainbows. And I'm pretty sure Orion and you are sending a message even with the date of your birth, one that I simply don't understand yet.
I didn't want your birthday to be shadowed by his. I never want you to feel like a replacement for him, because you are not. I never want you to feel less important than him (or more), because you are not. I want each of you to be celebrated fully on your special day of birth, and I'm not sure how to do that with you so close together. But maybe you wanted it this way. Maybe you won't see it as a shadow of grief, but as a connection you wouldn't otherwise have with Orion. Maybe it will always feel like a blessing to you. I hope that it does.
And maybe the whole thing is simply another gift Orion cooked up, with you as the messenger. A gift to remind me that there is glory in all things, even grief. That there is only light in contrast to darkness. That life is so beautiful because we are mortal. That love has many sides, and the two of you are just two of them, balancing each other in the chaos of my heart.
You will be born at the most perfect time, like all babies. Even when its scary or traumatic or sad or full of joy and laughter and rainbows. And I will trust you to know when that is.
With all my heart,
Mommy
I never wanted your birthday to be so close to your brother's. I never wanted to be pregnant on his birthday at all, in fact. And I tried to conceive you a month earlier so that it could be avoided entirely. I even thought about skipping the month you were conceived, but figured if I did that you would just come early anyway and land on the same day as him no matter what I did. Your c-section is scheduled for 3 days after his birthday, and the doctors refused to move it up. Just 3 days. I went home and sobbed. The closer we get the more unraveled my grace becomes. I don't want to face this, but last night, in the darkness as everyone else slept, I came to this realization: I think you meant for it to be this way.
You see, I asked him for permission to carry you. I wrote him a letter, like this, asking him if it was okay if he shared his sacred space on this earth for just a little bit with you, as a living brother would share his toys. I felt a calm peace after I wrote that letter, and knew it would be okay with him.
And since all of us come from stardust, and are returned to stardust, I truly believe that you and him connected out there in the vastness of creation and hatched a plan for your birth. And it wasn't going to be the "easy" way for me...it would be the most challenging scenario for me in fact. But I have to trust the two of you. I have to trust that you knew what you were doing, as stardust, in sending Iris to us when you did. Its likely just one more of those things I will not understand until I return to stardust myself. I just have to see the challenge for what it is, and accept it without explanation.
Your name is Iris because she was a messenger between the gods and mortals. She sent the messages on rainbows. And I'm pretty sure Orion and you are sending a message even with the date of your birth, one that I simply don't understand yet.
I didn't want your birthday to be shadowed by his. I never want you to feel like a replacement for him, because you are not. I never want you to feel less important than him (or more), because you are not. I want each of you to be celebrated fully on your special day of birth, and I'm not sure how to do that with you so close together. But maybe you wanted it this way. Maybe you won't see it as a shadow of grief, but as a connection you wouldn't otherwise have with Orion. Maybe it will always feel like a blessing to you. I hope that it does.
And maybe the whole thing is simply another gift Orion cooked up, with you as the messenger. A gift to remind me that there is glory in all things, even grief. That there is only light in contrast to darkness. That life is so beautiful because we are mortal. That love has many sides, and the two of you are just two of them, balancing each other in the chaos of my heart.
You will be born at the most perfect time, like all babies. Even when its scary or traumatic or sad or full of joy and laughter and rainbows. And I will trust you to know when that is.
With all my heart,
Mommy
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Orion
I'm not sure that I really felt like a mother until they told me that my son was going to die. I loved Scarlet, but had severe post-partum depression and it felt like I was taking care of someone else's child a lot of the time. Maybe it was just because of so many years of taking care of other people's children, and loving each of them deeply, Whatever it was, "motherhood" didn't hit me over the head until I got that phone call. I was so excited for that call...they were going to tell me the gender of my second child. It was only later that I realized I had never asked about the gender at all and had to call her back. Being told that my son had trisomy 18, and what that meant, was overwhelming. The next day they set us up for a CVS but on the ultrasound they saw that his problems were so severe that there was no need. It was simply fact. He had trisomy 18 and it was going to kill him. Soon. I went home and felt grief like an earthquake through my whole body. I thought I would split in two with the force of it. We decided to name him Orion, so he would always be with us, shining down from the night sky.
Later that night, when everyone else was asleep, I woke up deeply troubled. I went downstairs and started running water for a bath. Orion had violent seizures. It was awful. I wanted to hold him and kiss him and comfort him, but we were separated by my own body. I rubbed my belly and tried to calm him, frantically thinking about all I knew about death and how to help the dying. And told him that he didn't have to fight anymore. That we knew he couldn't stay with us, and we would love him no matter where he was - whether here on earth or up in the heavens. That we didn't want him to suffer. He could go if he was ready. They were the most difficult words I have ever said. It tore my soul apart to say those words...but that's what mothers do. We tear ourselves apart to spare our child any suffering that we possibly can. His body calmed, I rested in the bath for a while, and went back to bed. In the morning I knew he was gone. I have never felt so alone in all my life. It was valentine's day.
I spent the next few days researching birth options and funeral options and tried to plan a meaningful birth for my dead child. In the end, his birth was beautiful and sacred and wonderful. The staff were amazing and compassionate, the labor was spiritual. He was blessed by a clergyman shortly after he was born, we took photos and hand and foot prints. We cradled him and smiled at him and cried. He had the cutest little nose. We decided on cremation, so that we wouldn't have to leave him behind yet.
I went home and kept living, for Scarlet and Derrick, because that's also what a mother does. She keeps going, keeps loving, keeps mothering, no matter how impossible it is.
But now I am nearing the end of my third pregnancy, a pregnancy that has triggered memories and flashbacks and grief with every kick, every nuance of being pregnant, every night, every day. There is no break from the reminders. There is no break to regain my composure or separate my grief from my joy or catch my breath. I try to make time for each of them each day: for Iris, for Orion, and for Scarlet. It is very hard to do. I'm exhausted with trying to convince my heart to be rational, to keep their pregnancies and births separate. To keep moving forward. And the further we get, the more I am also reminded of Scarlet's pregnancy and birth and all the trauma it held.
So when I say that I am ready for this pregnancy to be over, it is not because I wish for a preemie...I would do anything to spare Iris any suffering...even continue on through Orion's first birthday, continue on until 39 weeks and 1 day to when the doctors say it is the safest for her to be born. I just feel like I used up all my grace to get through Orion's pregnancy and death and birth. I don't have enough left to get through this pregnancy with composure and a shining face. I am terrified, and I am doing it anyway, I just can't do it with a smile at this point. We have our moments of wonder as Iris shifts and wiggles inside of me, moments of joy and happy anticipation...but "grace" has been elusive. And I'm okay with that. I don't need grace to give birth to a healthy Iris. It may look like a mess to everyone else, they may want to cheer me up or tell me to focus on the future or focus on the positives or to let go of my grief. But I don't have the energy to do any of that. I have enough energy to be a MOM, to all 3 of my kids, and that's what I'm going to keep doing. Because its the right thing to do. For them. For me. And for my husband.
Because that's what mothers do.
Later that night, when everyone else was asleep, I woke up deeply troubled. I went downstairs and started running water for a bath. Orion had violent seizures. It was awful. I wanted to hold him and kiss him and comfort him, but we were separated by my own body. I rubbed my belly and tried to calm him, frantically thinking about all I knew about death and how to help the dying. And told him that he didn't have to fight anymore. That we knew he couldn't stay with us, and we would love him no matter where he was - whether here on earth or up in the heavens. That we didn't want him to suffer. He could go if he was ready. They were the most difficult words I have ever said. It tore my soul apart to say those words...but that's what mothers do. We tear ourselves apart to spare our child any suffering that we possibly can. His body calmed, I rested in the bath for a while, and went back to bed. In the morning I knew he was gone. I have never felt so alone in all my life. It was valentine's day.
I spent the next few days researching birth options and funeral options and tried to plan a meaningful birth for my dead child. In the end, his birth was beautiful and sacred and wonderful. The staff were amazing and compassionate, the labor was spiritual. He was blessed by a clergyman shortly after he was born, we took photos and hand and foot prints. We cradled him and smiled at him and cried. He had the cutest little nose. We decided on cremation, so that we wouldn't have to leave him behind yet.
I went home and kept living, for Scarlet and Derrick, because that's also what a mother does. She keeps going, keeps loving, keeps mothering, no matter how impossible it is.
But now I am nearing the end of my third pregnancy, a pregnancy that has triggered memories and flashbacks and grief with every kick, every nuance of being pregnant, every night, every day. There is no break from the reminders. There is no break to regain my composure or separate my grief from my joy or catch my breath. I try to make time for each of them each day: for Iris, for Orion, and for Scarlet. It is very hard to do. I'm exhausted with trying to convince my heart to be rational, to keep their pregnancies and births separate. To keep moving forward. And the further we get, the more I am also reminded of Scarlet's pregnancy and birth and all the trauma it held.
So when I say that I am ready for this pregnancy to be over, it is not because I wish for a preemie...I would do anything to spare Iris any suffering...even continue on through Orion's first birthday, continue on until 39 weeks and 1 day to when the doctors say it is the safest for her to be born. I just feel like I used up all my grace to get through Orion's pregnancy and death and birth. I don't have enough left to get through this pregnancy with composure and a shining face. I am terrified, and I am doing it anyway, I just can't do it with a smile at this point. We have our moments of wonder as Iris shifts and wiggles inside of me, moments of joy and happy anticipation...but "grace" has been elusive. And I'm okay with that. I don't need grace to give birth to a healthy Iris. It may look like a mess to everyone else, they may want to cheer me up or tell me to focus on the future or focus on the positives or to let go of my grief. But I don't have the energy to do any of that. I have enough energy to be a MOM, to all 3 of my kids, and that's what I'm going to keep doing. Because its the right thing to do. For them. For me. And for my husband.
Because that's what mothers do.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Miracles
This blog has been in my heart a long time, but I haven't been able to decide on a name or where to start my story. Its held me back for more than a year. Yesterday I decided those were silly reasons...and that if I didn't know where "the beginning" of my story was, well, maybe that's okay.
So I'll start with the name...Miracles and Motherhood. A single word could be used to describe each of my pregnancies: Miracle (Scarlet), Sacred (Orion), and Surrender (Iris). Scarlet was our beautiful miracle just to be conceived. And it took more miracles than I can count to bring her into the world alive. She reminds me of miracles big and small with every smile and every tear. But why leave out "Sacred" and "Surrender"? I guess the fear has been that I used up all my miracles on Scarlet, and that's why Orion died. And Iris hasn't been born yet...will there be enough miracles for her if we need them? I have to believe that there will be. I'll share each of their stories in time, but its a tangled web.
The belief in miracles, tiny and huge, has been what has always drawn me to babies and children. They seem so much more at ease with them, so much more likely to see them. And I'm a bit addicted to witnessing those moments of wonder. Becoming a mom was a lifelong dream, the big goal, the one thing I wanted more than anything else. And it has come at an unfathomable price.
Miracle: I'm currently 33 weeks and 4 days pregnant with my third child, Iris. I nearly died (and so did Scarlet) in my first pregnancy. I'm classified as a "near miss" which I understand to mean that the fact I'm alive could be as much because my doctors said a quick prayer as much as any other intervention they did. They did what they could, and then waited. I looked death in the face, saw him standing there in my room, knew exactly what I was going to lose (first steps, first tooth, first day of school, first period, first heartbreak, sending her off to college, sending her off to marriage...all without a mother...) and told him I wasn't going to cooperate. I was going to fight like hell. And I did.
Sacred: But death returned far too quickly. 11 months later, to the day, in fact. I gave birth to Orion, who had died 3 days earlier, and death was standing there in that eerily similar hospital room, and I had to hand over my little baby boy. My son. I knew exactly what I was losing and its frankly too painful to write out. But death was gentle and full of stardust and light and darkness and wonder. Full of miracle. Just not the kind of miracle that is easy to understand. Its the kind we fight against and hate and scream out in agony over. But I cooperated. I handed over my son as gently as I could. It was the most sacred experience of my entire life.
Surrender: A few months later Iris began to bloom inside of me. I thought I had enough tenacity to go through pregnancy again. I thought I was brave enough and strong enough. And I'm not. I have found my limit. I am hoping her birth can simply be full of wonder and joy. That I won't have to bargain with death. That I won't have to face him this time. But its hard to imagine. Its hard to visualize and believe in that kind of birth...the kind most people take for granted. I am full of fear beyond words, beyond this world, full of fear of what I saw and felt the nights Scarlet and Orion were born, fear that I will have to hand this one over too. So...I surrender. Its all that is left to me. I surrender to the love I feel for her (which I tried to resist in some bizarre attempt to protect my wounded soul), surrender to the fear I feel and be honest about it, surrender to the grief I feel over my son, surrender to the guilt I feel over Scarlet's birth, surrender to the hope I feel in those fleeting moments that hit unexpectedly, surrender to not being able to control any of it. Surrender to life. And that is pretty much a miracle too.
So I'll start with the name...Miracles and Motherhood. A single word could be used to describe each of my pregnancies: Miracle (Scarlet), Sacred (Orion), and Surrender (Iris). Scarlet was our beautiful miracle just to be conceived. And it took more miracles than I can count to bring her into the world alive. She reminds me of miracles big and small with every smile and every tear. But why leave out "Sacred" and "Surrender"? I guess the fear has been that I used up all my miracles on Scarlet, and that's why Orion died. And Iris hasn't been born yet...will there be enough miracles for her if we need them? I have to believe that there will be. I'll share each of their stories in time, but its a tangled web.
The belief in miracles, tiny and huge, has been what has always drawn me to babies and children. They seem so much more at ease with them, so much more likely to see them. And I'm a bit addicted to witnessing those moments of wonder. Becoming a mom was a lifelong dream, the big goal, the one thing I wanted more than anything else. And it has come at an unfathomable price.
Miracle: I'm currently 33 weeks and 4 days pregnant with my third child, Iris. I nearly died (and so did Scarlet) in my first pregnancy. I'm classified as a "near miss" which I understand to mean that the fact I'm alive could be as much because my doctors said a quick prayer as much as any other intervention they did. They did what they could, and then waited. I looked death in the face, saw him standing there in my room, knew exactly what I was going to lose (first steps, first tooth, first day of school, first period, first heartbreak, sending her off to college, sending her off to marriage...all without a mother...) and told him I wasn't going to cooperate. I was going to fight like hell. And I did.
Sacred: But death returned far too quickly. 11 months later, to the day, in fact. I gave birth to Orion, who had died 3 days earlier, and death was standing there in that eerily similar hospital room, and I had to hand over my little baby boy. My son. I knew exactly what I was losing and its frankly too painful to write out. But death was gentle and full of stardust and light and darkness and wonder. Full of miracle. Just not the kind of miracle that is easy to understand. Its the kind we fight against and hate and scream out in agony over. But I cooperated. I handed over my son as gently as I could. It was the most sacred experience of my entire life.
Surrender: A few months later Iris began to bloom inside of me. I thought I had enough tenacity to go through pregnancy again. I thought I was brave enough and strong enough. And I'm not. I have found my limit. I am hoping her birth can simply be full of wonder and joy. That I won't have to bargain with death. That I won't have to face him this time. But its hard to imagine. Its hard to visualize and believe in that kind of birth...the kind most people take for granted. I am full of fear beyond words, beyond this world, full of fear of what I saw and felt the nights Scarlet and Orion were born, fear that I will have to hand this one over too. So...I surrender. Its all that is left to me. I surrender to the love I feel for her (which I tried to resist in some bizarre attempt to protect my wounded soul), surrender to the fear I feel and be honest about it, surrender to the grief I feel over my son, surrender to the guilt I feel over Scarlet's birth, surrender to the hope I feel in those fleeting moments that hit unexpectedly, surrender to not being able to control any of it. Surrender to life. And that is pretty much a miracle too.
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