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
Thursday, January 15, 2015
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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