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.
