Dear Orion,
Today would be your third birthday. It *is* your third birthday. And by 3, in angel terms, the world has mostly moved on. Some people remember the significance of this day, some do not. Even fewer understand why I celebrate it.
I celebrate it because you lived. I celebrate it because you matter. I celebrate it because your life was more than just grief and loss and death. And your legacy is FAR more than that. People might forget, but your mom never will. I celebrate because your life was beautiful and filled with love.
This year I have been trying to move our family out of "trauma" setting and into "normal" setting. Its meant getting my health on track (which has been a struggle) getting support systems in place (which has been blessedly successful), finding my own soul again, encouraging Scarlet and Iris to find their own unique voices and wings and magical inner spirits, and perhaps most importantly: shifting our encounters with you from just being sad and grief filled and crying all the time, to something more balanced: the grief will absolutely always be there, I will long for you until we are together again...but there also needs to be joy. We need to remember that with death you were born into something brilliant and bright and wonderful. You were healed.
Scarlet is struggling with the concept of death. Her emotions can't keep up with her intelligence. So I've been trying to help her see how much happy love I have for you, not just tears, but laughter too. She loves to hear the story of you kicking her while she napped across my belly. She loves to hear the story of her dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeat on the doppler. She loves to hear all the stories about you. And I love to tell them. We smile ear to ear as we share these memories of you.
And recently I told her that you were filled with joy now. Its a concept she keeps bringing up at the oddest moments, her face with a strange look of bewildered concentration. She gets very quiet.
But it is absolutely what I believe: you are not only filled with joy, but you ARE joy. You are pure oneness with creation. You are returned to God in such a way that you are now part of God. You are God. But those ideas are too big for words, and too big for Scarlet. I want her to find those answers herself, and I want her to experience the journey of seeking those answers. But I believe in souls because of you, with irrefutable proof. And I also know your soul is not housed here any more, because I would feel it. It is a piece of me that I gave to you, and it is a piece that is now a part of the holy universe, and I am so very honored to be your mother and a part of all that.
It humbles me.
Sometimes I think of what you might be doing here on earth at 3 years old...what kind of cake I might have made, what kind of party you would have requested, what kind of noise would fill our lives. But I don't imagine you where you are as a toddler-preschooler. You are beyond my concept of time now, and I'm okay with that. I'd rather imagine you as some ethereal celestial mass dancing between stars, whirling up the stardust and creating new galaxies. What other people feel on the first day their child goes to Kindergarten, I feel every day. My tiny child, grown up too fast, out there in the world doing marvelous things and I'm not ready. I took your picture, I waved you good-bye, I knew you would have fun where you were going. But I wanted to keep you home with me forever.
I was forced to be brave, and that's okay.
So I want you to know that your family down here on earth really is doing okay...we struggle, we break, we mend, we try again. We miss you. But I can hear your laughter when I look at the stars, and it is infectious and magical. I can hear it in your sisters' laughter too once in a while, when they laugh with pure joy and hit the notes just right. Because you are a part of us, and you are joy.
And I could not be more proud of you.
Love,
Mommy
Friday, February 17, 2017
Friday, February 5, 2016
Eyes
I looked in the mirror the other day and saw it: the eyes of grief. I've seen them on others, realized the magnitude of loss it takes to change a person's eyes after I lost Orion, but it wasn't until recently - as we close in on his 2nd birthday - that I saw those eyes on my own face.
Maybe they've been there for nearly 2 years now and I only just noticed.
Maybe it takes time to alter a face to reflect a soul that has been shattered and put back together, with one tiny, baby shaped piece missing.
Maybe its the loss of innocense. And in a way, that takes time to happen...the 2nd year seems to be harder for so many of us in the baby-loss community. I think its because hope is lost. That first year you are just drowning, just submerged under the weight of sadness and pain and anger and questions and you believe - you must believe - that if you just keep struggling forward, one tiny step at a time, though it rips your heart to shreds to move forward at all - if you just keep moving forward, eventually, you will arrive at a place where you can breathe again without a searing burn every time.
And you do get to that place. And you can breathe again. But your baby is still dead. And that realization, as bizarre as it sounds, is what destroys hope. There is no happy ending. There is no "I survived this" in the past tense. This is something that you will endure for every single day for the rest of your life. It will never be the past tense.
I did not sign up for this. I did nothing to deserve this. And I cannot ever NOT be the mom of a dead child ever again. The finality doesn't sink in until the 2nd year. The completely overwhelming CHANGE doesn't seem permanent until the 2nd year. And then hope fades. You will never again get to be the person you were before. She is gone, just as permanently as the baby who grew under her heart. They died together.
And I don't know if the change in the eyes happens the day the baby dies, or more when the mother realizes that it can't ever be made okay again - she will never be whole again - and then her eyes change. Something shifts between the eyelids and and the eyebrows, and its so real that I can see it in others and not be surprised when they eventually tell me about their dead baby. I can think back to a high school teacher who's daughter died very young and suddenly understand that look in her eyes that I had always misunderstood. And yet, I was shocked the day I saw it in my eyes. Its our secret code, the true meaning known only to members of this awful, unwanted, club.
I have the eyes of a loss-mama. I still see amazing beauty everywhere I look, so don't mistake the edge of sadness for an inability to feel joy. There is just a new depth to everything.
Maybe they've been there for nearly 2 years now and I only just noticed.
Maybe it takes time to alter a face to reflect a soul that has been shattered and put back together, with one tiny, baby shaped piece missing.
Maybe its the loss of innocense. And in a way, that takes time to happen...the 2nd year seems to be harder for so many of us in the baby-loss community. I think its because hope is lost. That first year you are just drowning, just submerged under the weight of sadness and pain and anger and questions and you believe - you must believe - that if you just keep struggling forward, one tiny step at a time, though it rips your heart to shreds to move forward at all - if you just keep moving forward, eventually, you will arrive at a place where you can breathe again without a searing burn every time.
And you do get to that place. And you can breathe again. But your baby is still dead. And that realization, as bizarre as it sounds, is what destroys hope. There is no happy ending. There is no "I survived this" in the past tense. This is something that you will endure for every single day for the rest of your life. It will never be the past tense.
I did not sign up for this. I did nothing to deserve this. And I cannot ever NOT be the mom of a dead child ever again. The finality doesn't sink in until the 2nd year. The completely overwhelming CHANGE doesn't seem permanent until the 2nd year. And then hope fades. You will never again get to be the person you were before. She is gone, just as permanently as the baby who grew under her heart. They died together.
And I don't know if the change in the eyes happens the day the baby dies, or more when the mother realizes that it can't ever be made okay again - she will never be whole again - and then her eyes change. Something shifts between the eyelids and and the eyebrows, and its so real that I can see it in others and not be surprised when they eventually tell me about their dead baby. I can think back to a high school teacher who's daughter died very young and suddenly understand that look in her eyes that I had always misunderstood. And yet, I was shocked the day I saw it in my eyes. Its our secret code, the true meaning known only to members of this awful, unwanted, club.
I have the eyes of a loss-mama. I still see amazing beauty everywhere I look, so don't mistake the edge of sadness for an inability to feel joy. There is just a new depth to everything.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Crash
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.
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.
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. :)
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