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.
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