collateral damage

I know that Mother's Day is, for many of us, a difficult day, a day on which we think about our lost children, mourning the fact that we don't seem to count as mothers in the eyes of the world or, perhaps, in our own eyes, mourning the fact that all our children aren't with us. For me, though, Mother's Day has never been about me or my children. Instead, it's a day on which I think about my own mother and mourn the fact that, for reasons I can't quite understand, I'm not with her.

My brother and I always said that no occasion was truly complete until our mother turned to me and said, more in sorrow than in anger, "Niobe, you've ruined my [insert name of holiday]." I ruined so many Mother's Days and birthdays and Fourth of Julys and Thanksgivings and Christmases, that I imagine my mother, as she has brunch today with her other children and step-children, taking a certain grim satisfaction at the idea that, on this Mother's Day, I'm sad because I'm thinking of her.

I've never been able to explain what made things so difficult between me and my mother. Different temperaments, perhaps. Or because my childhood coincided with a long run of turbulent years for her. Or because she disliked and resented her own mother. But, for whatever reason, it seemed that I could never be what my mother wanted me to be, could never do what my mother wanted me to do. We were always fighting and I always lost. No matter how angry I got, my mother could always get angrier and she held the trump card. I loved her and I couldn't be sure if she really loved me.

When I was thirteen, during the chaos that followed my mother's second divorce, I decided to go live with my father and his family, and left, taking my little brother with me. My mother didn't speak to me for six months. She remarried right away and had a child with her new husband. "Niobe," I remember her saying, "you have to remember that I have another daughter now. I don't need you anymore."

Eventually, I grew up and we came to a truce. We weren't exactly close, but we didn't fight and I called my mother almost every week and, once in a while, spent a weekend at her house. When I was pregnant with the twins, my mother was thrilled. She was going to take a month off from work to stay with me. She called all the time to see how I was doing. I know she was buying baby presents, though I told her not to give me anything until -- until I was sure everything was going to be all right.

When it turned out that everything was not going to be all right, my mother came and visited me in the hospital, talked to me, encouraged me to eat. But even then, I could feel her anger building and, by the time I came home, everything I did made her furious.

I was, she told me as I cried and refused to go outside, wallowing in my sorrow. I spoiled my oldest niece's first birthday party, held a few weeks after the twins' deaths, because I hid in an upstairs bedroom, unable to bear seeing the sister-in-law who was eight months' pregnant. I put too many restrictions on what she said, because I asked her not to talk about my stepbrothers' babies. I wasn't grateful enough for all she'd done for me. Now, a year and a half after the twins' deaths, my mother has refused to see me or speak to me for months.

Now, I'm sure I'm making my mother sound like a monster. But she isn't. Really, she isn't. And I'm sure that if she ever read this post, the story I'm telling would be incomprehensible to her. "That's not the way I remember it," I can hear her saying. But, as I see it, the loss of my mother is, in many ways, the saddest part of the twins' deaths. A stone, dropped into a lake, disappears almost immediately. But the ripples -- oh, the ripples. They etch widening circles until they collide with a distant shore.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you and miss you and wish I could fix whatever's wrong between us. I hope that by next Mother's Day I'll be able to say that to you.

Please use the comments to let us know where you are -- literally and figuratively -- and what you're thinking about this Mother's Day.

To the core

You know what annoys me, like, a lot? People around us who manage, effortlessly it seems, to make their interactions with us in our grief, yes, say it with me... all about them. People who make a production, often somewhat publicly, out of agonizing over whether to call their grieving friends, and of what to say. The sort of backdoor self-compliment highlighted on last night's 30 Rock-- "It's hard for me to watch American Idol because I have perfect pitch,"-- the "It's  hard for me to talk to grieving people because of how sensitive and considerate I am" sort of thing.

Luckily, we didn't get many of these directed at us. This past winter, though, I got to witness a public (in as far as an open post on the wilds of the internets is public) display of woe-is-me-I-want-to-be-the-bestest-friend-ever-but-
-it's-so-hard-how-do-I-make-everything-better bit. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was so distasteful to me in that piece of writing and the follow up comments from the author, but then I got it-- it was all about her, about her desire to fix things so she can be seen as the savior, the one who did the right thing, the rightest thing.

Now, I get that humans are self-centered animals, and I am certainly not blameless on that front myself. But dude,  if there is one area, one effing area of human interaction where it behooves you to check your shit at the door, this might be it. Don't you think? I get, too, that doing something, anything, makes people feel less powerless in the face of the big bad random universe. But see above re: checking shit. Because making yourself feel better at the expense of the person already in pain is.. how do I say it... oh, yes-- a pretty shitty thing to do.

This concludes the rant portion of today's post, and brings us to the part where I contemplate, much more calmly, I hope, thoughts this brought up.  

In that post, a few commenters tried, very gently, to tell the author that in grief there is no fixing things, that basically all you can do is be there for your friend, but she wasn't listening. But, but, but was all she had to answer. Finally, Aite, a good friend I've mentioned before, basically gave it to her straight-- it's not about you. Entering the grieving person's space should not be about worrying about how you will look doing the entering. You can't fix anything. Grief is what happens when there is nothing to do. Don't try to fix it, and you won't look dumb. You can't "remind" someone of their grief-- they remember all the time. Whether they want you to bring it up or wait for them to do so is individual, and you should follow your friend's lead in that, but assuming that people forget and you can remind them is pure wishful thinking.

My friend is mighty skilled in this art of abiding, being there for your friend, selflessly, at whatever distance and with whatever in hand your friend needs. I hope, too, that what we are doing here, in this space, is also very much abiding. Talking, listening, not trying to fix the unfixable. Now, if only laptops could dispense booze too... I'd send you all a drink or five.

So who is this grieving person now? If you are the one doing the abiding, who do you assume is in front of you? Is the grieving person changed, forever altered by the grief? Or is this the same person you have known all this time, only in pain and grieving? Are we changed or are we, at the core, the same?

My first impulse was to say that of course we have changed.  A deadbaby blogger who has since gone private was told by one of her friends to not let this change her. What a shitty thing to say, was my immediate response. Would you tell that to a mom who has birthed a living baby? Hell, no. It's a foundational value of our society that parenthood changes people. In the classical mythology of the media and entertainment as well as the assumed playground wisdom, there are things only a parent can understand. Condescending? Of course. But also pervasive and commonly accepted. So why would people not allow it as the same level of truth that having a dead baby should change you? Change you as profoundly and as deeply as having a live one is assumed to change you? And also, don't we all change just by living? Would you want to still be your high school self?

But isn't it also true that we are the same basic people, only now with extra crunchy shitty experiences included? Extra sad.  With extra tender feelings. Extra sensitive to things people say without thinking. Maybe even wiser and more compassionate. But with the same chewy center?  

What defines us as people? Are we changed abruptly, or are we in the process of integrating our grief into the fabric of our selves? Are we defined by grief, or are we living towards defining our grief as a part of our selves? Are we changed, or are we ever-changing?

my son may be in your vacuum cleaner

Seriously. You may wanna go check.

Ferdinand was cremated. There is a possibility that some of his ashes, minute particles of them, escaped the plastic bag that it was supposed to be loaded into and tied firmly and then placed in a plastic box and then a velvet bag and then handed over to us with sympathies.

Some of the ashes may have flown undetected onto the floor of the crematorium and carried about by the shoes of the good guy who helped us cremate our son. Maybe some tiny particles of my son’s ashes got onto the good guy’s shoes and it got thumped off at the post office when he went in to get his mail and some of the dirt was sucked up by the ventilator which re-circulated it into the mailroom and got shuffled into the mail and then got stuck onto a part of an envelope and maybe that envelope is somewhere in your house.

When his ashes arrived in Singapore, at the temple, and they were emptied, from plastic bag to urn, and the breeze, almost ever-present, might have swept up a whiff of the ashes, and they got mixed into the food being prepared for the temple lunch. Or, it got stuck onto somebody’s sweaty arms (it is very humid there) and got carried all over the small island-state, or that somebody got onto an airplane headed for the Swiss Alps and so a part of Ferdinand ended up in a different continent. Have you had a guest recently? Check their shoes, you may find my son.

Before he was cremated, I held him, hugged him tight, and kissed him. Tried to make an imprint on him and tried to engrave his body onto mine. Maybe some of his skin cells were brushed off and stuck on to me, for a few seconds. Then, they may have fallen onto the floor, and got swept out of the funeral home as we exited. The wind from the hills may have swept those cells up, carried them across the country, and dumped them somewhere on the East coast.

The dust may have fallen into your house when you opened your door or your window. You decided to vacuum the house. And there he goes, into your vacuum cleaner.

Or, a few molecules of my son’s ashes may be fertilizing your tomatoes right this very second.

I do sound like I am spinning a tall tale, aint’t I?

Except, we know that everyday the world is on the move, in every sense, whether you take the macro- or micro-view. Foods are transported over long distances, and with them, dust. Air circulates, moves over distances, taking sounds and smells and small tiny particles, including human ashes, with them.

Dust is very tiny. Anything smaller then one-sixteenth of a millimeter in diameter can be defined as dust. They come from everywhere and from anything- dirt, pollen grains, tire rubber, salt sprays from the ocean, skin flakes, fire ashes, volcanic eruptions, desert sands, animal fur, and, let’s not forget about cosmic dust. You may have star dust in your vacuum cleaner too.

When a supernova explodes, it sends small particles of dust far out into space, and some of this dust falls on Earth. You may find some of these cosmic dust particles inside your nostrils.

What is more fascinating is that you cannot destroy dust. You dust, vacuum and sweep, and pour everything into your garbage can and think it is good riddance when the garbage truck rolls around on Monday morning. Well, some of that dust is still on your driveway because when the garbage gets dumped, air gets moved and the air moved the dust too. Rumor is, dust from the dinosaurs still remains, because there is no way you can destroy dust. They move around, get mixed into things of all sorts; things break down, and the dust re-surfaces again.

Come to think of it, dust is a beautiful thing. And so indestructible. So durable, it is forever. Forever swirling around. Here, in my house; there, in your house; on earth, over earth; in the vast Universe, and probably beyond too. Ferdinand, my baby, in my current system of belief, is part ashes, part dust, part soul and part spirit. And so he may well be everywhere right now.

Perhaps in your vacuum cleaner, too.

I will never look at the world the same way again. I will never see dust the same way ever again.

Stirring the pot and singing Kumbaya

Last year, while I was still in the very thick of it, Virginia Tech happened. I didn't watch much TV then at all, and certainly not much in the way of news. I heard of it on the radio, I think. What I did do a lot was read blogs and chat online, mostly with my friend Aite. One day she told me she was watching the coverage of the tragedy, and there was this interview with a father of a student who got killed. One question he was asked was "was he your only child?"

Would it have been any better if he wasn't? Not really. But it would be worse if he was. Facing a life with no surviving children is a separate pain. She is very thoughtful, my friend Aite, isn't she? This is something that stuck with me over the last year, this idea of how some things can't possibly be better, but there are ways in which they can be even worse.

I have been troubled the last few days. Perturbed, bent out of shape, preoccupied.  A comment, a couple of lines and a signature, is what left me alternatively dumbfounded and steaming. A comment that seemed to imply that we here have not so much to talk about because we are, none of us, bereft of living children and at the end of that road.

I never claimed or wanted the mantle of the worst case. In fact, somewhat recently, I finally, after thinking about it for a long time, wrote about one of my coping mechanisms-- the it could've been worse. There are so many ways in which my experience with grief could've been a lot worse. For starters, every time I hear a bereaved parent talk about the guilt they carry, my heart breaks. I have none of it. And this still sucks. Adding guilt on top of the grief seems like it would just be too much. I also had the very best, most compassionate medical care. I have friends who didn't run away, who still remember and take care not to step on my toes. And I have a living daughter. Validating her in her grief, acknowledging that she is a separate part of this story, that her loss is her own and must be respected and honored, all of this has been a challenge. But not one I would ever trade.

Yes, it could've been worse. It is worse for many, I believe. For parents losing their first-borns, how can it not be worse-- wondering whether there will ever be a living child in their home, many times a home lovingly picked in preparation for the arrival of that first-born? For parents who years after losing their child and despite trying and trying, and trying some more have not brought another into the world, how can it not be worse? For parents for whom lightening has struck two or more times, how could it not be worse for them?

So see, I have no problem with anyone telling me I am not the worst off. In fact, I'd be the first to say that. What I do have a problem with, a big huge problem, is with conflating me, an individual who grieves, and my son, an individual I grieve. Or any other baby anyone else grieves. I don't think the value of a child, value of each child to the universe and to their family, can or should be relative to what the family does or doesn't have.

We all grieve our children. We may grieve different things about them. For some it may be as simple and all encompassing as the huge void, the absence, and for them there is no need or use in dividing that void into bite size pieces. Others have come to believe that we grieve the potential. We grieve not knowing. Not knowing so many things. It kills me that I don't know what color A's eyes would've been. What he would've looked like when he smiled. What his laugh would've sounded like.

What has been so upsetting to me in thinking about that comment is the implication that these things I grieve should somehow be less important because he wasn't my first or my only. That not getting to know my son is less of a tragedy because I have a daughter. Or because I may yet get to know another son. The implication that seems to me to be trending towards the hated "you can always have another" line that is the very definition, the very embodiment of the cluelessness of the world around us. The implication that, if extended as logic requires, would indicate that first babies who die lose their specialness, their importance, or the amount of grief allotted to them if or when their parents bring home a living sibling.

Had they lived, our children would be seen and counted as individuals, judged, hopefully, on their own merits. Do they not deserve the same in death? To be seen and mourned as individuals? To matter as individuals?  

So this is my point, a fine one perhaps, but one that has asserted itself as supremely important to me over the last couple of days. The experience of loss, the human interactions of it, the physicality, the treatment we get from medical professionals, from our families, from our friends, the ripples, all of that can be worse.  The situation any given mother or any given family may find themselves in can certainly be worse. Comparing is human nature, and it is ok.

But not when it comes to the babies. I believe that placing differential values on the children based on what else is going on with the family should never be on the menu. Denying me my grief does not speak to who I am or what I have, either in abstract terms or as compared to anyone else. What it does is minimizes my son, makes him less than a person in his own right. And that is just not something I can accept. 

What I believe about each of our lost babies, regardless of anything else, is that they were loved, they were wanted, they are missed, and they are grieved. Other things can be worse. But this, the place where we all started this journey, this place can't really be better.

In.vi.si.ble Boun.da.ries

Invisible, but I see them. Feel them intensely, almost as if they are branded lines on my very skin.

Is it because I created them, and thus only I can discern? Maybe.

I created these boundaries. I stepped over them to the other side.

When F died.

Most of the time, for the girls, I work hard to break down walls, remove boundaries and rip open the horizon further. Push the ceiling, destroy obstacles and burn down the limits. I want to show them, with a dramatic wave of my arm, “Look, girls, look! There are no limits, no lines. Skin color does not matter; what you eat for breakfast is of no significance. We are the human race, don’t let anyone convince you that you are anything less because you are different. Don’t ever let such boundaries trip you up. The world is yours, take it!”

Little did I know I only knew a small measly corner of the world. Before F died.

After F died, a trapdoor swung open and threw me into the world of bereaved parents. Totally unprepared for this unplanned trip, but a visa was granted. Swiftly. There were no guidebooks, no maps, and forget about a tour guide. Once you’re in, you’re in. Sink, swim, or float. Gulp some of that bitter water and swallow it; scream for help or yell for injustice. But once in, you’re citizen for life.

This world is right here, superimposed with the world of healthy, living babies, but not everyone knows of it. Sometimes a person will catch a glimpse of it, and will nod as if they understand. Only they do not realize that invisible boundaries separate us.

It is a world I sometimes have to slip out of, to conjure up some form of “normalcy” for the girls. Park days, play dates, library, shopping… … all those things we used to do. Only I know I do it with a different mind, and a different body. Often while on the other side of the boundary.

In the early months after F died, I built a brick wall up around me. In this little dark corner of the Republic of Grief I built my space, since it looked like we’re in for the long haul. And slowly, I started to probe around. I found other walls, and run my palms over them, tenderly, and gingerly. Yes, yes, some places feel so familiar! Yes, what you said! Exactly! That, that, you just fleshed out in your words. You speak my heart… … I found I was not alone.

The thing is, everyone in the Republic of Grief has dual citizenship, because they still need to be a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, employee, etc. Mouths need to be fed and bills need to be paid. Kids cannot survive on cereal for months on end and they need to be washed and their hair disentangled. You stay in the Republic for ever and ever but it is not a full-time hide-out. Sorry, but on top of the grieving you still need to go and scrub the dingy toilet and queue up to pay for your toilet rolls and/or frozen dinners. Some people require you to hurry up and get over it already so they can stop tiptoeing around you and just say what they want without worrying that you will be upset/hurt/sad/hysterical, etc.

So, like putting on a pair of very ill-fitting thong, with something always getting into the wrong space all the time, you try to fit back into the world where baby losses are a non-feature. You squirm and try to smile and valiantly act like a normal person would because really, you cannot freak out like a moron every other minute. But usually your awkwardness is overlooked in this grief-forgetting world. It is ok. Once you show your face all is assumed fine again.

Bu what can you do? You need that paycheck and your children need their friends and stuff. Moreover, can I really bury myself in this house until green mold grows all over me and my children outgrow all their clothing and have to wear dirty underwear three times over? Can I really wait till I am all-OK before venturing out? (And goodness knows if I’m ever going to be all-ok) So you go on, trudging and fumbling.

And you become acutely aware of these invisible boundaries that exist between you and the non-bereaved. In your mind, you make different lists and think different thoughts. Your heart beats different and flips over different things. Some words mean a different shade of meaning to you. Some dates are just h*ll to go through. Some hours of the day especially witchy. When you sit and eat together you are poignantly aware that you are swallowing something else together with that lopsided piece of quiche, and those half-decaying leaves of salad. And you wash down your foods with different thoughts in your head. You may go to the same stores, but a different memory is triggered in yours when you enter and exit (The last time I was here was to buy something to wrap his ashes in.)

You stand next to each other at the park, swinging your respective kids on the swings, observing the temperature trends and talking about diapers, but all the time this line is drawn between you and your friend. It seems you are standing in the same, physical space, but actually, that boundary puts you in a different dimension. You look at your friend and all of a sudden her words are just a jumble of mumbles, because her language is no longer yours.

Oh, you will never know, you will never understand. How I can still put hot food on the table and get out of the house looking decent, when every muscle in my body is aching for my baby. You have no idea. You have no idea how much strength, and how much courage I need to muster, with clenched fists and gnashed teeth, in order to get through every second of the day, until I finally collapse at the end of it. Behind every thought is the question, “Why is he not here? Why can’t he be here?” Every cell in my body writhes in pain with the memory of the loss, and the void. Every glance I take is in search of my baby. Every breath I take is caustic with reminders of what I have lost. My skin burns to feel the softness of my baby against me; my arms ache to hold and nourish and love. My fingers stretch out in an attempt to hold, but I do not even have memories, except of the pain and shock. My loss is the front-page of my brain every time it gets turned on, even if many pages are running at the same time. Oh, you have no idea what it is, how it is, to live life like this.

This invisible boundary exists. Sometimes attempts to erase this invisible boundary are made, like, “I know, my grandfather died five years ago. We were very very close.” Or, “Our pet toad died last week, it was really devastating.” But no, it is different to have a grandfather die than a baby die (and I do not even have the strength to think how devastated I will be when my beloved grandmother departs one day). Yes, any death is a big loss, including the death of a pet toad, and no accountant or mathematician will be able to put a value on our losses so we can compare.

But the loss of a child is way too different. Aches very different; hurts very unusually. The loss is a very intimate one, tied to our bodies. This child was once a part of you. His heartbeat was beating inside of you, with you. You fed him, nurtured him, curled up to sleep with him. You made promises to show him the world and to shelter and protect him.  And so a baby loss is very different. Unfortunately, the pain and insanity experienced by baby losses can only be known by going through it personally. And I would love to ban everyone from entering the Republic of Grief. Forever. That place should not exist.

Grieving is a full-time job. The intensity of it varies by day and moments and it is not necessarily always hands-on. But there is no leaving it, just getting to know it so well, wearing down its rough edges, so that you can carry it more comfortably in your heart, without having to bleed every second. Grieving is done not just in the Republic of Grief but also in the “normal” world. In the normal world our grief looks different, and our grieving is done differently.

And it creates invisible boundaries.

No words

I have no words for you. No words.

I imagined I might be more eloquent, having experienced the loss of my baby. But no, I have not become more eloquent. I know that pain of loss; I understand that yearning, but I still have no words. Not for you.

I overflowed with words after F died, and I poured them into my journal, then my blog. So many things to say, so many words fighting to get out of my head, wanting to be transformed from sounds to black words on the blank screen. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote…

I thought I would have filled a whole bulging notebook by now, of things I can say to comfort. To let you know that you are not alone. That our children are always remembered, held in this bond forged by loss and love. That crying is ok, and that anger and profanity is fine.

I thought, I could fill in that pause for you, when you stop to search, to grope for that word that will speak your pain. I thought, I could make an outline for you, make a shape, and show you, "Yeah, it looks just like this." But no, I have tried and failed. I am still trying to find that edge, so I can feel around it, so I can frame it and really look at it and study it. 

I thought, as a thread in this quilt of grief and pain, words would just come to me. I would so flawlessly express the ache that every heart wishes to articulate. But, that is not the case.

I thought I would have a magic balm made of soothing words, that once applied, will take away your tears. That will at least the pain in your heart ameliorate. That can make hurt go away, at least for a little while. And to calm that throbbing heart that stings with pain.

But no, I have no words to put into that balm.

I thought by now I have mastered those ingredients of that special recipe of sad soup, that once drank, will course through your body and gather all those pain and sorrow, and then the soup, saturated with sadness, will sweat through your pores and vanish into thin air. So perhaps for a night you sleep in peace, forgetting mournfulness and grief for a few hours. And then, in your dreams, you will hear a song, sang with sweet words of knowing, to soothe that ravaged heart and sore body.

But no, I have no words. Not for that sad song; not even for a card.

I thought, after I have spent so much time banging on my keyboard, looking for the letters and stringing together words to express my own grief and angst, that I can just open my mouth and let my words reach across and touch you. To form a protective shroud around you to comfort you and bring you some light.

But no, I have no words.

Everything I can think of is either lame, stupid or plain clumsy. Everything I can think of comes out wrong once I type them. Everything I can think of, however much heartfelt, is not going to take away any pain or grief or hurt.

I have no words. No words at all.

I can only think of you, and your babies and children. I can only work hard to believe that because they are loved, they are in us, with us, and will never ever be forgotten. In this special space of bereaved and loss, our lost little ones have a special place. I see them. I do believe in my heart, deeply and desperately, that they are here, so close yet so far.

But I am sorry, I have no words.

Only when I read Sukie Mille’s book did I understand this. I have been writing before F was born, and after he died. I wrote and wrote, spewing out pages after pages of words. Only after I read her book did I realize that it was because there is no language for the discussion of a child’s death that I had to search so hard for words, to find that pulse that throbs in agony for being unspeakable.