inside the daily crazy

I haven't held a baby since March 31st of last year. She was beautiful, and so cold. I held on for hours, telling her how much I loved her, my vision blurred with a lightning bolt migraine and an endless stream of tears. One of her doctors came in to offer his condolences; he stayed at the doorway with visibly shaking hands. He was young and I actually felt sorry for him in the moment before the first buds of hatred sprouted.

A nurse helped me dress her in a soft white onesie before we wrapped her in a blanket. Then we said goodbye, because I couldn't take the physical effects of death anymore. The walls were closing in on us and I just couldn't make her warm again. They put us in a cab and as it pulled away I saw the counsellor who had visited us through the week running out after us. Our eyes met briefly through the window but I couldn't ask the driver to stop. The look on her face had made me instantly nauseous.

.::.

We're at that age. I have friends who are pregnant, friends who are trying to get pregnant, friends with thriving, adorable infants whose photos it simultaneously kills and thrills me to look at on Facebook. Blessed with some wonderful women in my life, I constantly wonder what it will be like when the first one holds out a newborn for me to hold. Will I hold it together? Or will I crumble?

.::.

"She'd be tottering around back here by now, just learning to walk." I gesture over my shoulder from the patio table toward the green lawn in our backyard. Hold my arms out like an idiot lacking balance to demonstrate.

He smiles just slightly with acknowledgement, nodding.

"And there'd be shit everywhere."

"...."

"....shit?"

"Yeah. Toys and stuff. You know. Baby shit."

Ah.

Understood. The good kind of shit, not the dirtied diaper kind.

Eloquent.

.::.

There are a few advantages to working for the same company as your spouse. We travel together in the morning, reading the free daily on a swaying train. We get caught up, decide who's going to cook that evening. Occasionally we bicker and I tell him we shouldn't travel together anymore. We have our coffee guy. Our bagel guy. I only need one Christmas party outfit.

The downside is that he's been there for almost ten years. People have known him a long time. They knew him before, when his wife was expecting. They collected their heavy shrapnel-like coins and a few generous notes in an envelope until there was enough to buy us a congratulatory gift. They noticed his two month absence after she died.

Over the past year or so I have been able to tell every time I'm introduced to someone new whether or not they know. I recognize the moment it clicks. The hear the accent and the familar surname. There is a flash of recognition in their eyes, replaced just a second too late to be hidden by the forced and cheerful smile that follows.

There are a handful who just plain old avoid me altogether. Actually look to the floor when I walk past, and hell maybe I'm imagining it with my all sorts of crazy, but I'll bet it's not unlike the way they look at a person who's terminally ill, or whose spouse is cheating on them and they're the only one in the whole goddamn building who hasn't clued in yet.

They're the ones I want to get up real close to. So close that our noses touch and they are forced to look me in the eye when I tell them that I'm not contagious.

.::.

There are babies I do like being around. In line at the grocery store, gumming away on a soother, holding it out for my inspection when I catch their eye and smile. There are the ones on the train after work. Sat cozily in slings against their mother's chest, waving their arms and staring at everyone innocently.

I make it a point to sit next to them, getting a little anonymous fix in. One goofy look and the cutest ones pay back in spades, kicking the air and coo'ing at me with interest. Mostly their parents smile at me and laugh, proud and chatty to the blonde who they see as a harmless kid lover.

"Do you have any?"

I just shake my head no. Nothing further required. All they see is a friendly woman of childbearing age, engaging with their perfect kid. Maybe they believe I'm secretly pregnant, or hoping to be.  They don't know, and I don't have to explain the truth. In those ten minutes until my stop I can enjoy sweet baby bliss under the gaze of someone who will never know my story, and who will never be searching for the crazy reaction of the woman who lost her own. Sadly, it's appears to be all I can handle just yet.

.::.

What was your first experience with a baby after your loss? How did you handle it - was it easier or more difficult than you feared it would be?

Balancing act

"How the fuck do you think I am?"

How many times have you wanted to scream that? Alternatively, how many times have you wanted to meet their eyes, all calm, cool, and collected, and say that? Just say it-- no forced smile, no nothing. No other escape routes we seem to want to provide. How many times?

And how many times have you actually said it?

Why is that, you think?

We've had some incredible conversations here at Glow the last little while. It's not that we haven't had them before-- we nearly always do. But the last batch, the last month or so, they seem to intertwine. A funny thing-- even after the thesis of this post came to me, a couple of weeks ago now, its themes kept echoing in new posts and in comments. (Or maybe it's just that once you buy a red car you start noticing them everywhere. I don't know-- you tell me.)

A quick mental experiment for you. Ready? Ok. So you are at a small informal gathering. Beer and hot dogs, that kind of thing. Elitist that I am, I am having a Leffe Brune, slowly, since I am enjoying every little sip. (Hey, it's my mental experiment. Just because I haven't had a real one of these in years is no reason not to throw one into a hypothetical, right?) And what are you drinking? So anyway, it's now like an hour and a half into the party, and who should show up but NM, with her three months old sleeping peacefully in the stroller, of course. She's a very nice person, and you have nothing against her. She apologizes for being late and goes on to say that she just doesn't seem to get anywhere on time anymore. Or into the shower, for that matter, most days.

This is now the part of the exercise where I ask you a question. Here goes: what do you think NM hears in return? 

Personally, I am hearing encouragement and gentle teasing. War stories, of course. All driving at the same essential point-- oh, dear, a shower is a luxury, sleep is a dream, you are a blabbering mess starved for adult conversation but lacking mental capacity to carry one out. And it's all supposed to be like this. C'mon, taking care of a baby is hard work.

Sounds about right? Ok, so let me tweak the scenario a bit. The woman late to the party is BM, and her baby died three months ago. She apologizes for being late and goes on to say that she just doesn't seem to get anywhere on time anymore. Or into the shower, for that matter, most days.

Next question: how do you figure she's treated? And no fair making this a Glow reunion party-- this is just your regular old summer gathering.

I'm seeing a range of reactions. A couple of people look away, perhaps exchanging meaningful glances. Somebody, I am sure, attempts to engage her in conversation about the weather and local sports teams. If she's particularly unlucky, someone might want to sympathize by saying that her own three year old still wants so much mommy time that she has a hard time getting to the shower on weekend mornings. I wonder if someone actually tells her that she's lucky she can sleep in if she needs to. I wonder, also, whether the very concerned take her for a walk to tell her that she really needs to pull herself together, and that the people who just said those things that made her cringe? They meant well, and she's just being oversensitive. Or maybe they just whisper these things behind her back, shooting sideway glances at her, as she nurses her beer in the corner, looking a bit out of it to be honest, the poor dear.

Pity. I don't know about you, but what I'd really like to do it to tell the person pitying me just where and just how deep to shove it. Pity is one of the very few things about bereavement that make me certifiable angry. I don't want pity. I want empathy. I want it to be a genuine and universal response at that party to tell BM that it's all ok, that of course she's having a hard time, that grieving is hard work, and it's all so very new still. And yes, I also want world peace and a pony. Why do you ask?

I've known for a long time that I hate pity. But I've believed it to be all about me. I thought it devalued me, discounted me, separated me from the one doing the pitying. I still think that. But now I think there's more to it. I think it's also about how I want the worth of my child to be seen, how I want him to be valued.

I asked all of you here about self-care, and in the comments there ensued a conversation about putting on make up as some sort of war mask, a face to present to the world, to hide behind. Something to make yourself look presentable, functional. Sane?

Within days of that conversation, our very own Bon found herself at the center of a large and swirling shitstorm. See, Bon wrote a letter. A very reasonable and articulate letter to the hospital where Finn was born and where he died only hours later. She asked them to temper the looky at these incredible survivors here, don't you just admire their spunk, pluck, and tenaciousness tone of their fundraising literature when such literature is sent to bereaved families. (Can I get an Amen? And thank you.)

So what do you suppose happened when CBC picked up the story? If you said that the tone of the article (now toned well the hell down following pushback) made Bon out to be a fragile and possibly ranty woman on the lookout for perceived injustices to stomp her feet at, and that a bunch of readers piled on with comments to the same effect, suggesting, you know, grief counselling for the poor sad woman, clearly out of her mind with grief, ding-ding-ding you win. Grief counselling. To learn to, you know, manage your grief. To learn to contain it. To stop letting it pollute polite conversation. (To be clear-- I am not knocking grief counselling. I am knocking the people who believe that it graduates fixed people, happy people, completely over their grief, and ready to fully rejoin society, already in progress.)

A somewhat funny thing happened as the comments rolled on. A link to the original letter got posted. People came to stand up for Bon and to push back. And some of the knee-jerkers even clicked over to read the letter. And some even said something to the effect of "oh, well, the letter is reasonable." And aren't we all glad it met with their eventual approval?

And so here's my new hypothesis. I think we try to act like we have it together because we need to be seen as sane. Because in-sane people are easy to dismiss.

She's just insane with grief, can you imagine?

You can pity the insane and walk on by. It's totally allowed. You can even judge them. They are the other, not you, not one of the normals. You don't have to try her grief on in your mind. She's clearly lost it, and you would never let yourself fall apart like that. I mean, sad things happen all the time, but it's been months now. You'd think she'd be better by now, you know?

Sane people, on the other hand, need to be taken seriously. We interact with them. We're supposed to listen to what they say. Pay attention.

And so I think that some part of our need to be seen as sane is not about us. Not about our pride being hurt if we are pitied. Not about being infuriated because we are patronized with idiotic advice on how to make it all better. I think that some part of this is about the need to have our children, these little people we are grieving, be seen as profoundly cherished. Grieved by crazy people, they are invisible. Grieved by articulate sane people who are still hurting, they are suddenly important. Worthy.

I think we hold it together so that when we choose to talk about it, we are not dismissed. I think one of the things we most want others to understand is that our grief is not an overreaction, that our love for the person who died warrants the grief, that it's messy as all get out, but that the mess too is normal. Not an overreaction. Not an overreaction. NOT an overreaction.

Tash once found a sentence in her medical records: "the parents have been grieving appropriately." Yeah, I see your eyebrow. Mine did that too. So glad the white coats approve, right? But as much as it stings delivered like that, as a judgement, even if a positive judgement, I think I might want that on a t-shirt--  I am grieving appropriately. Now shut up, stop judging, and listen. 

What about you? How much of your grief do you let others see? And what happens when you do?

don't hold me and burn me

"What, honey, what did you say?"

"Mom, I don't want you to hold me and burn me."

We were in a thrift store. Me and my two living children. I was sifting through the racks, tired from desperation. I needed to find something I can fit into. Something that could accomodate my flabby post-birth body and my swollen grief. Then I heard my younger daughter, then four, say those words--

"Please do not hold me and burn me."

I had to ask her to repeat a few times because I was not sure what she was talking about.

And then suddenly, under that fluorescent lighting of the store and amidst the smell of pre-owned clothing I suddenly realized what she was talking about.

Of course.

They were with us when we looked at Ferdinand and held him for the last time, before his cremation. She saw me holding him, pressing his hard, frozen body wrapped in a blanket against my chest, saying goodbye. We sang to him together, in that little tiny room without any windows. Then, we drove behind the car of the mortuary guy to the crematorium and they saw him being put in a container and then we said goodbye one more time, and he was cremated.

She was afraid that as my child, I will do the same to her- hold her and then burn her.

I cannot even begin to tell you the feelings that coursed through my body upon the realization. How I held on to the shopping cart to stop myself crumbling to pieces and then leaned over and hugged her and assured her that of course, I would not do that. I told her that we had to cremate her little brother because he was dead.

::

Children and death. It seems they deal with it with grace and ease, and then it seems they get all tangled up in the concept and get confused.

My daughter was four then. Not having witnessed the process of death with her own eyes, death was a very abstract concept to her. While we immediately treated Ferdinand's death in an honest and factual manner, she did not understand it. When they came to the hospital to see him after his birth, his battered body wrapped up in a blanket, with an oversized cap pulled over his head, all to make him appear as "normal" as possible, she asked me to show her his hand, the rest of his head, and she asked if he has a tongue. Since she did not see him alive, ever, she did not understand why he is dead. What makes him dead? Will he still have a tongue, a hand, a head?

Then, I guess as she tried to figure it all out in her head, she asked me, weeks after, to not hold her and burn her.

What keeled me was the thought that she felt that I had the power over her. I could hold her and burn her, if I wish to. Except of course, that was not the case. I was also afraid that she thought that I killed her baby brother. I held him and burned him, reduced him to but a small bag of ashes. I spent the days after telling her over and over again that we did not know why Ferdinand died, but he did, and after a person die, there are different ways of dealing with the body, and cremation was what we chose.

:::

Now, she is a few months shy of becoming six. I think she sort of gets it now. She asks about whether I will bake a cake for Ferdinand this year, as we did last year. She talks about him being dead but still close to us. She no longer asks that I not hold her and burn her. Recently they both had to draw some pictures of our family as they fill in a family tree. She drew her brother just like any other "normal" person she would draw, while her older sister drew him with wings, the way she always envisions him- flying in the sky above us.

::

I wish there is an easier way to explain death to children, but it is really so abstract. And another difficult thing to deal with after our baby has died. We read some books about death after Ferdinand died, but I think the one we liked the most and found the most comfort in was the book Lifetimes. It explains about life, living and death in easily understood terms, and at times I find solace, comfort and strength in these ideas. Not always, but at least, some times.

How about you? Did you have to explain death to younger children, or to children of friends and family? How did you do it? What reactions did you get? What made you keel? Was there anything out of children's mouth that had comforted you? Do you have a book you can recommend for children to talk about death?

Waxing. Poetic?

As I sit here, at my kitchen table, typing this, my left leg is waxed below the knee. My right leg is not. (Not that you would be able to tell, since I am, as is nearly always the case these days, wearing pants. But that is a different part of this post. Be warned.) This is the way it's been ever since Saturday, when I decided to use Cub's naptime to test out one of those drugstore waxing kits. Which wasn't that bad. Actually, it was pretty good. Not like those old time home kits. Lemme tell ya-- those kits were, quite possibly, the cornerstone of the conspiracy devised and perpetrated by the salon owners with the goal of increasing revenue and tips. Because really, once you tried that at home, you were willing to pay whatever it took to have a professional do the job. I know I was.

Professional is such a stretchable term, isn't it? I sure met my share of ladies who stretched it but good before stumbling onto Vicky, the goddess of wax. Who is now, just so you know, the only one allowed down there with the hot, sticky stuff. I also don't trust anyone else near my eyebrows, or even near the insult to injury that is the PCOS-induced facial hair. In fact, nobody else is allowed to wax me anywhere. Period. Vicky is un-humanly quick, equally efficient, and she has this technique for minimizing the paaaaaain. She's also rather thorough, which means that she will make sure to get every.last.hair. Every last one. She is nice to chat with, and just plain nice.

So why then, given unrestricted access to the gold standard herself, am I sitting here with only one leg waxed? Good question. I could say that I was trying to save money. I could. And if I did, I wouldn't even be altogether lying. But why don't you settle into an armchair, or a dimestore, or whatever metaphor for ridiculously transparent psychology you prefer, and let me tell you a story? Warning-- I may or may not restrain myself from the completely unnecessary editorializing at the end. So, the story.

I saw Vicky sometime in the first half of my pregnancy with Monkey. Eye brow wax, I think, before a fancy shmancy function. She mentioned then that a number of her clients come to see her for a bikini wax before giving birth. Makes it less messy after, they said. Uhm, thought I. Not really sure I want to try the lift your leg like so acrobatics inherent in the procedure when I am, you know, huge.

But then it turned out that I had placenta previa. And by turn out I mean I had a huge bleed in the middle of a mall, the day after my thesis defense. Better than the day before, no question. Anyway, these bleeds, they come with hospitalizations and bedpans. Fuuuuuuuun! But as my previa was partial, and as I was deemed a highly responsible and compliant patient, and as I live a short distance away from the hospital, I was allowed to go home after these episodes. And then the placenta moved, and I was cleared for a vaginal birth, but with a big red star on my folder, indicating that should things go to pot, there was a c-section with my name on it faster than you could say any of it.

These hospitalizations, though, taught me a few things. One, I hate bedpans. Hate them. Two, duuuuude, blood is messy. Especially when you can't see so well what all you are doing cleaning it up. So I started rolling that whole bikini wax idea in my head. Still wasn't too excited about it, but could now see the point. So I made a deal with myself-- if I should make it to the week of my due date, I will make an appointment for the day before said due date. I did, and I did. And I went. And Vicky, being the goddess of wax, used all kinds of tricks and table positions to minimize the awkwardness of the lift your leg like so bit.

Next day, the due date, in fact-- spontaneous labor, no real surprises (except for a little bleed at the end that made them all nervous for a bit, but turned out to have been only a long scratch courtesy of Miss Monkey), no def con anything, one gorgeous, loud baby. [If you are squeamish, skip to the next paragraph.] Ok, I warned you-- also hemorrhoids that the nurses on the post partum floor called bad. You know you are screwed when the nurses call them bad. And one haematoma, just for giggles.

For weeks after that, as I stumbled around with my little blue donut pillow, the one that made it possible for me to sit, I praised the wisdom and skill of Vicky, the goddess of wax, at least once daily. Because she clearly spared me some major post partum hassle. And I vowed that I would totally get a wax next time. Like no duh.

Of course next time was different, in so many ways. The baby, he was gorgeous, but not loud. Silent, forever. The labor, induced and weeks before due date. So among these big things, it didn't bother me that I didn't get that wax. But the added mess in the weeks after-- it stang a bit every time I was dealing with it, taunted me in its small way with how hugely not to plan the whole thing went.

You know what was worse? Needing to go see Vicky right around my actual due date. Because I had, without considering all the logistical implications, agreed to go on a cruise vacation shortly after the due date. JD made a pitch centered around the tragic truth we all know only too well-- everything around us was the same, everyone else's lives were the same. It was only our world that crashed. Let's not sit around looking at that, let's go somewhere else and try to make new memories. Sounded reasonable, and so, despite feeling a bit overwhelmed by the prospect, I agreed. Forgot to consider the whole will need to wax thing. In fact, forgot to consider any of the self-care things that go into an undertaking like this.

Result? Surreal and agonizing few days, as I packed, got a pedicure, got a wax, packed some more. And talked to friends about how I was terrified of happy people trying to engage me in a conversation. In the middle of all that, I had to call to make the appointment for that wax. And then I had to go to said appointment. With Vicky, who's known me for years. Years. I was facing the prospect of not only having to get a not-pregnant wax, but also, and this was gonna be FUN, having to tell yet another person that my baby died. In the end, my sister went the day before I was scheduled to go. Ostensibly to get an eyebrow wax. But really, to tell. To make it less of a horror show for me. I love my sister.

I also love Vicky, who was instinctively wonderful when I came. Not intrusive. Not spouting platitudes. Gentle, kind, on the ball. She did all she could do, and yet, it was not enough. Not because there was anything else she could've done. Simply because nothing, then, could've been enough. It was my mistake-- doing things that used to make me happy when nothing could make me happy. I poisoned the well.

And so this is principly why my left leg is waxed below the knee while my right one is not. I was using the home kit, and then the virus I contracted sometime Friday really went to town, and so I didn't have the lung capacity to deal with the other leg. Maybe this weekend. But I was using the home kit largely because the activation energy for making an appointment with Vicky has grown for me since A died. Oh, I still go. I am not suicidal enough to attempt bikini waxing by myself. (I went before the Cub was born, for example-- guessed the right week in my modified bedrest saga and everything. Made for a much easier self-care while living on the NICU couch afterwards, let me tell you.) And I take my face to Vicky once in a while too. But I used to go more frequently, I think. At least it feels like I did. Once I am there, I am good. It's just there is a higher and steeper wall to climb in picking up the phone to call for an appointment.

Well, since we are being this honest, there's likely another reason I am not eager to see Vicky these days. I am huge, again. And this time, there is no excuse in progress. I am trying to be nice to my body. I understand that most of these offending pounds tell the story of pregnancies and hormonal upheavals they bring with and leave behind. But it doesn't make me happy to see it. And so I wear mostly pants. And I avoid putting myself in a position where I have to face the heft unnecessarily. Which is, of course, a very debatable point. What is unnecessarily? And I don't really know how much of what I put into this word is just the heft, just my discomfort at being this large, at being this uncomfortable in my body, and how much is the bereavement, still.

photo by Meredith_Farmer

What about you? What are your habits of self-care? Have they changed in your bereavement? What do you miss? What is new, in the after?

This post is a part of The Body Shop at Glow in the Woods -- a month of themed reflections and memes that explore what we do in an effort to occupy these physical selves with grace after babyloss.