back and forth, back and forth

Three days after we’d arrived at the hospital I was standing over her, staring in amazement. Her legs and arms were cycling away, occasionally bumping herself in the head, not used to the weight of a heavily bandaged arm. How could this beauty possibly be sick? My little Munckin. She smiled at me, a real smile, for the first time. My heart came close to exploding with something a thousand times stronger than love.

“Oh, Munchie! What are we going to do with you?!?”

In spite of our surroundings, I was ecstatic to see that perfect miniature grin.

.::.

“I thought you would be rolling on the floor, screaming and inconsolable.”

“You’re so strong.”

“Do you know how many women would have ended up in a mental ward?”

“I don’t know where you find the strength.”

“My God Jen, you’re just so strong.”

.::.

When they told me she was gone I didn’t understand at first. A woman, who remains faceless in my memory to this day, appeared at my side. She knelt down next to me and I think she took my hand. We had been pushed to the side to give way to the chaos.

“But... but... they’re still working...?”

Things still seemed to be happening. I was waiting for the miracle I just knew would happen. I was confused.

“I’m so sorry. No. Sadie’s gone.”

Four NICU doctors and nurses who had minutes before raced into the room still stood around her tiny bed, doing what they do. The yelling had stopped, but they were still moving. Machines continued to beep. It wasn’t until we walked to her side that they all stopped and looked up. When I saw how reluctant they were to look me in the eye, I knew. Two stayed with us, unhooking her as they asked if I wanted to hold her.

.::.

There are days that are darker than others. I want to call the office and be free to say, “Sorry, but I just can’t do it. It’s all meaningless don’t you see, because today I’ll be useless to anyone but her. She’s dead and I can’t bear to wash my hair and I really just need to stay at home to be with her.” I start to cry in the shower and hate the world for expecting me to stop and get on with it. The only her left for me to be with is not one anyone else understands.

Yet it’s exactly what I do: stop and get on with it. I smile and charm and make plans for the weekend. I maintain what others have built for me and wonder what parts, if any, I can actually lay claim to.

.::.

It was my husband who told me he’d expected me to be inconsolable. It was meant to be a testament to my strength. Like every other grief related ‘compliment’ I’ve had since. My dear partner, who on the darkest of days when I can’t bring myself to utter a single word, hugs me tight through my fragile silence. Having learned it’s easier to not make me vocalize, he simply holds my hand, finds me a tissue.

“It’s ok honey, cry.”

I am silent. I turn away. No words, inside or out, seem able to do what I feel justice. I wipe my tears and will myself to regain control. I want to tell him how bad it still is, but can’t help but feel guilty for forcing it all to his surface when he seems to have found a safe and quiet place to keep it. I know he hurts. I love him to my core and don’t want to magnify his pain with my own unyielding grief.

.::.

I prop myself up. I make my most valiant effort to be what everyone sees. I hope for balance at best. I wonder if the continuous memories playing like home movies in my mind make me a little too broken still.

What I can’t tell people, the fear I barely allow myself to acknowledge, is that I am terrified of what would happen if I did let go. What if my so-called strength is really just a farce? What if I did give in, outside of my own head, and found I couldn’t make it stop? It feels entirely possible. I can’t bear the thought of being so exposed. Like a fish in a bowl, examined from every angle, unable to escape the waiting eyes of those who used to call me strong. The jig would be up.

In the list of adjectives I’d use to describe myself, strong doesn’t even register.

.:.

I’m still so utterly raw; seven and a half months later, but most days feel I’m now left to navigate this journey independently, even with a supportive and loving partner. I wonder if other Babylost Mamas feel an obligation to keep up an appearance of togetherness after a certain amount of time has passed?

glimpses

Today's post is the first from a new contributor to the Glow in the Woods family: Jen of There's a New Monarchy in Town.

Jen is a transplanted Canadian living in London, England, and a first-time mama in the first raw months of life without her daughter Sadie. She came on board as the 7th full-time medusa after writing to us to say 'thanks for being here', and 'I've completely lost my writing mojo' ...at which point we ambushed her to join our motley crew.

Please join us in giving Jen a glowing welcome--we're grateful to have her voice in our midst, and we hope you are, too.

I look back at photos from our four days in Vienna last month. Austria is damn nice, yes. And who knew it was so good at wine making? I loved the cathedral concert at dusk: Mozart and More. The end note of each song hanging in the air like it was up for grabs.

I like the tucked-away bar we stumble onto. The music is good here. The ceilings low, arched, stone. Peanut shells on the floor, wine savvy staff. We decide to sample the local stuff only.

Let’s have another.

.::.

We sit in a tiny room on tiny pastel sofas surrounded by four tiny white walls. Three, if you consider the one behind me is all windows. The view is the Thames and Big Ben. If you were in a restaurant you’d be pleased. Here, it’s nothing short of stifling. If you were me, across from the specialist who took care of her in those last hours, you’d want to scream back. He takes off his glasses to look at me squarely, Australian accent thick, and I wonder if he barely remembers. His words are clinical. I’ll bet the farm his own babies are alive and well.

“I don’t care if you believe it would have happened anyway. I would have taken however many more hours or days or weeks we’d have had with her if that nurse hadn’t moved her.”

It’s what I want to say.

Instead, I rock, shuddering through my sobs, conscious of the three sets of eyes fixed on me as I struggle to recover. I yank two, three more tissues from the box beside me angrily. I stay silent. I feel weak and my voice has forgotten how to work.

.::.

I am comfortable enough now that my confidence has grown as steadily as my indignation. I am here to work. Why are you looking at Facebook? Why are you complaining about someone else before you’ve even proven yourself? Why can’t someone give me the answer?

I smile. I put in 11 hour days on occasion. I think about the possibilities. I dream of what I was meant to be doing.

.::.

She would have been six months old on August 20th. I tried in vain to not imagine what she’d look like, what milestones she would have reached. I am okay, then I’m not, and then I am again. Okay being a different, different place these days. Grief, like an unwanted tagalong, saunters alongside me daily. She is vindictive in the way she chooses the most inopportune times to surface. I thought Sorrow was only a word used in love poems that include, ‘hither’ and ‘unrequited’.

Not so much.

If you have ever wanted to see what damaged goods look like, look no further.

.::.

We have been sitting in the garden for five hours or more, and the table is now a sea of glass, empty and full. I look from my brother to my friends and back to my husband. I laugh heartily and often, and realize in the back of my mind that this is where hope lies: among family and friends, new and old. I am grateful and then in the next breath I am homesick.

I am the luckiest unlucky girl.

.::.

While I took the four hour round trip to Luton and back to reclaim my passport, he went to our favourite place. Waited for me, had a beer in the pub that was once a jail. He is proud and a bit secretive of the contents of his shopping bag. I am always in awe at how much this process pleases him.

Later, he serves a stunning plate of monkfish wrapped in bacon. I fold my pajama’d legs under me and tuck in. Tastes like lobster. Baby squash, peppers, asparagus sauteed next to the sweetest new baby potatoes I’ve ever tasted. I wonder if there are two people in the room who have missed their calling. He raises his glass.

‘Cheers. To the future, whatever it may hold.'

.::.

Fleeting moments of "happiness" continue to catch me off guard. Do you remember the first time you laughed, or felt hope for the future, after your child's death? Did you feel guilty for allowing yourself to do so?

Thankful

It wasn't long after, maybe a month, that I picked up a book.  I was still swimming in the mire, crying uncontrollably, dehydrated, Dance Macabre filling my nightmares, heavy empty arms and leaky breasts consuming my days, all the while thinking:  I am at the bottom.  I am in the trash compactor of hell.  This is as bad as it gets.

And I began reading other stories of moms like me.

And found myself, surprisingly -- not often, but occasionally -- thinking:  wow, how horrible, I can't imagine, I'm so glad that didn't happen to me.

It's odd to be scraping the barrel and finding yourself giving thanks, but there I was reading about mothers who were denied the right to see or hold their children.  Women who were hustled along by the nurses who neglected to give those mothers what was rightfully theirs:  footprints, handprints, locks of hair.  Worse (to me), women drugged by doctors thinking they would appreciate sleeping through the process.  

If some maternal being, even a fellow babyloss mama, came to me, embraced me against her (lavender scented) bosom, clasped my hands in hers and pressed them to her heart, and earnestly implored me while looking tearfully into my eyes:

"Tell me what you're thankful for!"

I would probably scream, "Not a fucking thing," while cramming both our fists down her throat.  There is nothing here to be thankful for, not my child's sorry little life, and the unbearable year and half since.  Not the loss of my daughter's sibling, not watching my husband grieve.  Nothing.

Bite me.

And yet, late at night, while reading through your blogs and comments and words, I often catch my breath, mutter "Oh Shit," and think

It could have been so much worse.

I am thankful I married my husband -- I honestly can't imagine going through this with anyone less than or other than him.

I am thankful Maddy was born where she was, in this town where we had recently moved, and died in Children's -- which was recently rated one of the top Children's hospitals in the country.  They did not give me any answers, but they did not leave me with any doubt to her care, and their complete expenditure of resources and attention in trying to figure out what happened.  Her medical care was unparalleled.  Had Maddy been born in my local hospital, or in the hospital in my former state, we would be left with shrugged shoulders, and undoubtedly, "there's no way of knowing, nothing we can do."

I am thankful for Maddy's nurses.  They deserve capes and fancy wrist bands and theme music -- superheroes, all.

I am thankful my labor was quick, my recovery effortless.  I was on my feet immediately for a week of walking, crouching, sobbing, all away from home, my water bath and fancy salts and hemorrhoid cream.  And physically I was fine.

I am thankful I have pictures, even if they're not good quality.  The one with her clenched fist -- which is a sign of seizure, although I choose to forget that when I look at it -- is my favorite.  I choose to believe she's fighting.

I am thankful she died at Children's, where there was a bereavement department.  Someone spoke to us the day she died, and they kept calling.  They sent a specialist to talk to us about Bella, and had a lactation staff who dealt with ending it -- on a Sunday.  They sent us things we didn't know they had kept.  They still call.  They organize a yearly candlelight service.  She is not forgotten to them, and it makes it so much easier to drive by the hospital -- which I do on a weekly basis.

I am thankful for a small, but strong handful of friends who wrote me, emailed me, called and left messages for me -- when I didn't correspond back.  They didn't care, they didn't ask why, they just kept calling, writing, emailing.  They kept me from drowning.

I'm thankful Maddy's nervous system was determined to be mush.  She most likely felt nothing during her week here.  That relieves me more than you can imagine.

Most of all, I'm thankful I got to set the terms of Maddy's death, and that given what transpired that dreadful week, this one moment, at least, was in our control.  Of course I didn't really control it all, who am I kidding -- when a doctor says "she's being kept alive," basically the universe spirals out of control right from under your seat.  Sometimes I wonder if I could've done things differently, but ultimately she died in our arms.  Given all that happened that week, I don't want to contemplate her end happening in any other way.

Maddy dying is by far the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  And yet, I realize, it could've been so, so much worse.  And I'm oh so thankful that it wasn't.

In retrospect, comparatively speaking (or perhaps not at all), are you at all, remotely, even a teeny bit thankful for anything that happened surrounding the death of your baby/-ies?  And believe me, it's fine if you say "No.  Not a fucking thing.  Are you crazy?"