reason

There is this forest road some forty minutes away from our cabin. The first time we drove it to check out the sights, it was a few months after our baby died. Sensing how we all need the solace and silence of nature, my husband R packed us all into the car for a drive. The views astounded us. The silence, and the liveliness of it all. And, to see large fields of ferns, growing amongst soldiers of trees, was simply an unforgettable sight, for us used to the gray and brown and small foliage of the desert.

Recently, we took the drive again. I wanted to show you some pictures, but none portrayed the grandness and nonchalance of the place. It is rugged, yet regal. Very quiet. So still, yet brimming over with life (and decay, of course). The forest road runs at a high altitude, so there are several points where you stop and look out over massive areas densely crowded with trees, across mesas and often eye-to-eye with the clouds. You feel you stand almost at the top of the world, centuries-old rocks supporting you. The ground beneath feels solid, after centuries of movement. It feels strong, after it learned to move with the currents of time and forces of nature. Sweet little colorful flowers bloom here and there to contrast with the earth-old trees and rocks.

Here, along the road, amongst the ancient and the transient, I could feel Ferdinand's spirit very intimately. I knew that I am surrounded by the wholeness of his spirit, even his body. I felt then that he was not lost somewhere, or forever, but here, in the present, at one with the nature and the universe, breathing with me everywhere I go. And here, for an instant, I felt that a reason did not matter anymore.

:::::::::::::::::::

For a long time after he died, I wanted a reason. Desperately. Holding the one page pathological report in my hands, I googled furiously for answers. Those laconic yet loaded terms, within them must be encoded the answer to the mystery of his death.

But I did not find any answers. Not at all.

I searched my brains for things I did and did not do through the 40 weeks that I carried him, and tried to find a reason. Why? Because I felt it would give me some control. If it is because I ate shrimps, then, the next time I shall not touch a shrimp and all shall be fine.

Except I know that is wishful thinking. If only it could be that easy, to have that reassurance. Something else could of course happen.

A reason was so important, so I could hold someone (that is, me) or something, accountable. So I can be on the other side, in control and be all-knowing.

Slowly, gradually, I know that an answer, or a reason, may well just serve as a blind. Just something to give me a false sense of control. Just something to give me the illusion that I know the answer to questions that never shall have answers.

So, sometimes, I feel, there is no need for an answer. Because then there is no false perception of being in control. Then there is no illusion that I hold the key to a door that I can open for others. Sometimes, when immersed in the quiet prowess of nature, I feel that no reason is necessary, only love.

But, only sometimes.

Do you seek a reason? How? Why? If you found a reason, did it help?

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?"

revisiting closure

So.

Say you are injured deeply. Cut to the core and then split right through,
so you can see the sky through your middle.

And it really, really hurts, so much so that you're not quite sure you can stand it.

And it keeps on hurting.

Daily.
Hourly.
Every blessed, pained minute.

Sometimes you have to concentrate on breathing just so the seconds can pass.

Some might suggest that you let the wound be stitched up.
Close it up so that you can't even tell it's there

(well, except for the big scar and the dented-in hollow place)

and try to act like it didn't happen.
Patch it, spackle it, and move on, Missy!

But you have a fascination with what's been exposed.
And you don't want to act like it didn't happen
Or that you are the same.

So you tend and clean the wound, and it does heal.
But you don't let it close up.

And if you do that,
do you then have a special window into your innermost center?
A place you can expose to others, if you have a mind to, and say

Look, I was wounded like this, but I can still walk around, and isn't that cool?

A lens through which you can catch glimpses of the eternal?
Can it be a good thing?
Or even a thing of beauty?

Is the opposite of closure

An opening?

Today's lovely words are leant to us by Julie, a dear friend and mama to starborne Ward. She peppers her blog with poetry so familiar it calms and electrifies me all at once, and with thoughts on meditation, visions, gratitude, and staying open to cross-dimensional love.

If you'd like access to Julie's newly private blog (the reason for which is happily explained within), email us here at Glow and we'll pass you along to her.

welcome, sweet baby

Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
without the words,
and never stops at all.

~ Emily Dickinson

Our very own Julia has a new son today, and we're all thrilled beyond measure. Go and send her your love, won't you?

Many thanks to Melody of Slurping Life for the lovely photo and quote.