My Living Child

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First of all, I hate the phrase.  My living child.  It emphasizes that I also have a dead child – two of them, in fact – and it seems to subtly diminish my son's other qualities, to imply that the most important thing about him is that he's here with me, living and breathing. And maybe that's right. But, since for a whole bunch of reasons, I almost never mention him on my own blog, I'd like to tell you a few other things about Gray.

When Gray was three, despite my misgivings, he insisted on wearing an all-pink outfit to preschool. After he got home, I asked him how his day had gone.  Mommy, you know that some of the kids were so stupid that they said that pink was only for girls?  He rolled his eyes at their pitiable lack of knowledge and I told him that, in our family, we didn't use the word stupid.

He has a beautiful tenor voice, sings with an a capella group and used to perform with local opera companies whenever they needed a child actor. He went to a bilingual school until he was eleven and speaks French with just the tiniest American accent. He seems to have lots of friends. He hates almost all sports. He makes and edits movies. He writes political articles for a student magazine. He still gives me spontaneous hugs and ends most telephone conversations with "l love you."  A year or so ago, he asked me, in all seriousness, "Mom, why would anyone care what other people think?"

In some ways, he's so much like me – the same pointy chin, the same eyes – his a shade or two darker – the same cynicism, the same temperament, though without my crippling shyness. In the last few years, he's grown even skinnier and longer limbed and now towers over me. We've never talked about the twins.

This morning, he was sitting at the kitchen table, translating some lines from Virgil for Latin class and I was singing Saturday Night Fever and showing off my best late-70s disco moves, my flailing arms making shadows against the walls. Gray looked up at me.

"You know, Mom, that looks just like —"

"Plato's allegory  about the cave?"  I said

"How did you know I was going to say that? It's kind of a wasty allegory anyway."

And then I said Happy Birthday. Because seventeen years ago today, it was a Wednesday and it was Yom Kippur, the most solemn and the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Labor went quickly and easily and Gray was full term, but there were some problems and I only saw him for a moment before they rushed him off to the NICU. And, terrified and exhausted as I was, it's hard to remember another time when I was so completely, so impossibly filled with hope and joy
 
 
How do you feel about the phrase "living child?"   If you have any living children, we'd love it if you'd tell us just a tiny bit about them.

Lost, and Found

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In March this year, Busted, at Busted Babymaker, lost her twins at 23w due to placental abruption.  (Busted refers to them by her pregnancy nickname, "The Doodles," and after this discussion took place, formally named them Noah and Talia.)   During her hospital stay, someone with authority spoke with her about the options in dealing with the twin's remains, and Busted chose to have the hospital take care of them.  As the twins' due date approached in July, Busted felt the need to do something commemorative.  And when she called around to find out where she might visit her children's remains, she was shocked to hear that they were "lost."

Busted wrote a series of posts (listed below) on how exactly this happened, and how the twins were "found" again, and how she ultimately dealt with their remains.  We post this today -- and hopefully on this website permanently  -- so babyloss mamas fully understand what their options are.  Sadly, these decisions are frequently made when we're understandably emotionally drained, and there are some caveats many wish had been better explained at the time.  There are so many ways to care for the remains of the deceased, as the comments on Busted's final post remind us, and we hope you'll add your experience here (or there) as well. 

We often say, "No Mother should have to think about these things."  Except we do.  My  wish is that these explicit thoughts, explanations, and concerns help not only parents undergoing this awful experience, but professionals and their ability to articulate these options clearly and sympathetically.  Following is an interview with Busted about her experience in July and links to her posts outlining the process.  I hope you add to the discussion at the end.

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glow in the woods awards: september 2008

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Move on is one of those wagging-finger sentiments like don't dwell and focus on the blessings that makes me feel like I'm either going crazy, or yelling into the wind. Or both. With an audience full of backseat drivers.

How is it done, exactly? How do we reconcile this loss with this life? Is it really so simple? Is there a 'The Clapper' for grief that I don't know about?

In one way or another, many of the posts you shared this month seemed to touch on reconciliation. You wrote of living children, of the heart-dizziness that comes from time's trudging along. And of staying open, as one new sister writes of with such grace.

This month we honour Gal, mama to angelbaby Tikva, for her post Thanking, loving, feeling my daughter on her blog Growing Inside. Her words are pure, concentrated love--a love that pokes holes of light in the darknesses of others. Thank you, Gal.

Remember to nominate your favourites by the 14th of every month--thanks to everyone.

September's glowing nominees were, in random order:

B of Simply B for Death and birth

Christine of Running on Empty for No words

Charmed Girl of A Charmed Life for The actual day and The mirror has two faces

Mrs. Spit of Mrs. Spit Spouts Off for Roadside reminders

Carly for her kindness and remembrance at Names in the Sand

Aurelia of No Matter How Small for her post Ten years ago today

Preggo Ashley for The day I got my joy back

Jessie of Our Loss for Love letters

Liane of Seriously for For Seth on his birthday

Glow's own Bon of Crib Chronicles for Love is a tired symphony

 

precious gift

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The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers.   ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

It is the end for our very own Bon--a most happy, safely-delivered end. Which makes it yet another glorious beginning. Go here if you'd like to wish her well.

Thanks to Shutter Sister Tracey for lending us her beautiful photo.

Two sons

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L is a wonderful new person all his own. And yet, because of when he came to us, his story is inextricably connected to that of his brother A. We do not believe in a God who would use children as reward or punishment, a lesson, or a test. For us there is no rhyme or reason to why children die, no higher purpose. For us the only part that is imbued with meaning is what we choose to do with our broken hearts, how we choose to live after, what we choose to articulate and remember. 

In the past nineteen months we learned that grief is the price we pay for love, love’s mirror image. We learned that for us it is not a one-time fee—we will always love and miss our son and Monkey's and L's brother A.G. We learned, too, that grief brings with it fear, for the knowledge of how much there is to lose is both fresh and visceral.

And yet we learned that not taking a chance would be worse. For ourselves and for Monkey, we learned that we were willing to risk our hearts again, in hopes of one day having them expand along with our family. This is the day we couldn’t even imagine only a few short weeks ago. We lived day to day, hour to hour. Today, the enormity of how lucky we got this time and of how far we have come is before us, and we are grateful, as we are grateful to all of you for sharing the day and its meaning with us.

Untimely death is always a tragedy. Yet parents of dead babies have a special loss uniquely ours. We grieve our children. But we also grieve how little we got to know about our children. We know that A had long fingers, but we do not know whether he would’ve used them to play piano, basketball, or neither. We don’t know what color his eyes would’ve been, or what his favorite kasha would have turned out to be. Tiny things that are the stuff of family stories and big things that define one’s character and life paths—we know none of these about our middle son, and we grieve that too.

We know a lot about our daughter, and are looking forward to learning more every day. And we are starting to learn things about our younger son. He loved his first bath. He likes to suck on his hands, and not so much on a pacifier. He is not big on patience, at least for now, but he relaxes and quiets with his mother’s voice and touch.

L is L, his own person. He will not replace his brother, nor should he be expected to. He is not a cosmic payback for the loss of his brother, nor is it possible to make up for that. He is just a boy who makes us feel incredibly lucky to be his parents. We are grateful to all of you for your love and support, and for being here today, and as we are looking forward to continuing to get to know L, we hope and trust that you will regard and treat him as we do—as a unique individual.

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call for entries: glow in the woods awards september 2008

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It's that time again: let's acknowledge new and familiar voices. Nominate a blog post that resonated with you for a Glow in the Woods Award--with our spirituality roundtable coming up, we'd love to read the faith-based musings of babylost mamas and daddies (although, as always, submit whatever moves your heart, on any topic).

Go here to nominate by no later than the 14th of this month, and here to review the winners so far. On the 15th, we'll announce the winner along with a complete list of the nominees. Thanks all!