Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.

                                                 -- from Amy Bloom, "Away"

I've been chewing on this quote for months now, and I suppose it's time I do something with it.

The line comes from Amy Bloom's novel Away, wherein the protagonist loses her family in a Pogrom and flees to America.  And then finds out that her daughter, who she sent out of the homicidal rage to the chicken coop, may (may, maybe, could be?  Is it possible?  Is she crazy to believe?) be alive.  And the book proceeds to outline her physical and emotional journey to discover this truth.  It's a beautifully written book, and contains many sentences which were so hard-hitting in their gorgeousness, that I reread them multiple times.  And many, like this one, stuck with me.

It has come to my personal attention that, uh, (tries to remember what day it is; uses fingers to count) 17 months (!) after the fact, that I'm still "in the closet" to many people in my life (read: nearly the entirety of kids' parents in Bella's class, save for one who's shut like a clam due to that doctor/patient thing), and others (read neighbors) simply know the bare bones:  my baby died when she was less than a week old.  So I'm now, finally, hallelujah, to the point where I'm totally ok talking about it, and hell, kinda want to talk about it, and I'm faced with what to say.  So I got to thinking about the clean, tidy anesthetized version, scrubbed up twice with disinfectant and anti-bacterial, free of pet hair.   (OK, maybe not entirely free of pet hair, picks something off my keyboard and something else off my coffee mug.)  And the messy, nasty, gutwrenching, terrifying underbelly.  There is the story I tell in public, and not even that often,  which often simply gets condensed to, "I had a baby, she died when she was six days old."  Then there's the underside, the "smear," that gets told here and in therapy, the story my husband knows.  The story that gets replayed in my head, and in my nightmares.  The two memories, and why I withhold what I do, and why I tell what I do.

For starts, I don't even know where to insert this information into a conversation.  No fellow pre-school parent, for example, has ever asked me how many children I have.  Or if I plan on having more.  Or anything.  Which in no small measure, I'm grateful for.  But I'm now worried that when the opening comes, it will be like a bomb dropping and leaving a wasted plain.    There is, after all, the polite thang.  I'm assuming, having long-ago thrown out my Miss Manners handbook on neonatal loss, that it's probably not polite to discuss death of infants at all.  I think it scares people.  Hence my "in the closet"-ness, and not wearing my "My Baby Died" t-shirt when I pick Bella up.    Really, the whole story's a smear -- so why go there?

I'd love to tell you I'm as brash in real life as I am here, but I'm not.  Frankly, I don't give two farts about other people's scare-factor after what I've been through,  but apparently I do a bit. I don't go there, I don't even give them the nice memory.

Should I broach the subject, there's the why-part, which is really none of their business -- my genetics or infectious self. Inevitably when I tell someone, the next thing out of their mouth is, "Oh my god, what happened?" and I'm left wondering how to elaborate in a way that tells them something, but perhaps not too much, and does so quickly.  And I do this, knowing full well that they probably really don't give a shit, and THEY asked me to be polite, and they're praying I don't go into deatil.  "She was born with a host of irreparable, fatal problems."

But depending on whom I'm speaking with, part of me wants to start elaborating.  To let them know what a shock this was, and that I was not some head-in-the-sand, completely naive late 30-something mother, who smoked or did drugs or drank myself silly for nine months.  "I had a clean amnio, we went to term -- in fact, a week late."   Am I negating blame?  Letting them know how horrific the bombshell was?  Warning them that the universe can be horrifically unkind when you least expect it?

And I hesitate to get into the genetic discussion with most people, even though I know they're wondering (I can practically hear it) if we're going to have another baby.  I don't want to tell them the odds, because in the event I do become pregnant, I don't want them thinking I'm crazy, or knowing that we've used a gamete donor.  Strangely, some people I'd like to shield from this information are in my own family.  I don't want them knowing the odds, anticipating, worrying, getting emotionally invested; nor do I want them rejecting, replacing, or writing off.  But, honestly?  Sometimes I hear myself slipping into the odds, and the scary knowledge that there's "no way to know prenatally."  Am I telling them how pissed I am about my chances and choices?  Preparing them for failure in case there is another?  Trying to scare them too, informing them that ultrasounds are merely gross generalizations that occasionally can predict gender and obvious visible problems, but occasionally fail to discern numerous, mortal conditions?

The two memories.

I had a baby, she died when she was six days old.  She was born with a host of irreparable, fatal problems.  (I had a clean amnio, we went to term -- in fact, a week late.  I have up to a 1:4 chance of this happening again, with no way to know prenatally.)

And the underside of sobbing, anger, despair.  The memories of hospitals, tubes, needles, seizures.  The discussions about comfort levels, and removal from life support.  The knowledge of funeral homes, cremation, and explaining death of a sibling to a toddler.  The ongoing aftermath of grief and all of its gross, infectious ooze:  sleeplessness, bewilderment, weight I can't lose, short-term memory loss, jealousy, anger, loneliness.  All of it ugly.  Except for her, of course.  She was beautiful, and sadly, not meant for polite conversation.


************************

A couple months ago Mr. ABF came home from a social day of community service with the news that neighbors of ours are "splitting up."  It was news that took my breath away -- two people I adore, two people who've been together for what seems an eternity, two people who are part of the backbone of my very lovely comfortable community.  And the very next thought, after my heartbreak for them, was the heartbreak for us, how it would impact the neighborhood.  They would no longer host or attend functions; their house would sell; their dog, who my daughter insisted on dressing up like on Halloween, would no longer walk by my house.  And the NEXT thought was jeebus, this must be how everyone thought about us:  heartbreak for them, a cloud over the fun-loving community.

These are people who will now be where I am, with the big elephant in the room, no one knowing exactly what to say, including myself.  These people, when pressed, will assuredly also have their two memories -- the one they tell us ("It's nobody's fault"), and the one that careens inside of their heads.  They were so gracious when Maddy died, showing up in person at our door, with hugs and tears and an explanation that they really didn't know what to do, so they brought chocolate.  Which made all the sense in the world to me.  They were people who nudged me out of my shell to say thank you, and people who followed up with me, months after everyone else assumed I was ok, and asked how I was doing -- for real.  These are people with whom I shared the honest answer:  Awful, but functioning.  And so now I feel the need to reach out to them, to let them know I also have no idea what to say or what to bring to the table (Chocolate?  Vodka?) but that I'll be there, that I understand the elephant in the room, the uncomfortable realization that you're no longer who the neighborhood thought you were, that you, too, have two memories.  I'm not asking to be let in on the underside, I'm not even sure I want to hear it.  But I'm willing to bet they'll be grateful that I understand it exists.

Are you "out?"  To everyone or a select few?  And which -- or how much of your -- story do you tell? 

In addition to the box of ashes in my family room, and the unkempt dusty pile of cards tied with ribbon, a padded manila envelope containing a pink blanket, and other hospital detritus and paraphernalia, I have:

-- a lilac bush (gift)
-- a tree in a park (gift)
-- a bracelet
-- hopefully this year, a bench in a local, green setting

Of course I need none of this to remember that my daughter died, but sometimes I like the feeling of tending to something, or having something physical to look at.  Sometimes I just appreciate the bolt of remembrance at an odd time, like standing in line at the grocery store and finding myself studying my bracelet.  Other times I'm rather stunned that I've been watering the lilac for a week and not really thought about the back story, or driven by the park without a glance at the tree, or completely forgotten about the deeper purpose of the jewelery on my wrist and worn it like one would an old watch.

When I first began wearing my bracelet, I thought it was so big, so shiny that it would be impossible not to notice it every waking minute.  I can now go days without realizing I'm wearing it.  It's become a part of me, like the watch or the wedding band, that's just there.  The lilac is now a small bush, but I found myself this week paying far more attention to what kind of pansies I'm going to plant on the corner in front of it this fall.  I don't think it's forgetting, nor do I think it's accepting.  I think it's a matter of my life encircling these objects, and my grief becoming an everyday, commonplace downward glance.  

I tried to think of a simile for how I'm growing used to the strangeness of my grief and the momentoes that litter my life -- a missing limb?  An extra digit?  and the first thing that sprung to my mind was the calmness with which I moved through the baby flotsam of Bella's life, until I was nonplussed to discover a sippy in my purse, or an ABC magnet on my laundry machine.  I guess it's just like this.  What are now everyday objects occasionally pierce my consciousness to remind me of a daughter, and how the routines and symbols of my life have changed around them both.

Whadya you got?

The male perspective in this particular flavor of grief is so often overlooked by what I'll call "society at large."  Husbands are often asked how their wives are doing, but the question is seldom posed to them directly.  Men walk a fine line between what is acceptable in grief, and what is acceptable emotionally to display as a man.  Today CDE, of Once in a Lifetime, contributes his thoughts on a difficult holiday.  CDE and his wife, STE of So Dear and Yet So Far, lost their twin sons  in December/January '07-08.

 
In the past, I'd never given Father's Day that much thought. It was a Hallmark holiday, like Valentine's Day, like Mother's Day. It was a day to call my father and shoot the breeze with him for a little bit. But not much else. I remember one especially amusing one, during a period when my life had sort of gone to shit, when some cable channel thought it'd be good to show Death of a Salesman for Father's Day. Nothing says "I love you, Dad" like infidelity, suicide, and the shabby, slow death of the American Dream. But Father's Day? No big deal. I spent most of my early adult life being spectacularly unsuited for fatherhood.

Eventually, I got to the point where I probably wasn't any less qualified for the job than most people. I'd matured, developed prospects, and most importantly, found someone who wanted to bear my children. When our lives reached the point that we could actually consider trying to have kids, the thought of being a father filled me with something resembling terror. That terror subsided once we realized that it wasn't going to be as simple as having unprotected sex at the right time of the month. It was hard to lose sleep over the impending upheaval of my life and identity as a person when repeated IUIs yielded nothing more than a lot of crushed hopes. Eventually, the fear of being a parent subsided, replaced by the fear of never being a parent. And in the process, I'd spent a lot of time thinking about the importance of fathers. What it means to be a man, and to be a father. What is expected of us, what isn't expected. The roles men do and don't play. I resolved to be a good father. To stand beside my wife and raise our children right, to be strong, smart, brave and kind.

Eventually, we got pregnant. And immediately, the terror came back, but shot through with elation. We found out that we were having twin boys. I was going to be a father to two boys, and immediately I began thinking about how I would talk to them, how I would explain the birds and the bees, how you shouldn't start fights, but should finish them, how being smart was nothing of which you should be ashamed. How I would tell a son who came out to me that he was loved just the way he was. I added the Dangerous Book for Boys to my Amazon wish list. Boys. Twin boys. I think it was at that point that it stopped being fatherhood and started being Fatherhood. And then we lost the boys, and it stopped being fatherhood, Fatherhood, or anything else.

And it's at this point, in the middle of my grief, my loss, my sadness and rage, that Father's Day finally means something. It is yet another reminder of who I could have been, but am not, and may never be. It is my empty arms, my days not spent shopping for onesies and strollers,  my evenings not spent cooking dinner for the family, my nights not spent with a baby asleep on my chest. I am mourning the absence of something I never actually had. No child grew inside me, nobody expected me to have the same connection to my boys that my wife did. But even though all I had was the idea, the potential, the love for what could have been, that emptiness, that lack of possibility, hurts so much that some days it drains me, empties me, robs me of the desire to do anything but sit on the couch and retreat into the shelter of fiction. I've been told that I'm not like the average man, and I strongly suspect that I wouldn't have been like the average father. But the role of father is one I had learned to take seriously, to respect, and one to which I aspired over the last two years. Father's Day would be a new chance for celebration, for recognition. Hallmark holiday? Sure. But "hallmark" has multiple meanings, and I'm spending this particular holiday acutely aware of falling short of one. 

For the record, I was never a Tom Cruise enthusiast, but I never in my life thought taking antidepressants would be for me.

For starts, I never suffered from depression.  Sure, I had the teenage angst years where I boo hoo'd over the boyfriend who dumped me, and the "what do I really want to do with my life" mindfuck when my graduate department admitted they had erred when they let in too many students ahead of me and there was to be no financial or professional assistance in the form of grants or jobs in my future.  Sure, I wrote overly-emotive poetry and listened to Pink Floyd's "The Wall."  I had a solid six-hour cry 18 months into my trying-to-conceive misadventure which was odd enough that my husband came home from work early to sit with me.  But I always felt a solid foundation going through these moments -- a sense that there was more to me than that.  I watched a friend crumble after failing her pre-lims, and realized she had wrapped her entire life -- her entire identity -- into this potential profession.  It hit me (as I passed the kleenex) that I was rather lucky:  I liked  this profession enough, but I had other stuff too.  I liked to cook, I liked to run, I liked to travel.  I had super friends, a fabulous boyfriend (who became my husband) and I figured if I had my wits about me, I could probably make money somehow.  Oh, and someday, I wanted a family.

Furthermore, and this is rather embarrassing, but I was never into mind-altering substances.  I  thought smoking was gross, and never even had the experimental attempt -- of either flavor.  Wouldn't know what drugs to take or where to get them, and I was not remotely interested, anyway.  I didn't realize beer tasted good until I moved to the midwest for grad school, and didn't like wine until I could afford something that didn't come in a box or with a black and white generic "Wine" label on it.

Finally, I liked having ultimate control of my body.  From very early on my life, I was a violinist and a soccer player.  So at a young age I figured out that if I practiced something for literally months on end, suddenly one day my fingers would click and lo, I could play the fingered octaves at the start of the Winiawski Violin Concerto.  I liked that if I did wind sprints around my block (two driveways on, two driveways rest) that come game time, I could throw my internal gear shift and move around someone.   I liked the way I could make my body do things, and there was no interest (no way, really) in allowing something to alter my mind that would mess this up.  I liked the control, not the fuzz.  I had no interest in being numb.  

What I failed to perceive, probably because of my immaturity, was that on some level my brain actually wanted to do these things.  That I liked doing these things.  It just seemed too easy that if I set my mind to a marathon, I could eventually make my legs follow.  And I did.  It all worked perfectly.

****

My husband and I joked (in the macabre way that you do, what with the terminal child in your arms) with each other during Maddy's brief week that we were going to need therapy.  But I think it really hit us, a week later without her, that we did indeed need something.  So we dutifully marched in, sat on the couch, and ground our way through the first awful few weeks of having so much to say and not wanting to say a word.

But I still didn't think I needed antidepressants.  Sure, I was depressed all right, my baby died!  Who wouldn't be?  This is just grief.  Everyone probably wants to crawl in a cave and stay there for 20 years.  I wasn't suicidal, I wasn't in denial.  I wasn't showering or eating much out of the coffee food group, but I was getting out of bed.

And there was Bella.  Two and half, still in diapers.  Not in daycare, because, you know, I was going to be home with the baby anyway.  She was my job, my responsibility.  She was my safety net, my bullet proof vest, and I strongly believe the candle which kept me from wanting to stay in my cave for eternity.  And for a good month or so, I could limp from my bed to her room, change a diaper, find her clean clothes, and start a day.  Probably one spent indoors, or sequestered in the yard, close to the door.  If we were lucky, a weepy trip to the grocery store.  Never the playground.  Never a playdate.  We let her activities lapse.

And one afternoon, Friday, about four weeks after Maddy died, she decided not to nap.

This was a completely unremarkable occurrence for a child who had never really napped in her lifetime, no different than any other day circa 1 p.m. where my tone of voice edges on exasperation.  But she would not acquiesce to quiet time, she would not stay in her room, she would not sit still and have me read to her.  And I was exhausted.  Of it all.  Of the grief, the loss, the aching, the trying, the getting up, changing diapers, putting my feet on the floor every morning with the realization that this was my life -- not some nightmare.  I collapsed on my bed, and could not get up.  I could not open my eyes.  I could not deal with my life.  I lay there glued to my sheets, with a toddler ambling about my house, and I could not call anyone on the phone, sequester her in the room with me.  Immobile.  Tired.  Comatose.

What stunned me was not so much that I couldn't get up, but that my mind ceased to ask for it.  My brain -- instead of screaming at me to lift my eyelids already -- shut down and concluded that this semi-conscious state was acceptable, regardless of the toddler who could possibly tumble down the stairs, walk out the front door, or figure out the safety latch under the kitchen sink.  My husband was at work, but I couldn't lift the phone.  Two neighbors had offered to come at a moment's notice if I needed a "time out," but I somehow forgot.  I could no longer rely on my mental faculties to prod me in the right direction and encourage the rest of me to move.  The part of my mind that once compelled me to run 26 miles now couldn't force me to lift my head.  It was . . . . frightening. Sorry Tom, if your brain doesn't send the signal to take vitamins or go for a jog, you ain't gonna.

First thing Monday morning, with resignation, I called my doctor for antidepressants.

A few of my friends had tidy little metaphors for exactly how ADs made them feel:  a tufted cushion to stand on; a buoy to keep their head above water.  I'm not really sure what my reigning metaphor was, but I can tell you this:  it slowed my brain way the hell down.  I went from racing from one deadbaby thought to another to actually being able to catch my breath between sobs.  It allowed me to sleep without tossing for two hours.  It allowed me to drive without breaking down in a (hazardous) blinding torrent of tears and shudders. It also diverted my attention from sticking on one ugly thought for too long:  going through the life support removal replay?  Mind quietly segues to lunch.

It allowed me to function.  I dare say, it helped me grieve.  I had a job to do, and it helped me do my job.  Although my brain never went to the place of endangering myself or Bella with weapons or whatnot, by having my body do nothing, it was in fact endangering us both.  The antidepressant did not make me numb, it did not make me miss Maddy any less.  It by no means made me happy.  It made me get up, it made me move when I needed to, it helped me pay attention.

After a few months, it became readily apparent to me that I had lost my short-term memory --  most likely from the shock of Maddy's death, but possibly abetted by the ADs.  I also noticed when I went to play the ABC -game ("Your name?  Gah.  Lessee:  A, Alice, Allison, Angie, B, Barbara, Betty . . . ") that my mind would not stay on task and focus long enough to get through the C's.  I'm guessing the ADs saw this as anxious fretting and tried to shut my brain down and think about puppies or daisies or something, but it became increasingly frustrating to the point that it made me overwhelmingly anxious.  Heart-racing, short-of-breath anxious.  Given that I felt a bit better all around anyway, I quit taking them at six months.  I haven't felt like I needed them since.

It probably bears repeating that I didn't feel I needed them until a good 4-5 weeks after Maddy died.  If I were to search around in med journals, I bet I might find some reason for this.  I don't think it's unreasonable to think that our body produces hormones and adrenaline after childbirth in order to get us through the first grueling sleepless weeks of our babies' lives.  I know the act of breastfeeding produces oxytocin, and I'm willing to bet letting down does a bit too.  All this conspires to both give us an amount of energy and simultaneously relax and think, perhaps, that we can do this just fine, thanks.  The first month or so many of us are also gently supported by the onslaught of cards, flowers, donations, email, phone calls, meals, and friends and family.  They too dry up about 4-6 weeks later.  I've seen a number of women here on the 'net crash weeks to months after the event.  It's not unusual.  And don't think if you haven't sought help by that point that somehow it's embarrassing if you do now.  It's not sliding backward, it's just what's happening now.

ADs are not to be taken lightly, in either direction:  you may not need them, but grow to rely on them.  Conversely, you may need them, but fear or not understand them.  Either scenario is dangerous in my estimation.  I can't tell you exactly when and if you need them, or when or if you should go off.  In my mind, it was crystal clear:  the day not only my body, but my mind stopped responding was the day I felt I needed them.  The day my mind began to rebel against their function I got off.  To quote every big-pharm commercial:  see a doctor, but please see one, if you think you might need additional help, or need a different dosage or flavor with less side effects, or or if you're ready to leave them behind.

I never, ever thought I'd need ADs.  I had seen them work for others, so I wasn't opposed to them as a rule, but just didn't think I was the type.  I had a foundation!  I was more than this death!  I had a life to live!  I've run a marathon, for Pete's sake!  But all that meant nothing when I realized I -- my mind -- had neglected Bella for an afternoon.  And not cared.  And there was no way I was going to let it do that to either of us again.

I read Deborah Davis’ Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your Baby about 4-6 weeks after Maddy died.  I found it . . . redundant.  I guess it was nice knowing I didn’t exist in a void, but confirming that I’d be feeling . . . exactly what I was feeling?  Thanks?  I guess?

But there was a gem in there that helped me significantly, and rolls around in my head to this day.  I’m sorry I can’t quote it verbatim because I sent off my book to another grieving mom, but it went something like this:  it’s actually a good thing that the major decisions we make during the time from hell are made while we’re sleep deprived and loopy and trying to juggle a million different balls and exhausted from crying because that way, they come from the gut.  Davis suggests that it’s a good thing we don’t over-think the major decisions, and that instead, because of our circumstances, they come from somewhere subconscious rather than based on intellectual reasoning.

If I remember correctly, Davis used this statement in the context of removing life support from a child.  But I really think this sentiment applies to a lot of decisions we made under duress, no matter the specific details around your baby’s death.

We did in fact make the decision to remove Maddy from life support.  But it wasn’t even a decision, really, certainly not one that keeps me up at night.  She didn’t have a nervous system to speak of, her heart was only beating thanks to machines, and she was fed through tubes.  At six days, she was given a prognosis of 48 hours -- on the machines.  And after seeing her almost crash (on the machines), twice, surrounded by strangers, we decided that if nothing else, we wanted her to go peacefully and in our arms.  The decision here was really what kind of death we wanted for her, not whether to grant it for her or not.  And I’m more than positive we made the right choice given our grim options.

But we made some other decisions that week:  we moved her to Children’s Hospital from Delivery hospital, where we were told that they might be able to offer us more in terms of a diagnosis.  This was by no means a life-saving measure, and our only hold-up on this particular decision was whether Children’s would honor our wishes and not take life-saving measures when we didn’t want them.  We were a bit leery of the bright and shiny technology, but they were more than sympathetic and accommodating.  We decided other things too:  to have the nurses take pictures.  Not to have Bella see her.  (It was a bit complicated anyway, since Bella wasn’t feeling well to begin with.  But we didn’t force the issue.)  To name her our first choice of girl’s names even though at that point we finally named her on day two we knew she would die.  To take footprints.  To swaddle her for her death instead of dress her.  To have her cremated.    We didn’t have a service.

I think an outsider might look at these “decisions” and analyze, but wait – if you were that mentally exhausted, don’t you think the doctors and nurses and family were somehow guiding you?  Leading you on?  Making your decisions for you?  Putting words in your mouth?  Last year in group therapy I met a woman who told of a scene when her extremely ill two-year old (he lived to a week shy of his third birthday) crashed at the hospital, with her in the room.  The lights flashed, the bag went on, CPR administered, and the line kept steadily flat.  For a good few minutes.  Her son had been sick since a month after his birth, his prognosis was grim.  The doctor looked at her with his arms in the air and the knowing look, the look that says, “I think this is (finally) it.”  And she said, without hesitating, “Keep trying.  It’s not time.”  And they worked, and a few minutes later, the line started bouncing, and her son zoomed back.  And she bought a few more months with him.

For some reason this story comforted me greatly.  She went with her gut, and she was right.  And when I told her my story of my decision to remove Maddy from life support, she said I was her hero – that she couldn’t imagine being faced with that option and having to make a decision.  But you did, I said, you did.  You did in the face of doctors telling you it probably wasn’t the right one.  We both did.  From our hearts, our guts, and we don’t question them.  We were both right.

I’m not entirely comfortable with all of my decisions, especially not having a memorial service.  I just couldn’t.  I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything to do that seemed remotely appropriate, anything to say.  I was so angry and tired and heartbroken it just sounded like salt in a wound and following a script that I didn’t want to be a part of.  It didn’t sound like “closure,” and it didn’t seem like nearly enough for what this poor little girl went through.  And sometimes I regret that we did nothing – that I should have done something to remember, no matter how painful.  Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve made any difference in how some of our family behaves if they had been forced to acknowledge in a public forum that she was here and living and now she was dead and gone.

But, know what?  I really think I made that decision for a reason.  It was my gut talking.  It’s what flew out of my mouth when I was asked, and what I felt in my disoriented, barely vertical state.  And I think my mind was trying to tell me something about my limitations, and what I could handle at the time, and ultimately what was right for me.  For all of us.

I’ve seen women here and elsewhere struggling with the weight of their decisions already made:  to terminate pregnancies in the face of mind-blowing devastation for their babies, or themselves.   To name their dead children, or not.  Whether they held their children long enough, or didn’t hold them at all.  Whether they agreed to autopsies.  Whether they had services.  Whether they should’ve cremated/buried, or vice versa.  And as I told the commenter, I think given the extraordinarily shitty circumstances and the mental capacity we have at those moments, these decisions are made from our guts for a reason.  I don’t like to acknowledge the tiny voices from within because it sounds like I subscribe to teh Crazy, but let’s face it, there are voices that protect and warn:  don’t touch that, it’s hot.  Don’t go that way.  Change lanes, now.  And sometimes, as a parent, that’s the only way to make the tough decisions:  to listen to the tiny voices emitted from the heart, not the mind.  

I recognize fully that some of us were not given decisions to make; that medical personnel or family intruded and made them for us.  And I find that deplorable, and I’m so sorry if that happened to you.  That’s certainly a subject for another post.  But for those of you were given choices, which really weren’t – choices where A was heartbreaking and B was downright shitty – it’s probably best that they were made in the heat of the moment, while you may have been in a hazy drug-induced coma, or on your umpteenth night of no sleep, or after crying your brains out for 12 hours straight.  And now we simply have to breathe through them and recognize that our subconscious was probably trying to tell us something.

Easier said than done, I know.  Easier said than done.

A good friend who lost her husband very suddenly to a brain tumor in ’04 sent me this book last year after Maddy died.  She liked the “Spouse” version, and being cut of a similar cynical edgy sports-lovin’ foul-mouthed cloth as I, thought I might appreciate Child version.  I did, it’s the griefbook I appreciated most, and still find myself picking it up a year later.  One thing I really like about this book is that every page is a topic with a few bullet points, so you can open it randomly and discover something, and if something sits wrong on a particular day you can just flip to the next page and see if that feels better.  (Or put it down, and pick it up months later.  I find it to be rather timeless that way.)  No need to sit and feel like you need a few hours to go through something linear.  I also like that, for-all-intents-and-purposes, it’s genderless and can be applied equally to a husband or wife -- and let’s face it, very little out there on this subject can be.

I'm sure I read this particular passage long ago, during the first pass, but wish it had stuck.  It did not.  And so I am constantly amazed at those thirds who fall at the ends of the spectrum, the ones who surprise me with their understanding and kindness, and the ones who floor me with their inability to show even a modicum of compassion.  The other surprise for me was that this “third rule” included family.

Let’s start with the innocuous middle third.  There will always be those who will treat your life-altering experience as a vacation:  you were gone for a while, you came back, maybe shared some pictures and stories, people mingled around the water cooler for a few days to follow up, and then it got dropped and life moved on.  At some times I’m a bit taken aback at what appears to be complete ignorance (“Did I tell you?  You do know that my kid died, right?”) and yet 30 seconds later am so fucking relieved to be deeply involved in a conversation about how maybe I should pay attention to the  Penguins in the playoffs this year.  Aback that they wouldn’t say anything, relieved that they said nothing, all the while rather pleased that they don’t view me as some bad jinxy hex that needs avoided altogether (although I may be missing some crucifix and garlic waving when I turn to leave).  And frankly I’m at the point where I’m rather pleased that I can go places and talk to people WHO KNOW about things like books and dogs and whether the Steelers did right in the draft (another quarterback?  really?).

I’m constantly surprised by the bookends.  I’m blessed to have some very good friends and family in my life that I knew would be supportive, and they are, but I’m always so impressed by how much.  These are people who have such grace, they make it seem so effortless to say the right thing at exactly the right time.   I end up thanking them, they are just so meaningful and classy, and they look at me as though I’m thanking them for breathing or combing their hair – they simply can’t understand what it is they’re doing that warrants praise when it is simply how they are.  And I realize:  I probably wouldn’t be one of these people if I were on the other side of this mess.  I’d be tongue-tied, never knowing what to say, not horribly sure of my own emotional sanity, and probably wind up in the innocuous middle chatting about the NFL draft.  

But I know I give thanks, and am so surprised by the outpouring of kindness, because of the other end of the spectrum where people shock me with their unsympathetic cruelty.  I don’t think in a million years I would’ve thought that someone could turn my baby dying against me, but indeed, some have.  If someone had told me the day after Maddy died that friends and (gasp) family would not just behave awkwardly around us but actually treat us poorly I would’ve scoffed.  No way.  People are not that stupid and cruel, are they?  (are they?)

Um, yes, gentle reader, they are.  It really began in earnest around six months after.  And suddenly  people began leaving signs in fluorescent paint:  enough.  Stop.  You’re wallowing.  Party poopers.  Isn’t it time to move on?  How dare you suck the life out of someone else’s joyful event.  Don’t want to call me?  Well, two can play at the game.  Apparently six months is about the time when the people of little patience move into that end of the spectrum, and begin a not-too-subtle dance of pushing you, hurrying you, belittling you, ignoring you.  I think it dawns on others, if you’ve ignored them for this long for other reasons (say, they have children that would’ve been the age of your deadone and they haven’t been horribly involved anyway, staying in the middle third for so long), that you’re avoiding them.  No, you’re angry at them.  They develop a complete psychosis about how you must feel about them, without them asking you.  And if you’re unlucky, someday they’ll dump it on you – like one of my neighbors did.

Perhaps most surprising and upsetting to me was that family fell into this category of the “make you feel worse” third.  I should add a disclaimer here that I do have a couple family members – one who I assumed would handle the situation poorly given past experience, and another who had a baby shortly after who we ceased contact with – who have flabbergasted me with their solid appearance in the front end of the spectrum.  They are patient, articulate, compassionate, and the latter even defends us against the detractors despite the fact that we haven’t seen them much since the birth of their son.   But to think your own flesh and blood would grow tired of your grief -- tire of hearing of their relative!  Maddy!  Don’t you miss her too? --  impatiently try and hustle you along through the alleged grief steps (“They must be in that anger phase”), wonder if you’d ever snap out of it.   And then do things like fail to show up at a memorial service for your daughter after promising they’d be there, refuse to answer your calls (even on holidays) after telling them they were disappointed, and as Julia so eloquently put it a few days ago:  refuse to check their shit at the door.  It’s not about them, none of this.

I’m torn; while I’m relieved to look around the blogverse and realize other people’s families let them down too and we’re not the only dysfunction to arise from the ashes of a deadbaby, I’m also saddened that it seems to be such a pattern.  There’s a dissertation to be written here, about the pressures such tragedies put on extended families and how they deal with them long term.   Are they more invested in our happiness than our friends, neighbors and coworkers?  Or does the law of averages simply say that a third of the people you run with, no matter their relation to you, will fall over there, off the edge into a pit of selfishness and denial and ignorance?

But when they get me down, I flip over and revel in the wonderful part of the spectrum again, and wonder why it is that everyone isn’t wired like that.  I would like to think behaving that way is human.  It’s clearly not.

There comes a point in a pregnancy where one usually starts pondering how things will get balanced after the child is born, in terms of of time and psyche:  how will I manage to be both a wife and a mother? (Jeebus, is it really 5:30 already?!)  How will the time get allocated between my obligations to these distinct places of grocery store and nursery, not to mention work, my friends, my family?  A cold wave of early bedtime, schedule-crushed weekends, sick days, babysitters, daycare, and netflix subscriptions suddenly washes over one as she realizes things will change, radically.  There are only so many hours in a day, and while I multitask with the best of them (lifts fingers from keypad ever so slightly in order to blow toddler’s nose, take turn at Candyland, throw ball to dog, click over to respond to chat message, and realize chicken needs defrosting) sometimes things need undivided attention and take priority.  Babies are one of those things.

I remember in the weeks before Maddy was born, wondering how on earth I was going to juggle two children.   And I mean that somewhat in the literal sense of throwing them both in the air, perhaps with a banana some yogurt and a cell phone, and seeing if I could make a five-minute lunch plan out of it for all of us.  But I also mean that in the more figurative sense of balancing my time with them, and the more existential sense of how I would carry them around in my heart and my head, equally, and yet individually and appropriately.  With liberty and justice for all.  And a bit of down time for mom, who needs a good bubble bath now and again.

And so it started, pulling away from the house on a Monday morning, weeping, leaving my toddler behind for 48 hours while I went to birth her sister.  The split opened fresh and wide: guilty for leaving one behind, anxious to meet the other.

Before I could secure on my helmet, my brain began careening from one wall to the other, not only between Bella and Maddy, House and Hospital, but Well and Sick.  It became clear to us by late Tuesday that Maddy was severely impaired, and would likely require exclusive hospitalization or institutional care.   How on earth would I ever manage parenting, loving, holding two extremely different individuals under two roofs separated by distance, time, and most likely money and visiting hours?  This was not what I envisioned when I imagined pointing out to Bella that her sister had just spit up some god-awful substance on my couch that demanded immediate attention, sorry if I couldn't help her find other maraca right this second.  It somehow seemed justified, explainable, easy when both were right there, in front of me.

As the week dragged on I couldn't settle in either place.  When I was at the hospital, I simply longed to be home, snuggled with the well, knowing what sweet life could be.  While I was home, I was racked with guilt for not being at the bedside of an infant -- a tiny babe who couldn't possibly understand, but needed nothing more than her mother next to her side and I yearned to return and touch her small hands.  I was restless in both places, both in spirit and in body.  My eyes cried, my breasts leaked, my head screamed for silence and sleep, my legs found themselves heading to the door, my hands constantly picking up the phone to check on the other, my mouth always speaking of the other daughter:  "Bella, your sister is very sick.  But she is so beautiful."  "Maddy, your big sister Bella wants to meet you so much.  She used precious Dora stickers on your valentine, she must love you immensely."  There was no way to bring these worlds together -- Bella was on month three of a post-nasal drip hack.  One NICU deemed her too young, the other I didn't dare bring her into.  Maddy, with her sea of tubes and wires and machines that go "ping" was in no shape to leave the hospital.  Both children demanded my attention.  Both children deserved it.  I couldn't reconcile my obligations.

The last 24 hours of Maddy's life were spent exclusively at the hospital; I left my home Saturday a mother of two, but two split by location and health.  I came home Sunday night, the mother of two, divided by living and dead.

I wish I could announce that at that point the pendulum finally quit its manic swing, and I settled back into my one-dimensional life.  But it actually became worse.   To this day, I fly back and forth between earth and the underworld, my family room and Hades, with a surprise and suddenness that brings whiplash.  My mind smashes against one wall and is suddenly spinning pel-mel towards the other until it crashes again.  The duties I feel toward my two disparate daughters have left me concussed.

I'm still always guilty of where I am, feeling that I'm snubbing one daughter for the other, unable to spend quality time with one and pay attention to the other’s needs.  I often feel like half a mom.

I discovered early on that Bella, only two-and-a-half at the time of Maddy’s death, began associating my frequent and random griefbursts with whatever activity we happened to be involved in at the time.  Music Class, for example, quickly got scuttled when I cried roundtrip the first week back.  The following week Bella blew up and refused to leave the car, pronouncing “music makes me sad.” (Maddy 1, Bella 0) The tears, apparently, would have to stop during daylight hours lest she begin associating them with trips to the grocery or walking the dog.  I had to manage my grief, no matter how badly I simply wanted to curl in a ball and cry and remember Maddy, and hold it off.  (Bella 1, Maddy 1).

My Maddy-time is right here, right now, on the keypad, typing her name, sharing my memories and feelings.  I try desperately to limit this to when Bella is killing gray matter in front of the television, or when she’s off at school or in bed, but sometimes I need to “check my mail” – see her name, send my love, receive support.  It kills me that when Bella picked up her dad’s camera she turned it and caught me, as I must always seem to her, hunched over the keyboard.  Bella can’t you see that she needs me right now?  That she’s crying?  That she reeks a bit of stale vomit?  That her hands are outstretched?  That mommy needs a few minutes with her?  No, of course you can’t.   Truth be known, I can’t either honey.  But I just need to be with her a moment, m’kay? (Bella 2,346, Maddy 4, 578)

And then there are the times I stifle my memories, my feelings, my grief, and mentally block out the picture of my other daughter and what she would look like today stumbling across the lawn so that I may enjoy Bella attempting to blow bubbles and then eat them, or hanging upside down out of the hammock or delivering Little Miss Bossy Boss her Milk!  Now!  “Oh and some crackers too, Mom!”  So that I can pay attention and avoid a trip to the emergency room, and not get too impatient and testy and be in the moment and breathe and enjoy.  Shit Maddy, your sister’s doing that thing where she’s hangs upside down by one arm on the tree branch and tries to drop four feet, and I can’t right now!.  But the otherworld baby can’t possibly know when it’s a good time to slap me upside the head and demand attention. (Bella, 1.67x10⁷, Maddy 1.24x10⁷)

Sweetie, I’m in an important meeting and everyone’s looking at me, I can’t, I just can’t, can it wait?

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but rush hour tonight is a bitch without taking that detour over the River Styx.  Maybe tomorrow night?  Ok?

I’m right in the middle of dinner, I have raw chicken yuk on my hands, the stove is on, the dog is barking, Bella is crying in front of the fridge, the phone is ringing, the cat just coughed up a hairball perilously close to the salad, can’t you see?  Can’t you see that I just need a few minutes here and then I’ll deal with you?  I’ll be there in just a second.

I know a day will come when the head-banging oscillation will cease, and that I’ll find myself firmly planted here, with only an occasional, slightly depressing venture to visit Maddy.  But I almost dread that day; it will mean we all have grown:  neither of my daughters will need me as much, and I’ll come to realize that the voices in my head aren’t really, it’s just my need to grieve finally waning.  One will no longer be a baby, and I’ll come to realize that the other never was, on this plane.  At which point I’ll only be able to look back and hope I did the best I could, by both of them.

Mother’s Day looms large right there around the corner and I can’t bring myself to celebrate and feel rather guilty accepting anything from the live daughter.  I feel I haven’t been there in full.  For either of them.  I’m constantly distracted by the other, and have yet to figure out how to hold each of them against my still poochy stomach and tell them both simultaneously, “I love you both, equally, fully, with all of my might and ability.  Recognizing that you both are quite different, of course.  You know, in case you hadn’t noticed.”