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.


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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? 

The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.

—james baldwin

What is it about the loss of a baby that either a) brings all the assholes out of the woodwork, or b) inspires ordinarily sensible people say asshole-like things?

I have a vested interest and will therefore be the source of your enlightenment a voice intones without speaking.

Then, paraphrased:

Look at Family A, the ones with the daughter who lives in the bubble. Or Family B with all that divorce and the alcoholic and the foreclosure. Or Family C with the boy who is disabled.

You’re not the only one in the world who hurts. Stop dwelling, stop spilling your guts on the internet. Think of all the people around you who need you to be uplifting. Be like so-and-so. She’s always so positive.

All of the above implies that I am a falling-down mess, a naval-gazing embarrassment despite being a mother and a moneymaker and some reasonable facsimile of a wife, at least when I’m not wearing those revolting yellow sweatpants.

I sit ball-gagged with graciousness, almost too confused to be wounded. From where I sit, you see, I am doing well. I’m fiercely proud of myself and my family, a year ago and today. Made to live through it again I would choose to be, do, say and feel the very same without hesitation.

I’ve never been so expansive of a woman as I had to be last year. It was messy, but I swam in it. I wore every aspect of it like a bloody sandwich board around my neck because that’s just what I had to do.

For two months I pumped and cuddled, loving both of those boys regardless of speculative outcomes. I forced myself to stare unblinking at the horror until I could see the beauty underneath all the wires and tubes and bleeping because dammit, if one or both of them were to die, I wanted to remember their hearts, their eyes, their soft skin and wee grunts. Not just machines and misfortune.

Then I went home and rolled around on the floor with my two-year-old, tickled, grilled cheese, daisy-chained, story-read. Then to bed and up again in the morning for my NICU commute, indoctrinating myself to the live version of Bob Marley’s War because it was the only music I could tolerate—a message of hope and hopelessness on such a vast scale that mine might seem manageably provincial in comparison.

Then those double doors would swing open and I’d step across the threshold, the lone good guy at the wild west saloon, guns at my hip, death-defiant. Don’t mess with me. Don’t you fucking dare.

Despite all that, the occasional message persists, a year later: You’re making everyone uncomfortable. Who do you think you are, anyway? Do you think you’re special because of all of this?

What’s almost worse, aside from the logistical nightmare of faking one’s own alien abduction? The flip side: the silence.

What a crummy spring we’re having... too much rain, eh? he mumbles as he fidgets and stares at his shoes. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. He stands in front of a wrinkled, grey, twenty-foot trunk that spits peanuts against his forehead with a shwuck! schwuck! schwuck! as he shrugs elephant? what elephant?

I’m being considerate, the silent majority congratulates itself. Best not mention it. Easier for everyone.

Chickenshit, I say to the latter. Chickenshit with whip cream and a cherry on top.

And in the face of the former—the forcible enlightenment barbershop chorus—I fantasize sticking up for myself without regard for friction.

I’ll do it in my dreams, if nowhere else. In my magical fairyland where the sea rises, the light fails and we hold each other, keep faith with one another, lest the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.

+++++

Through the weekend as it sat on the backburner, this post overheated until it stuck to the bottom, blackened and tough, tainting the rest of my brain with a faintly ruined flavour.

We are a prickly bunch, are we not?

I fish for evidence, cling to outrage. I walk through the world with my arms folded across my chest, daring people to prove me right. And when they act human—when I trigger their own demons and nightmares and they prickle at me for it—I hold it against them. Or when they naturally recoil from deadbaby cooties, as I would have done myself, I scorn them for it.

It's exhausting.

I need Zen and the Art of Spirit-Baby Motherhood to figure out how to be patient with the universe. To redirect misspent energy. To help those who make tentative steps feel welcome standing beside me, even though their attempts may not always be graceful. To be sure of my own truths. To forgive.

A year out, if you've reached it yet, where did you stand?

Robust, medically unremarkable babies are almost comical to me now, all linebackers and lumberjacks and riveter-rosies. Despite the safe arrival of these strapping boys and girls, labours that deviated from a triumphant ideal send some of their mothers into post-performance despair and the beast inside me tugs at its chain, lusting to snap.

But it's pointless folly to deny a hormonal, sleep-deprived postpartum mama her disappointment—like scolding "Think of all the starving children in Ethiopia!" to a teenager who sulks in front of a plateful of creamed spinach.

+++++

One year ago this morning was the dawn of disaster.

If we don’t do this right now we’re going to lose both of them. We can barely find just the one heartbeat, and it’s extremely faint.

I lay strapped down and shaking and a masked face next to my ear whispered urgently through the chaos make a fist, make a fist… and the eyes behind the green paper were glassy and full of doom.

Then the world went black.

Instantaneously I awoke wondering if there had been some mistake, wondering why it hadn’t been done yet, clattering uncontrollably. The fluorescent, sterile room looked as it does when people come to their senses again in movies, shot through a vaseline-smeared lens, all sounds muffled as if underwater.

Which was fair enough. By fault of my own body, one of my sons had drowned.

+++++

This is my goddamned territory. Stop choosing to be here. You don’t belong.

In my imagination I take birthers who mourn their lost goddesshood by the shoulders—especially those held dear—and prop them up in front of a billboard of my beloved Liam at his end, make them look as I had to make myself look. Turn them to stone with my snakes until the slats of the billboard rotate with that whirring click and these small, white words punctuate jet black:

BIRTH MATTERS.

UNTIL IT DOESN’T.

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In a pre-publish fit of uncertainty about this post, of which you see only excerpts, I spoke with Bon about potentially being the first bridge-burner here at Glow in the Woods.

I know it might be pain olympics, I know. But it’s totally true and don’t you think it’s justified and it has to be said and doesn’t that infuriate you too and there’s Us and Them and dammit, I’m tired of them thinking they can use the word ‘grief’ when Liam and Finn are gone.

In the space of this tantrum the post shrank in my head against my will, the venomous bits falling off with shame and imminent dissection.

A woman who calls her body a failure because of an unwanted c-section of a healthy baby leaves me with If you're a failure, what the hell am I? One of my babies is dead because of my body. Don't you dare presume to own my words.

Backed into a corner by the school of uncynical birth, I want to punch my way out. That’s all this is. One year later I’m still angry, blindingly so, hissing through a peephole at the rest of the world's sunshine-dappled daisy meadows.

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What does birth mean to you, now? How do you support birthing friends after what you’ve been through?

Most important: how is it possible to be up to your neck in self-pity and still have compassion for the relative heartbreak of anyone else?