Staying true to form, the lead up to today proved harder than the actual day. Don't get me wrong, there was an awful lot of crying today, but it was the clean, "I'm really sad", or "I'm really moved" kind, not the feet stomping, hair tearing, "I want to smother myself with a pillow" kind. Phew!
It's amazing how much we dragged our feet about actually getting to the day. Last night, we found thing after thing to do, avoiding going to bed until far after midnight. We both tossed and turned most of the night, aware that I gave birth at 4:46 and 4:48am one year ago. Despite our restlessness, we both missed the actual hour.
We woke, and Bruno made breakfast while I composed the "One Year Update", and then we ate outside and slowly, slowly began the work of the day: remembering. Not that we don't remember all the time, but today was a more conscious process, a conjuring up of the ghosts hiding in corners, so we could face them head on and perhaps convince them to move on.
We knew we wanted to get in the car and drive south, find a beautiful beach off Highway 1, and scatter some more of the boys' ashes. The amount of time we took to get out of the house and on our way was almost comical. We were both terrified and doing everything we could to delay. And in our mutual procrastination, we were as gentle with each other as we were the day we left the hospital.
Finally on the road, we talked some more, aired our different sources of guilt and regret, did our best to mollify each other. We wound our way through the mountains, and when we finally spilled out at Highway 1 and saw the gorgeous blue Pacific, we pulled into the first beach we came to.
We had a picnic overlooking the ocean, and then created a makeshift barrier from the wind to light candles on the little cakes I'd bought for the boys. I had shown them to Bruno before we left the house, and he broke into big gulping sobs. I hugged him tight and felt so blessed to have as my partner someone so in touch with his feelings and able to let them out, able to let me console him. On the beach, we lit the candles and just managed to get in a round of Happy Birthday before the wind blew them out. We ate the cakes, and tried to take in and even enjoy their sweetness.
We then took the boys' photos and the urn with their ashes and walked on the beach. We walked and walked, letting the hot sand warm us, listening to the crashing of the ocean. We found our perfect spot, with a view of cliffs in the background and in the distance, rolled up our pants and stepped into the water. Like the call of the Shofar at the High Holidays, the freezing temperature of the water forced us into consciousness. Awake, and clinging to each other, dizzy with the cold and emotion of it all, we added some of Pedro and Archer to the surf, and watched as the waves rolled in and rolled out, senseless to our tears. We told our sons we love them, and we invited them to go back into the world, to flow out with the water and see what they could see. That was when I burst into big gulping sobs, and Bruno held and consoled me. And then we sat on the warm sand and looked through our pictures of them right after their birth, and remembered some more.
We spent the rest of the day clinging to each other like newly-weds, wandering down Highway 1, strolling through Santa Cruz, and we got back home, we both admitted to feeling relieved: it was a beautiful day, after all.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
One Year Update
Dear Friends and Pedro and Archer lovers new and old,
Well, if you can believe it, today marks the one year anniversary of the birth and death of Pedro and Archer. We, frankly, are stunned that a whole year has gone by. In most ways, we feel the time has slipped past at an alarming pace, and we don't feel quite ready to have reached this day. And in a few ways, the year has been agonizingly, painfully slow.
We wanted, one year later, to thank you all for all your love and support in helping us honor our sons while finding our way through this grief. Each one of you has played a tremendous role in helping us stay afloat, and for that we are profoundly, eternally grateful. Thank you. And I thought that, on this Archer and Pedro's birthday/memorial, I would take a moment to recap our journey thus far.
As most of you know, after we left the hospital in Portland, we continued down to the San Francisco Bay Area and forged a life here. We rented a house in San Mateo, a suburb about 15 miles south of San Francisco, a lovely place with lots of green coming through all the windows and a gloriously tacky Tiki Room outside that has been a wonderful place to host people. Bruno found a great job despite the horrible economy and works very hard as the VP of Product Management and Strategy for a data warehousing start up, Sensage. I reached out to schools here and clients past and drummed up a bit of a tutoring business, tutoring everything from GMAT to SAT to 8th grade Astronomy. My business is still in development, so I'd be grateful if you could think through your Bay Area friends and pass my name along! And in January, I began to act again, and had fabulous luck in that area: I did a 6 week Equity contract in San Francisco performing in 4 wonderful plays with fantastic directors and castmates: a truly joyful time. I also booked an agent, had lots of auditions, and have been included in numerous new play readings, each one a complete blessing. I have never been more grateful for being an artist: art has truly been reviving my soul these last 6 months, and I am fully re-committed to making sure there is good art in the world.
We've biked and hiked and kayaked all over the Bay Area, and taken trips to Tahoe and Mammoth. Bruno hit a very bad spell through the winter where he hemorrhaged a disk in his back (stress?!), a very bad period for us, but countless physically therapy sessions later, he is feeling on the mend, thank goodness. His work has taken him all over, including several trips to Japan and Europe, and is threatening to take him to Brazil next. We still find it hard to be away from each other for long.
We attended HAND (our grief group for neo-natal death) religiously for about 6 months, and now attend sporadically for touch ups, or to lend our experience to others just starting on the grieving path. We have made many friendships there that I think will be lifelong and we are so so grateful that the nurses in Portland steered us HAND's way. Our recovery would have been impossible without HAND.
Emotionally, this year has been a roller coaster. Grief, despite the "stages" is not linear: you don't complete one stage and leave it forever to start battling the next. They all mix together, they come back at surprising moments, leaving you stripped naked vulnerable again just one week after you thought you were finally firmly standing on the ground. Holidays are outrageously hard: letting go of visions of what we thought our Thanksgiving, Hannukah, even Valentine's Day would look like with two boisterous boys. Every time we travel in a car, we are brought back to our cross-country trip and riddled with guilt: no matter how many doctors tell us we did not cause this, that is the hardest thing to let go of. The desire to know what caused this loss so we can avoid it is so strong, as is the feeling that, as parents, we failed to protect our sons. We are still working these feelings through, and I suspect we will be for years. Maybe the guilt will lessen once we have a child who survives and we can raise.
We have not wavered in our desire to start a family, although we have been sorely tested at this point. After losing the boys, we have been pregnant twice, and we have lost both pregnancies. It is pain on top of pain. I have known women who have had trouble starting or maintaining pregnancies, but I have never full understood how debilitating and all consuming it is. Feelings of being broken, of failing to do what comes so easily to others, of being an outside to a club to which it seems the rest of the world belongs: it is awful and soul-ripping. We are doing everything we can to have another child, and I fight daily to retain my sanity and goodwill toward others, especially those with enormous baby bellies who work out next to me at the gym!
But along with all the pain, sorrow, anger, grief and guilt, we have also found our way to laughter again, to joy again. We have reconnected with old friends and made many many new friends and we cherish our friendships with new eyes and hearts. We have held on, at least in moments, to some of that perspective we were so keenly aware of when our grief was fresh. We try to retain the lessons of never knowing what someone else is going through, of practicing empathy and forgiveness toward all. We try. We fail often. But we know a different side of the world now, and so we continue to try.
This blog, which I started when we left the hospital, is still going strong. It has been a great source of comfort to me to have a place to organize my feelings, to share our experience, even to find my funny again, and I'm very grateful for my readers and their comments.
With love and gratitude to all, and wishing Happy Birthday to Pedro and Archer,
Lisa and Bruno
Well, if you can believe it, today marks the one year anniversary of the birth and death of Pedro and Archer. We, frankly, are stunned that a whole year has gone by. In most ways, we feel the time has slipped past at an alarming pace, and we don't feel quite ready to have reached this day. And in a few ways, the year has been agonizingly, painfully slow.
We wanted, one year later, to thank you all for all your love and support in helping us honor our sons while finding our way through this grief. Each one of you has played a tremendous role in helping us stay afloat, and for that we are profoundly, eternally grateful. Thank you. And I thought that, on this Archer and Pedro's birthday/memorial, I would take a moment to recap our journey thus far.
As most of you know, after we left the hospital in Portland, we continued down to the San Francisco Bay Area and forged a life here. We rented a house in San Mateo, a suburb about 15 miles south of San Francisco, a lovely place with lots of green coming through all the windows and a gloriously tacky Tiki Room outside that has been a wonderful place to host people. Bruno found a great job despite the horrible economy and works very hard as the VP of Product Management and Strategy for a data warehousing start up, Sensage. I reached out to schools here and clients past and drummed up a bit of a tutoring business, tutoring everything from GMAT to SAT to 8th grade Astronomy. My business is still in development, so I'd be grateful if you could think through your Bay Area friends and pass my name along! And in January, I began to act again, and had fabulous luck in that area: I did a 6 week Equity contract in San Francisco performing in 4 wonderful plays with fantastic directors and castmates: a truly joyful time. I also booked an agent, had lots of auditions, and have been included in numerous new play readings, each one a complete blessing. I have never been more grateful for being an artist: art has truly been reviving my soul these last 6 months, and I am fully re-committed to making sure there is good art in the world.
We've biked and hiked and kayaked all over the Bay Area, and taken trips to Tahoe and Mammoth. Bruno hit a very bad spell through the winter where he hemorrhaged a disk in his back (stress?!), a very bad period for us, but countless physically therapy sessions later, he is feeling on the mend, thank goodness. His work has taken him all over, including several trips to Japan and Europe, and is threatening to take him to Brazil next. We still find it hard to be away from each other for long.
We attended HAND (our grief group for neo-natal death) religiously for about 6 months, and now attend sporadically for touch ups, or to lend our experience to others just starting on the grieving path. We have made many friendships there that I think will be lifelong and we are so so grateful that the nurses in Portland steered us HAND's way. Our recovery would have been impossible without HAND.
Emotionally, this year has been a roller coaster. Grief, despite the "stages" is not linear: you don't complete one stage and leave it forever to start battling the next. They all mix together, they come back at surprising moments, leaving you stripped naked vulnerable again just one week after you thought you were finally firmly standing on the ground. Holidays are outrageously hard: letting go of visions of what we thought our Thanksgiving, Hannukah, even Valentine's Day would look like with two boisterous boys. Every time we travel in a car, we are brought back to our cross-country trip and riddled with guilt: no matter how many doctors tell us we did not cause this, that is the hardest thing to let go of. The desire to know what caused this loss so we can avoid it is so strong, as is the feeling that, as parents, we failed to protect our sons. We are still working these feelings through, and I suspect we will be for years. Maybe the guilt will lessen once we have a child who survives and we can raise.
We have not wavered in our desire to start a family, although we have been sorely tested at this point. After losing the boys, we have been pregnant twice, and we have lost both pregnancies. It is pain on top of pain. I have known women who have had trouble starting or maintaining pregnancies, but I have never full understood how debilitating and all consuming it is. Feelings of being broken, of failing to do what comes so easily to others, of being an outside to a club to which it seems the rest of the world belongs: it is awful and soul-ripping. We are doing everything we can to have another child, and I fight daily to retain my sanity and goodwill toward others, especially those with enormous baby bellies who work out next to me at the gym!
But along with all the pain, sorrow, anger, grief and guilt, we have also found our way to laughter again, to joy again. We have reconnected with old friends and made many many new friends and we cherish our friendships with new eyes and hearts. We have held on, at least in moments, to some of that perspective we were so keenly aware of when our grief was fresh. We try to retain the lessons of never knowing what someone else is going through, of practicing empathy and forgiveness toward all. We try. We fail often. But we know a different side of the world now, and so we continue to try.
This blog, which I started when we left the hospital, is still going strong. It has been a great source of comfort to me to have a place to organize my feelings, to share our experience, even to find my funny again, and I'm very grateful for my readers and their comments.
With love and gratitude to all, and wishing Happy Birthday to Pedro and Archer,
Lisa and Bruno
Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday Pedro. Happy Birthday Archer. We love you both very much and we miss you profoundly.
Love, Mom and Dad
Love, Mom and Dad
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Let Them Eat Cake
Just so no one gets too worried, I cried my way through most of the morning, but then got myself to my acupuncture appointment, where, THANK GOODNESS, my storm cloud mood shifted and lessened and lifted. As the acupuncturist removed the eye-pillow, an involuntary prayer flew out of my being, "Please protect A, B, C and D" (my four currently pregnant friends). I can't tell you what a relief it was. I know if I can feel hope and prayer for others, that I can find my way to feeling it for myself too.
On the way home, I stopped by a fancy bakery, and picked up two darling petit fours, in chocolate brown and white, shaped like little presents. I also bought a set of mini-candles that spiral gently around. They are called "Curly Candles." I don't know if it is the right thing to do, I am making all this up, but I decided we would need these little birthday cakes to try, tomorrow, not just to mourn, but also to celebrate Curly 3 and Curly 4.
On the way home, I stopped by a fancy bakery, and picked up two darling petit fours, in chocolate brown and white, shaped like little presents. I also bought a set of mini-candles that spiral gently around. They are called "Curly Candles." I don't know if it is the right thing to do, I am making all this up, but I decided we would need these little birthday cakes to try, tomorrow, not just to mourn, but also to celebrate Curly 3 and Curly 4.
Today
Today is not a good day. I have been crying pretty much since I got up. I can vaguely recall that it always seems hardest on the days leading up to a milestone, so I am trying to relax into the fact that today will be the worst of it and tomorrow should be a little better. I'm not really succeeding yet.
Today, I am finding myself wanting to throw out the baby with the bathwater; what a horrible metaphor, and yet how utterly, morbidly appropriate as well. Today, I want to walk away from it all, to move to another country, to run away from my life, my family, my marriage, to sit down on the side of the road somewhere and just not get up again. Today, it just feels too hard to keep being hopeful, to keep being at all.
Today, I'm tired of pain, of sorrow, of disappointment. Today, I'm tired of disappointing others, especially poor Bruno. Today, I am tired of hearing bad news, tired of worrying and doubting, tired of feeling.
Today is not a good day. Let's just get through today, and get on to tomorrow.
Today, I am finding myself wanting to throw out the baby with the bathwater; what a horrible metaphor, and yet how utterly, morbidly appropriate as well. Today, I want to walk away from it all, to move to another country, to run away from my life, my family, my marriage, to sit down on the side of the road somewhere and just not get up again. Today, it just feels too hard to keep being hopeful, to keep being at all.
Today, I'm tired of pain, of sorrow, of disappointment. Today, I'm tired of disappointing others, especially poor Bruno. Today, I am tired of hearing bad news, tired of worrying and doubting, tired of feeling.
Today is not a good day. Let's just get through today, and get on to tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Two Days Out
Today at breakfast, Bruno mentioned that he saw Pedro squirrel bury a peanut in the flower box. I didn't know that Bruno bought into my delusion about the squirrels, and for some reason it made me really happy. A little in joke, a little way to connect about the boys, to experience them together. I know it is weird, but I'll take the joy where it comes.
Speaking of joy, this weekend I got to reunite with the cast of Best of PlayGround to do two of our pieces in the San Francisco Theatre Festival. I don't know what is it about this group of actors, but when we get together I laugh like to lose continence. Oh my goodness. We met up to rehearse, and I was laughing so hard my body actually hurt. I think I'm out of practice. The show went beautifully despite some sound cue disasters and was a pure joy to revisit. Again, I'm taking the good where I can get it.
As we get ever closer to the boys' birthday, I find myself beginning to feel ready. I've been thinking about them a lot lately; I talk to them more than usual, invite them to come cuddle with me at night when, as I hold my pillow, I imagine it is them in my arms. I don't think this is unhealthy. I can't be sure, though. I hear them in songs as I'm driving, and I cry and sob and wail in the sanctity of my car, and then I feel a little better, a little cleaner. There is something that is just killer about this mish-mosh of longing for a new child while mourning the old. And the weird thing is, the times I've felt closest to Archer and Pedro after their loss were the two times I've been pregnant since then: I talked to them practically non-stop, begging them to help me nurture these new lives. I think I've been afraid they'd be jealous.
I don't really believe in heaven, so I don't know where, exactly, I think they are. This troubles me. I try not to think too hard about it, not worry too much about the how and what, but rather just try to feel. I feel them most in nature: in a pair of birds winging across the sky, in the black and gray squirrels dashing through the backyard, in the hummingbirds that appear out of nowhere and stop to eye me: in anything that is free and playing. And even though I don't believe in heaven or reincarnation, and I don't know where I think they are, I worry a lot about whether they get along. Whether they like each other and play well together and are taking good care of each other. I worry about whether they are alone or lonely.
I guess I really did become a Mom.
Speaking of joy, this weekend I got to reunite with the cast of Best of PlayGround to do two of our pieces in the San Francisco Theatre Festival. I don't know what is it about this group of actors, but when we get together I laugh like to lose continence. Oh my goodness. We met up to rehearse, and I was laughing so hard my body actually hurt. I think I'm out of practice. The show went beautifully despite some sound cue disasters and was a pure joy to revisit. Again, I'm taking the good where I can get it.
As we get ever closer to the boys' birthday, I find myself beginning to feel ready. I've been thinking about them a lot lately; I talk to them more than usual, invite them to come cuddle with me at night when, as I hold my pillow, I imagine it is them in my arms. I don't think this is unhealthy. I can't be sure, though. I hear them in songs as I'm driving, and I cry and sob and wail in the sanctity of my car, and then I feel a little better, a little cleaner. There is something that is just killer about this mish-mosh of longing for a new child while mourning the old. And the weird thing is, the times I've felt closest to Archer and Pedro after their loss were the two times I've been pregnant since then: I talked to them practically non-stop, begging them to help me nurture these new lives. I think I've been afraid they'd be jealous.
I don't really believe in heaven, so I don't know where, exactly, I think they are. This troubles me. I try not to think too hard about it, not worry too much about the how and what, but rather just try to feel. I feel them most in nature: in a pair of birds winging across the sky, in the black and gray squirrels dashing through the backyard, in the hummingbirds that appear out of nowhere and stop to eye me: in anything that is free and playing. And even though I don't believe in heaven or reincarnation, and I don't know where I think they are, I worry a lot about whether they get along. Whether they like each other and play well together and are taking good care of each other. I worry about whether they are alone or lonely.
I guess I really did become a Mom.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Fighting
Bruno and I have been fighting a lot, and at some outrageously inopportune moments. It's mostly me: I'm super emotional and hormonal right now. But I have to guess that for both of us, the end of the month is making us more and more uncomfortable. I don't know how we are going to get through that day. I really don't.
As we approach the one year memorial, I am struck by the fact that we didn't have a funeral. At the time, it seemed utterly impossible. The idea of transporting the bodies of our sons from Oregon to CA, of picking a plot, organizing a ceremony, asking everyone to fly in from all over the world on no notice. But the truly impossible thing to imagine was being at that ceremony, being at some grave site attempting to say anything or listen to the comforting words of others. We just couldn't. But now, a year later, I am sorry that I denied our friends and family the opportunity to come and stand and express their grief and love for us and our family. I'm sorry I didn't give Pedro and Archer's grandparents or aunts and uncles a chance to get some closure.
As you might imagine, I've been thinking of Archer and Pedro more and more these days. A year later, I still can't believe they are gone. I think back on the blissful ignorance of my pregnancy, of how happy I was parading around NYC in my maternity clothes, writing my next one woman show in acting class all about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy. I want so much to be pregnant again, to be raising a child, to be walking out of this chapter of our lives and bustling our way through the next. Our loss and our unfullfilled need are mixing together, much to our discomfort. And every day on Facebook I see that someone else is displaying a belly photo, and even my own family has already had one more grandchild and is heading toward another, due the same time as Pedro and Archer.
I feel time stretching and contracting in the most painful combinations. This year since Pedro and Archer's birth and death has flown by far too quickly: it angers me that so much time has passed, that the world has gone on and at such a bawdy pace. At the same time, an infinite amount of time has passed and I am still not holding a baby in my arms, not even pregnant yet. And each month, after facing failure, the days creep by at an unbearably slow pace until we can try again. The calendar is not my friend.
And I am left to conclude that there is nothing to do but stop fighting. Surrender. I cannot push, pull or otherwise manipulate time. I can't bring my sons back. I can't undo what has happened. I can't make myself any younger. Here I stand, in the middle of this story, not the end mind you but the middle, and as my beloved cousin suggests, there is nothing to do except find an oxygen mask, put it on, and keep marching.
Guess I'd better stop fighting with my oxygen mask, eh?
As we approach the one year memorial, I am struck by the fact that we didn't have a funeral. At the time, it seemed utterly impossible. The idea of transporting the bodies of our sons from Oregon to CA, of picking a plot, organizing a ceremony, asking everyone to fly in from all over the world on no notice. But the truly impossible thing to imagine was being at that ceremony, being at some grave site attempting to say anything or listen to the comforting words of others. We just couldn't. But now, a year later, I am sorry that I denied our friends and family the opportunity to come and stand and express their grief and love for us and our family. I'm sorry I didn't give Pedro and Archer's grandparents or aunts and uncles a chance to get some closure.
As you might imagine, I've been thinking of Archer and Pedro more and more these days. A year later, I still can't believe they are gone. I think back on the blissful ignorance of my pregnancy, of how happy I was parading around NYC in my maternity clothes, writing my next one woman show in acting class all about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy. I want so much to be pregnant again, to be raising a child, to be walking out of this chapter of our lives and bustling our way through the next. Our loss and our unfullfilled need are mixing together, much to our discomfort. And every day on Facebook I see that someone else is displaying a belly photo, and even my own family has already had one more grandchild and is heading toward another, due the same time as Pedro and Archer.
I feel time stretching and contracting in the most painful combinations. This year since Pedro and Archer's birth and death has flown by far too quickly: it angers me that so much time has passed, that the world has gone on and at such a bawdy pace. At the same time, an infinite amount of time has passed and I am still not holding a baby in my arms, not even pregnant yet. And each month, after facing failure, the days creep by at an unbearably slow pace until we can try again. The calendar is not my friend.
And I am left to conclude that there is nothing to do but stop fighting. Surrender. I cannot push, pull or otherwise manipulate time. I can't bring my sons back. I can't undo what has happened. I can't make myself any younger. Here I stand, in the middle of this story, not the end mind you but the middle, and as my beloved cousin suggests, there is nothing to do except find an oxygen mask, put it on, and keep marching.
Guess I'd better stop fighting with my oxygen mask, eh?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Two Steps Backward
So it seems I'm down the Rabbit Hole again. Waking in the middle of the night to imagine the hidden mold in the walls is preventing me from getting pregnant again. Running over the details of the cross country trip, reliving the emotional fit I pitched the night before we found my cervix was open, testing out different theories of how I caused the loss of our sons. And sealing the deal with a nice dose of "since I lost us those viable lives, now we will be granted no others".
And none of it is helped by the hormonal, emotional, up and down of trying and failing, trying and failing, month after month.
The Rabbit Hole sucks.
Alice had a Tea Party; seems I'm having a bit of a Pity Party today.
Let's see if I can't find a ladder and climb the hell out of here:
This past week, we went back to HAND, to honor our boys by trying to lend a hand to those at the beginning of the journey. At the meeting, we encountered an old friend, a woman who started her journey with loss at the same time we did, and two new couples, one a month into the journey and another a mere week past their loss. We listened to them, and realized how far we have traveled. Their grief was so raw, so consuming, so total. I remember feeling that way. I remember going into the Trader Joe's wanting to shout, "How can you all shop?! My children have died!!!" Now I shop there weekly and merely scowl at the shocking number of pregnant women roaming the aisle. Perhaps there is something to that and I should start buying all Trader Joe's brand products?
We listened to them rage against the medical system, against inadequate care, against incomplete knowledge and lack of warning that something like this might happen. I remember feeling that way, remember nights spent screaming in my head at all the doctors in my world, not just the ones involved in my pregnancy. They haven't gotten to blaming themselves: that comes later, lasts longer, dies harder.
We watched them cling to each other, holding hands, looking like they wanted to climb into each other, and I thought: I miss that part. The incredible intimacy and tenderness of those early days. And then I looked at my sweet husband, slipped my hand into his and felt him hold on and not let go. Still there, just subtler.
We listened to them talk about feeling guilty for enjoying anything, guilt for laughing: I thought of how much laughter and joy we have experienced this year, despite our losses. We listened to them talk of fearing everything: our fear has quieted down to just one thing.
We counselled them that they would feel terrible like this for some time to come, but not for always and not so acutely. We told them that they would be changed people, there was no getting around that, but that many of the changes would evolve into good things: more empathy for the troubles of others, less concern with the little things, a deeper sense of priority and perspective, an appreciation for individual moments, a respect for the fragility of life and of happiness. We applauded them for being there, for expressing their feelings and their grief, for approaching this head-on. And we let them know that, a year later, things really would feel much much better.
One step forward.
And none of it is helped by the hormonal, emotional, up and down of trying and failing, trying and failing, month after month.
The Rabbit Hole sucks.
Alice had a Tea Party; seems I'm having a bit of a Pity Party today.
Let's see if I can't find a ladder and climb the hell out of here:
This past week, we went back to HAND, to honor our boys by trying to lend a hand to those at the beginning of the journey. At the meeting, we encountered an old friend, a woman who started her journey with loss at the same time we did, and two new couples, one a month into the journey and another a mere week past their loss. We listened to them, and realized how far we have traveled. Their grief was so raw, so consuming, so total. I remember feeling that way. I remember going into the Trader Joe's wanting to shout, "How can you all shop?! My children have died!!!" Now I shop there weekly and merely scowl at the shocking number of pregnant women roaming the aisle. Perhaps there is something to that and I should start buying all Trader Joe's brand products?
We listened to them rage against the medical system, against inadequate care, against incomplete knowledge and lack of warning that something like this might happen. I remember feeling that way, remember nights spent screaming in my head at all the doctors in my world, not just the ones involved in my pregnancy. They haven't gotten to blaming themselves: that comes later, lasts longer, dies harder.
We watched them cling to each other, holding hands, looking like they wanted to climb into each other, and I thought: I miss that part. The incredible intimacy and tenderness of those early days. And then I looked at my sweet husband, slipped my hand into his and felt him hold on and not let go. Still there, just subtler.
We listened to them talk about feeling guilty for enjoying anything, guilt for laughing: I thought of how much laughter and joy we have experienced this year, despite our losses. We listened to them talk of fearing everything: our fear has quieted down to just one thing.
We counselled them that they would feel terrible like this for some time to come, but not for always and not so acutely. We told them that they would be changed people, there was no getting around that, but that many of the changes would evolve into good things: more empathy for the troubles of others, less concern with the little things, a deeper sense of priority and perspective, an appreciation for individual moments, a respect for the fragility of life and of happiness. We applauded them for being there, for expressing their feelings and their grief, for approaching this head-on. And we let them know that, a year later, things really would feel much much better.
One step forward.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tough
This is a tough time. This week marks the one year anniversary of having gone into the hospital in Portland, and at the end of the month we will mark the one year anniversary of the birth and death of Pedro and Archer. It gives me goosebumps to even write it.
I can't believe a year has gone by. I am reduced to sobs at the very concept. Surely it can only have been a few months, no longer than that. The memory is still so present: the memory of them in my body, the memory of them in our arms.
On the other hand, we have certainly grown and healed since we slowly, gently made our way back from Oregon. Our pain is less raw, more integrated. We have both found many many moments of laughter and joy. We have made new friends, settled into a home and a life here. We have gone from being able to talk of nothing but our loss to now deciding when and with whom we share our story. We have started attending HAND only sporadically, every few months, just to check in. We will go this week to honor our sons. We still aim to train to be facilitators, but feel we should wait until we have a successful pregnancy: I remember how desperately I asked the people running our early meetings: did you go on to have more children? Did they survive?
I am angry that a year has passed. I do not feel ready for this birthday, this deathday. I do not feel ready for this to be part of my past. I'm sure it doesn't help that we remain unsuccessful in our attempts to raise a family: Pedro and Archer are still our only children, the children that should have been. I am starting to lose my cool when I see pregnant women. I curse at them under my breath for having the success that eludes me. Interestingly, I do not feel this way about babies. When I see babies, I go all warm inside and tell myself, lovingly: you will have that someday. Go figure.
I have dissociated the two things. To me, pregnancy has become a limit: I can approach it but never achieve it. It is a situation frought with danger and disappointment, with dashed hopes and disaster. Having a child, on the other hand, is the next great adventure for Bruno and me.
As I write this, I hear the obvious solution: adopt. And I think it is a wonderful thing to do in the world, and it may very well be our path. But I'm not ready yet, to give up the dream of having a child that is a mix of me and the man I love, of carrying that child in my body, of suffering all those pains and humiliations and letting it change me, ready me for motherhood. I'm not ready to give that up yet.
And so we will continue to tough it out.
I can't believe a year has gone by. I am reduced to sobs at the very concept. Surely it can only have been a few months, no longer than that. The memory is still so present: the memory of them in my body, the memory of them in our arms.
On the other hand, we have certainly grown and healed since we slowly, gently made our way back from Oregon. Our pain is less raw, more integrated. We have both found many many moments of laughter and joy. We have made new friends, settled into a home and a life here. We have gone from being able to talk of nothing but our loss to now deciding when and with whom we share our story. We have started attending HAND only sporadically, every few months, just to check in. We will go this week to honor our sons. We still aim to train to be facilitators, but feel we should wait until we have a successful pregnancy: I remember how desperately I asked the people running our early meetings: did you go on to have more children? Did they survive?
I am angry that a year has passed. I do not feel ready for this birthday, this deathday. I do not feel ready for this to be part of my past. I'm sure it doesn't help that we remain unsuccessful in our attempts to raise a family: Pedro and Archer are still our only children, the children that should have been. I am starting to lose my cool when I see pregnant women. I curse at them under my breath for having the success that eludes me. Interestingly, I do not feel this way about babies. When I see babies, I go all warm inside and tell myself, lovingly: you will have that someday. Go figure.
I have dissociated the two things. To me, pregnancy has become a limit: I can approach it but never achieve it. It is a situation frought with danger and disappointment, with dashed hopes and disaster. Having a child, on the other hand, is the next great adventure for Bruno and me.
As I write this, I hear the obvious solution: adopt. And I think it is a wonderful thing to do in the world, and it may very well be our path. But I'm not ready yet, to give up the dream of having a child that is a mix of me and the man I love, of carrying that child in my body, of suffering all those pains and humiliations and letting it change me, ready me for motherhood. I'm not ready to give that up yet.
And so we will continue to tough it out.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Easter Medicine
A friend of mine very helpfully wrote me to tell me that she knows lots of people who have had success getting pregnant by using "Easter Medicine".
Easter medicine...let's see:
-Babies hidden all around the lawn in brightly colored eggs: you get to keep any you find. Whether you consume or raise them is up to you...
-using visions of the Easter Bunny to improve fertility (f**king like rabbits concept)
-copious amounts of chocolate, administered a regular intervals
-making love while wearing frilly dresses and large hats
-creatively incorporating jelly beans into your foreplay, just not the black ones. Nobody likes the black ones.
-sitting on a nest of Peeps to encourage good egg hatching.
-dying inside when you get your period, again, and three days later rising up to continue fighting the good fight.
Just keepin' it light, folks.
Easter medicine...let's see:
-Babies hidden all around the lawn in brightly colored eggs: you get to keep any you find. Whether you consume or raise them is up to you...
-using visions of the Easter Bunny to improve fertility (f**king like rabbits concept)
-copious amounts of chocolate, administered a regular intervals
-making love while wearing frilly dresses and large hats
-creatively incorporating jelly beans into your foreplay, just not the black ones. Nobody likes the black ones.
-sitting on a nest of Peeps to encourage good egg hatching.
-dying inside when you get your period, again, and three days later rising up to continue fighting the good fight.
Just keepin' it light, folks.
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