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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Father's Day
Even though this weekend is dedicated to the fathers, Bruno has been treating me like a queen all weekend, and right now I'm looking at the enormous, peach colored gladiolas Bruno bought yesterday at the Farmer's Market and perched on top of the entertainment center. When we were in the hospital in Oregon, a dear friend of Bruno's, a gentle giant named Nenad came to visit, and brought me an armload of gladiolas, and a Nenad armload is really saying something: he is 6'7". We kept them spread out in several vases, blooming in the window sills for a week, and they gave me so much comfort that, each week we were there, Bruno would go get more, and I would direct him in flower arranging. It is interesting to me that he chose those yesterday. I didn't say anything at first: I didn't know if he remembered. I just remarked on how lovely they were, and he brought it up that they were the ones we'd had at the hospital. We didn't say any more about it, but I somehow feel it is a form of progress: that we can integrate things from that time and allow them to spark memories, but not too much sadness.
On the other hand, recently when we needed to drive down to San Jose to pick up a roof rack for Bruno's car, my sweet, rational-to-a-fault husband took a dive so deep into magical thinking that I didn't know if I'd be able to pull him back to the surface. It is no secret that we are "trying" again, and so each month we pass through periods where "I might be pregnant". This was during one of those times. We were winding our way back from Half Moon Bay (where we'd been reading on the beach), when Bruno suddenly looked panic stricken and said,
"I should take you home. You shouldn't be in the car this long".
I tell him I'm fine, if I weren't sitting in the car, I'd just be puttering around at home.
"But maybe the vibrations of the car or the bumps in the road will dislodge something".
I remind him that the Dr. told me I should abstain from high impact activities, like full contact football or bungy jumping, not to tie myself to the bed for half the month.
"But we are going to the Subaru dealership, and you were pregnant with the boys when we went to the Subaru dealership in NYC, and then we lost them, and you were pregnant in November when we went to this dealership in San Jose and we miscarried that pregnancy, and....I shouldn't be taking you to the Subaru dealership. I'm turning around"
I tell him that there aren't many things I'm sure of anymore, but I am absolutely positive that Subaru dealerships have nothing to do with our losses.
"Maybe I should park on the street outside the dealership, and I'll just go in. That way you won't technically be in the dealership"
Oh my G-d.
It took another 10 minutes or so before I finally got him calmed down. When we got to the dealership, he did park in the parking lot, but insisted I stay in the car while he went in and got the part. Poor sweet man. Whenever we are lucky enough to get and stay pregnant, it is going to be one heck of a ride.
Wish me luck helping Bruno navigate Father's Day today. And Happy Father's Day to all you Dads out there, including mine.
On the other hand, recently when we needed to drive down to San Jose to pick up a roof rack for Bruno's car, my sweet, rational-to-a-fault husband took a dive so deep into magical thinking that I didn't know if I'd be able to pull him back to the surface. It is no secret that we are "trying" again, and so each month we pass through periods where "I might be pregnant". This was during one of those times. We were winding our way back from Half Moon Bay (where we'd been reading on the beach), when Bruno suddenly looked panic stricken and said,
"I should take you home. You shouldn't be in the car this long".
I tell him I'm fine, if I weren't sitting in the car, I'd just be puttering around at home.
"But maybe the vibrations of the car or the bumps in the road will dislodge something".
I remind him that the Dr. told me I should abstain from high impact activities, like full contact football or bungy jumping, not to tie myself to the bed for half the month.
"But we are going to the Subaru dealership, and you were pregnant with the boys when we went to the Subaru dealership in NYC, and then we lost them, and you were pregnant in November when we went to this dealership in San Jose and we miscarried that pregnancy, and....I shouldn't be taking you to the Subaru dealership. I'm turning around"
I tell him that there aren't many things I'm sure of anymore, but I am absolutely positive that Subaru dealerships have nothing to do with our losses.
"Maybe I should park on the street outside the dealership, and I'll just go in. That way you won't technically be in the dealership"
Oh my G-d.
It took another 10 minutes or so before I finally got him calmed down. When we got to the dealership, he did park in the parking lot, but insisted I stay in the car while he went in and got the part. Poor sweet man. Whenever we are lucky enough to get and stay pregnant, it is going to be one heck of a ride.
Wish me luck helping Bruno navigate Father's Day today. And Happy Father's Day to all you Dads out there, including mine.
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