As we parked in the church lot this morning, Elizabeth asked, "What day is it?"
"Sunday," I said, and added, "December 22."
I looked at Brian. Half a beat after my mouth started to ask "Are you okay?" I knew why he wasn't quite okay.
December 22, 2007 was the day of Henry's funeral. December 22 is a day that has broken me before, sneaking up as it does after the 17th when my guard is down. Today though, I just sighed.
One good thing about always being late to church is that we never hear "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." It's nearly always the entrance song during Advent, and because we gave the music director mostly free reign, it was the entrance song for his funeral. I know people who carefully planned their children's memorials or funerals, picking readings and songs that meant something to them. I was too broken to do that. We asked for one song, "Peace Like a River," one of the songs I had sung to Henry nearly every day. We delivered a CD to the music director who not only played it, but wrote out the music and gave us copies. Today, had we been a few minutes earlier, we would have heard "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel," and maybe I would have broken. Music does that sometimes, much like smells.
It was a strangely warm and foggy day today. I don't remember what it was like the day we buried him. Cold, I think. Gray. But maybe it just felt that way, felt like that's how it should be. But warm and foggy is so wrong for December 22, it would have been appropriate in some ways for the burial of a baby.
I did not stop at the cemetery today, even though I drove by. I didn't mark the day in anyway, except to nod and squeeze Brian's hand when I realized.
Showing posts with label December. Show all posts
Showing posts with label December. Show all posts
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The day after
There is no right thing to do on the anniversary of the day your child died, but what has felt most right to me over time is slowing down and making space.
I gave clients a heads up that I'd be out of the office with no email yesterday and put projects on hold. I didn't even turn my computer on. I knew I would find at least a few messages of support and remembrance on Facebook or in my email, but I'd also be distracted and find offers and ads and things that begged for a response.
Instead, I put together a basket of greens and a strung a heart of cranberries to take to the cemetery. I strung another heart to hang on our door. I sat and read.
We all went to pick Kathleen up from school and brought the basket to the cemetery. The snow was falling heavily as we stood looking at the small stone, the dark green and deep red. It was cold. The roads were sloppy. We didn't stay long. This is the only thing I ask for on this day—that we go together as a family to the cemetery, however brief our visit.
It was a half day because of the snow and I got my neighbor's kids off the bus. It wasn't part of my making space plan, but it worked. They made cookies with Kathleen and watched a show with her. They all, miraculously, got a long. When they went out to play in the snow while Elizabeth still napped, I read some more. It felt good to just sit.
After I got my girls to bed, I read some more. I finished The End of Your Life Book Club and then started (and then finished Sun Shine Down). A book about dying and life, a book about Down syndrome and living with the unexpected fit well.
For all the build up, this day I dread wasn't that bad. I moved through it slowly but without spills.
This morning I got up (late) and bustled us out the door. When I got home, I started up my computer and caught up with all I let sit yesterday. I should take breaks more often. I finished my chapter for work, helped Kathleen with her project, picked up milk and bread from the store. I took a deep breath because December 17 has passed again. I'm still ready for a new month, a new year, but I think (hope) the worst of this challenging month is past.
I gave clients a heads up that I'd be out of the office with no email yesterday and put projects on hold. I didn't even turn my computer on. I knew I would find at least a few messages of support and remembrance on Facebook or in my email, but I'd also be distracted and find offers and ads and things that begged for a response.
Instead, I put together a basket of greens and a strung a heart of cranberries to take to the cemetery. I strung another heart to hang on our door. I sat and read.
We all went to pick Kathleen up from school and brought the basket to the cemetery. The snow was falling heavily as we stood looking at the small stone, the dark green and deep red. It was cold. The roads were sloppy. We didn't stay long. This is the only thing I ask for on this day—that we go together as a family to the cemetery, however brief our visit.
It was a half day because of the snow and I got my neighbor's kids off the bus. It wasn't part of my making space plan, but it worked. They made cookies with Kathleen and watched a show with her. They all, miraculously, got a long. When they went out to play in the snow while Elizabeth still napped, I read some more. It felt good to just sit.
After I got my girls to bed, I read some more. I finished The End of Your Life Book Club and then started (and then finished Sun Shine Down). A book about dying and life, a book about Down syndrome and living with the unexpected fit well.
For all the build up, this day I dread wasn't that bad. I moved through it slowly but without spills.
This morning I got up (late) and bustled us out the door. When I got home, I started up my computer and caught up with all I let sit yesterday. I should take breaks more often. I finished my chapter for work, helped Kathleen with her project, picked up milk and bread from the store. I took a deep breath because December 17 has passed again. I'm still ready for a new month, a new year, but I think (hope) the worst of this challenging month is past.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Clear and bright
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The sky was bright and clear, baby blue. Outside felt still,
but you could see the clouds move. Dusky gray and white wisps and mounds moved
quickly across the sky. And even though I saw the sun sunk low behind the skeletons of
trees and the house across the way, it was lighting up the tops of the clouds as
if the sun sat within each one.
I felt lighter today, as if the storm clouds
that hovered low overnight Saturday into Sunday held the darkness close to me.
It’s clear now, more open—and cold. The stars will be crystalline tonight over
the glittering snow. The moon will encourage me to take a late snowshoe or ski,
when I bring the dog out to pee, but I’ll go back in by the fire to keep watch
over the girls who sleep above. (Or so I hope.)
An hour later, at five, I roused the dog from the couch
where he’s slept all afternoon after a long morning romp through the snow.
While I waited for him to do his business, I could see that the sun I had
glimpsed at four had sunk away completely, but still there was the tiniest glow
in to the west. We turned the corner and I could see the hint of a ghost of the
full moon behind the tall pines across the street. As I waited, more clouds
hurried across the sky, these glowing too, lit from below by the yellow moon.
Even in the dusky purple gathering darkness, there was light all round me.
I’m tired, worn out from the tension of joy and sorrow of
this month, worn out from the anxiety and relief about my dad, worn out from
the bustle of getting ready for Christmas and birthdays even though I tried to
let what I did be enough, worn out from this cold that has kept me up too many
nights reading and sipping hot tea. I’m tired, but this open sky, this glow
within the clouds, this cold, is stirring something in me, some energy I didn’t
know was there, some energy that feels something like hope.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Five and three
I have a five-year-old and a three-year-old in my house, where last Tuesday I had four and two. Kathleen woke up singing Wednesday, "I'm five! I'm five! I'm five! I'm five!" She's still delighted. Elizabeth keeps asking "Is today my birthday?" She knows she's three, though she is uncharacteristically shy about saying it sometimes.
On Wednesday there was cake and sausage for breakfast, cookies for school, a lunch with dad, presents and more cake after lunch. Today we had pancakes and sausage and bacon, snow to play in, our neighborhood friends and Papa for supper, cake and presents. It's been a very birthday week.
And now nothing stands between me and the 17th. My dad is home and doing well. My girls have celebrated and grown. I am grateful and happy and exhausted. Today, I pulled it together as much as I could, but really, I was just done. I'm staring down Tuesday and wondering if I can I just sleep through the rest of the month.
On Wednesday there was cake and sausage for breakfast, cookies for school, a lunch with dad, presents and more cake after lunch. Today we had pancakes and sausage and bacon, snow to play in, our neighborhood friends and Papa for supper, cake and presents. It's been a very birthday week.
And now nothing stands between me and the 17th. My dad is home and doing well. My girls have celebrated and grown. I am grateful and happy and exhausted. Today, I pulled it together as much as I could, but really, I was just done. I'm staring down Tuesday and wondering if I can I just sleep through the rest of the month.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
My family
I'm blessed in my family. I've known this, but I am reminded again and again.
My dad is doing much better. But over the weekend when my mom seemed to need somebody there on Tuesday, my sister and I tried to sort it out. It was the day in my schedule I could go, though I needed to come back that night. I said I could do it. I assured my mom, who wanted my sister's understanding of medicine and the healthcare system, that I could talk to the doctors. I certainly have more experience than I'd like. I told my sister that I could and would do it, but if she could I'd really appreciate. Then thinking about how she was trying to reschedule an appointment that had to happen before Christmas and having her husband try to change his work schedule and piecing together childcare from friends, I called her back and said, this is silly, I should just do it.
She wanted to do it, she said. She felt bad she hadn't been able to go when my dad was so sick before. She'd like to see him. And, she acknowledged, I know this is a hard time for you. This is what I love. My family knows—understands—that even six years out, December is a struggle for me. They get that having my girls' birthdays in this month makes it easier and harder all at the same time. I know people who didn't get that kind of understanding in year one. I'm lucky in my family and thankful.
My dad is doing much better. But over the weekend when my mom seemed to need somebody there on Tuesday, my sister and I tried to sort it out. It was the day in my schedule I could go, though I needed to come back that night. I said I could do it. I assured my mom, who wanted my sister's understanding of medicine and the healthcare system, that I could talk to the doctors. I certainly have more experience than I'd like. I told my sister that I could and would do it, but if she could I'd really appreciate. Then thinking about how she was trying to reschedule an appointment that had to happen before Christmas and having her husband try to change his work schedule and piecing together childcare from friends, I called her back and said, this is silly, I should just do it.
She wanted to do it, she said. She felt bad she hadn't been able to go when my dad was so sick before. She'd like to see him. And, she acknowledged, I know this is a hard time for you. This is what I love. My family knows—understands—that even six years out, December is a struggle for me. They get that having my girls' birthdays in this month makes it easier and harder all at the same time. I know people who didn't get that kind of understanding in year one. I'm lucky in my family and thankful.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
What you can handle
God doesn't give you more than you can handle. It's one of those sayings like everything happens for a reason that doesn't sit right with me. Still, this was my prayer today:
I can't handle more. Please.
My dad got very ill suddenly back in October. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital with a raging fever. "Sepsis," my sister told me when she called. Hearing the word, I could see it on Henry's death certificate. The word infiltrated my brain, spreading, growing, like the infection itself as I waited for more news, tried to figure out if I needed to go.
I did go that afternoon. As soon as I parked in the hospital garage, I was in in hospital mode—purposeful, quick, tense. I figured out where the stairs were and how to wend the maze that all hospitals seem to be. When I went in to see him, my dad was joking, shaken, but himself. They figured out the source of the problem. Treated it, got a bunch of antibiotics in him, sent him home with a plan for surgery in several weeks.
My dad had surgery on Thursday. It seemed to go well. Thursday night, he joked about going to work on Monday. Yesterday he was in a lot of pain. Today more. And he didn't seem right.
My dad was rehospitalized this evening. We're in the waiting stage now, waiting to see if a CT scan gives useful information. Right now, we don't know if there is really something to worry about. I'm waiting for the call, or if it's really late, an email from my sister and I keep thinking: I can't handle more. December is enough already. I can't handle more. Please.
I can't handle more. Please.
My dad got very ill suddenly back in October. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital with a raging fever. "Sepsis," my sister told me when she called. Hearing the word, I could see it on Henry's death certificate. The word infiltrated my brain, spreading, growing, like the infection itself as I waited for more news, tried to figure out if I needed to go.
I did go that afternoon. As soon as I parked in the hospital garage, I was in in hospital mode—purposeful, quick, tense. I figured out where the stairs were and how to wend the maze that all hospitals seem to be. When I went in to see him, my dad was joking, shaken, but himself. They figured out the source of the problem. Treated it, got a bunch of antibiotics in him, sent him home with a plan for surgery in several weeks.
My dad had surgery on Thursday. It seemed to go well. Thursday night, he joked about going to work on Monday. Yesterday he was in a lot of pain. Today more. And he didn't seem right.
My dad was rehospitalized this evening. We're in the waiting stage now, waiting to see if a CT scan gives useful information. Right now, we don't know if there is really something to worry about. I'm waiting for the call, or if it's really late, an email from my sister and I keep thinking: I can't handle more. December is enough already. I can't handle more. Please.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Clearing
I came home from Thanksgiving a bit reluctantly a day earlier than usual, which turned out to be a wonderful decision. I spent the weekend cleaning: clearing debris—scraps of paper, twisted pipe cleaners, bits of cloth, small sticks and pebbles—and tidying the art table in the playroom so you could actually do a project or find materials there. I dusted and vacuumed. I packed away sweat shirts and organized snow clothes. And I sorted through the boxes and piles that have covered and surrounded my dining room table since August when I gave up my office and transformed it into a playroom. I have no regrets about that change. The room gets much better use as a playroom, but the residual chaos has been driving me crazy. Some how, going into December with a clearer space (the table isn't quite empty, but it's getting there) makes a difference. I feel lighter walking through the house. There's something to that who clear space, clear mind thing.
Kathleen could barely wait to put up the tree. "Can we do it now?" "Let's put up the tree!" "You said we'd start during Lizzy's nap." We put together our artificial tree together. She watched me untangle the lights and wrap them around and around and around. She handed me the red and green wooden bead garland. Around and around and around again. Then we waited some more for Lizzy to wake up.
Here's the red bird paper ornament from Amy and the felt heart I made with one of our Buddy Walk hearts and the matching hearts for both my girls. Here's the red bird Jenni felted for me and the beaded star that arrived while I was in the hospital with Elizabeth, and the one from the ornament swap with the "desert cardinal" feather. Here's the felt cardinal we had on the tree when I was little that I loved just for itself that means something else now. Here's sand from my home town and the painted ornament Brian and I bought in Aruba. Here's the canoe I bought for Brian the year we bought the canoe and snowshoes and a cross country skiing Santa (remember when we did those things?) Our tree is too full. We have a small tree, so perhaps a full size tree is order, or maybe I simply need to weed out the ornaments that don't have a story.
The decorating is done, though Kathleen keeps asking if there are more Christmas decorations, more holiday toys. But we're done. There are red birds throughout the house. Snowflakes, the ones my aunt gave me one of those first awful winters, glint in the sunlight. I light my candle and Henry's tree. I sit by the fire and look into the empty space in the dining room. I look at the space I cleared and breathe into it.
December, three days in, still wary, but stronger.
Kathleen could barely wait to put up the tree. "Can we do it now?" "Let's put up the tree!" "You said we'd start during Lizzy's nap." We put together our artificial tree together. She watched me untangle the lights and wrap them around and around and around. She handed me the red and green wooden bead garland. Around and around and around again. Then we waited some more for Lizzy to wake up.
Here's the red bird paper ornament from Amy and the felt heart I made with one of our Buddy Walk hearts and the matching hearts for both my girls. Here's the red bird Jenni felted for me and the beaded star that arrived while I was in the hospital with Elizabeth, and the one from the ornament swap with the "desert cardinal" feather. Here's the felt cardinal we had on the tree when I was little that I loved just for itself that means something else now. Here's sand from my home town and the painted ornament Brian and I bought in Aruba. Here's the canoe I bought for Brian the year we bought the canoe and snowshoes and a cross country skiing Santa (remember when we did those things?) Our tree is too full. We have a small tree, so perhaps a full size tree is order, or maybe I simply need to weed out the ornaments that don't have a story.
The decorating is done, though Kathleen keeps asking if there are more Christmas decorations, more holiday toys. But we're done. There are red birds throughout the house. Snowflakes, the ones my aunt gave me one of those first awful winters, glint in the sunlight. I light my candle and Henry's tree. I sit by the fire and look into the empty space in the dining room. I look at the space I cleared and breathe into it.
December, three days in, still wary, but stronger.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
December looming
As I look at my grocery list and wonder if there is anything I absolutely need before Friday, anything that is worth descending into the hell that is supermarket the week before Thanksgiving, I realize that holiday is almost here. It's late this year, so two days later, the Christmas season is upon us. Christmas, and of course, December.
I'm not ready.
As my mind tries to grapple with birthday party—which kids, how will I fit them and their parents in my house, is my house really still in this utter disarray from my office dismantling this summer?, theme, when—and the special snacks for school and a present and Christmas—crafts and shopping and decorating, my heart is bending in around itself, protecting, pushing back the busyness and all the doing.
I seem to alternate between okay years and not okay years. This feels like one of the latter. Where last year I barged into December ready for battle, ready to reclaim the month or at least some part of it, this year I'm worn out already. I can't seem to get any traction going into the month.
I've done my usual clearing of the slates as much as possible: no appointments, no work from difficult clients, no tight deadlines. I'm trying to get myself organized to wrap up the gift part early, get that out of the way. My family is helpful. They realize that this month still wipes me out. They offer to pick up or order gifts that will bear my name, and sometimes I take them up on it. I hand off the toughest of my nieces and nephews to Brian.
I look at my to do list and think about what I really have to do and which things I really want to do. I try to cross out the rest. But there is an almost five-year-old who wants a real birthday party this year. The kind with games and cake. If it were not this month, if life had not taken that wrong turn a year before she was born, I would be all over it. We'd have fun picking a theme, figuring out games and activities and decorations, decorating a cake. I don't want to throw a birthday party in the middle of December, but even more I don't want to let my daughter down. I have grappled with this since before she was born, since I stared down that first December without Henry and waited for her to arrive.
When I ask who she wants at her party, she starts listing her cousins. Maybe I'm trying to tackle this all wrong. I keep trying to get out of the way and hear what it is that's important to her, try to strip down my own expectations of what birthday means. I try to create simple traditions, ones I can pull off, ones that can grow with us. I love the idea of a quiet tradition that fits our family, but I remember birthday parties—the DIY, homemade affairs that I grew up with, the kind my sisters give their kids. I toy frequently with the idea of a summer half-birthday party as the time to do all the games and activities. I don't know how to sell her on that though, so I keep coming back trying to figure out what it is in her head.
I am looking forward to
I'm dreading
Stumble trip Stumble trip Stumble trip
I'm not ready.
As my mind tries to grapple with birthday party—which kids, how will I fit them and their parents in my house, is my house really still in this utter disarray from my office dismantling this summer?, theme, when—and the special snacks for school and a present and Christmas—crafts and shopping and decorating, my heart is bending in around itself, protecting, pushing back the busyness and all the doing.
I seem to alternate between okay years and not okay years. This feels like one of the latter. Where last year I barged into December ready for battle, ready to reclaim the month or at least some part of it, this year I'm worn out already. I can't seem to get any traction going into the month.
I've done my usual clearing of the slates as much as possible: no appointments, no work from difficult clients, no tight deadlines. I'm trying to get myself organized to wrap up the gift part early, get that out of the way. My family is helpful. They realize that this month still wipes me out. They offer to pick up or order gifts that will bear my name, and sometimes I take them up on it. I hand off the toughest of my nieces and nephews to Brian.
I look at my to do list and think about what I really have to do and which things I really want to do. I try to cross out the rest. But there is an almost five-year-old who wants a real birthday party this year. The kind with games and cake. If it were not this month, if life had not taken that wrong turn a year before she was born, I would be all over it. We'd have fun picking a theme, figuring out games and activities and decorations, decorating a cake. I don't want to throw a birthday party in the middle of December, but even more I don't want to let my daughter down. I have grappled with this since before she was born, since I stared down that first December without Henry and waited for her to arrive.
When I ask who she wants at her party, she starts listing her cousins. Maybe I'm trying to tackle this all wrong. I keep trying to get out of the way and hear what it is that's important to her, try to strip down my own expectations of what birthday means. I try to create simple traditions, ones I can pull off, ones that can grow with us. I love the idea of a quiet tradition that fits our family, but I remember birthday parties—the DIY, homemade affairs that I grew up with, the kind my sisters give their kids. I toy frequently with the idea of a summer half-birthday party as the time to do all the games and activities. I don't know how to sell her on that though, so I keep coming back trying to figure out what it is in her head.
I am looking forward to
- putting up the tree with the girls
- the wrapped up books advent calendar that I'm planning for them
- sleeping with Kathleen on her birthday, because she is so excited about it
- the tea party to honor Brian's mom, using the tiny cups she gave the girls
- seeing their faces Christmas morning
I'm dreading
- Christmas Eve and the hour and half mass and the scramble to get to Brian's brother's house
- getting bogged down in things that feel like they need to get done
- that day just past the middle of the month, the one between the birthdays and Christmas, the one that is dark no matter the weather
Stumble trip Stumble trip Stumble trip
Sunday, December 23, 2012
The Breaking Point
Last night, I was sitting in front of the fire, Christmas gifts spread out before me waiting to be wrapped, and I hit my breaking point. Weariness, utter, utter weariness welled up in me. It was not the constant lack of sleep or the extra bustle of the holidays, suddenly, immediately I felt I could hardly hold my head up, sit up right and I began to weep. And what I hated most was I couldn't say why. I always like to pinpoint a trigger or a moment or an event, but here I was past the dreaded 17, past the sometimes more exhausting day after.
"Is it because it's the 22nd?" Brian asked. I didn't even realize it was the 22nd, the day we buried him, but that may very well been it. December is sneaky. Just when I think I've powered through, it sucker punches me.
And yet, from that sprung a conversation that needed to happen about this life we live with two little people running around and one nestled in our hearts, about how the people we've reconstructed from our brokenness fit together and how we even try to figure that out between diapers and drop offs and pickups and bedtime and why,why,why, and work. Perhaps I needed to break last night, but, oh, I'm ready to be done with December.
"Is it because it's the 22nd?" Brian asked. I didn't even realize it was the 22nd, the day we buried him, but that may very well been it. December is sneaky. Just when I think I've powered through, it sucker punches me.
And yet, from that sprung a conversation that needed to happen about this life we live with two little people running around and one nestled in our hearts, about how the people we've reconstructed from our brokenness fit together and how we even try to figure that out between diapers and drop offs and pickups and bedtime and why,why,why, and work. Perhaps I needed to break last night, but, oh, I'm ready to be done with December.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Tell me about him
I had coffee today with two preschool mom friends.
A. gave me a big hug upon arrival and then twice while we were there. I'll take them. I'll always take a heartfelt hug.
Then B. said "I wish I could do something, but . . ." and she paused knowing there was nothing really to do. "Can you tell me about him?" And I almost cried and half smiled and I told her about Henry's smile, how the picture I posted on FB shows just a hint of it, how we captured it only once in all it's bright openness on the day of his surgery, how when Brian, narrating for the camera said that we'd soon get rid of the oxygen, Henry's whole face lit up and burst into that brilliant smile that carried me so many days, the one that still makes me smile.
"Can you tell me about him?" Nobody asks that. People ask what happened or say that must have been hard, which launches me into what happened and how hard it all was. He was only 6 1/2 months old. He was sedated during an awful lot of that time, so sometimes I'm not sure I have much to tell about him, and I still, five years later, find myself sifting through the rubble to find the pieces of him I lost as our world kept shifting and falling. But today, I collected just a bit and shared it with a friend who never got to meet him but wished she did.
A. gave me a big hug upon arrival and then twice while we were there. I'll take them. I'll always take a heartfelt hug.
Then B. said "I wish I could do something, but . . ." and she paused knowing there was nothing really to do. "Can you tell me about him?" And I almost cried and half smiled and I told her about Henry's smile, how the picture I posted on FB shows just a hint of it, how we captured it only once in all it's bright openness on the day of his surgery, how when Brian, narrating for the camera said that we'd soon get rid of the oxygen, Henry's whole face lit up and burst into that brilliant smile that carried me so many days, the one that still makes me smile.
"Can you tell me about him?" Nobody asks that. People ask what happened or say that must have been hard, which launches me into what happened and how hard it all was. He was only 6 1/2 months old. He was sedated during an awful lot of that time, so sometimes I'm not sure I have much to tell about him, and I still, five years later, find myself sifting through the rubble to find the pieces of him I lost as our world kept shifting and falling. But today, I collected just a bit and shared it with a friend who never got to meet him but wished she did.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Five Years
Last Thursday, I sat with a friend and sewed felt ladybug Christmas ornaments for my girls while she needle felted and we talked and settled in silences and our coffee and chai grew cold. I told her I felt I was finally replenishing my reserves, that I was able to do things, little things like make a felt Christmas ornament for my girls, that I had wanted to do but just couldn't manage these past five years. I am stronger, better, not all better, but, perhaps living through this month rather than just surviving it. I'm able to look at, seek out the light, this year, even as I sit in the darkness.
Friday morning the girls and I ate pumpkin bread and played with friends. And then the news started coming in. Horror, sadness, fear, disbelief. And a deep welling of grief and sympathy for these parents who dropped their kids off from school and will never pick them up. These parents who will stand hollow beside their child's grave. I am stronger, better, but still in touching distance to that raw, early grief. I feel it—the searing-torn-asunder pain and numbness together, the wild-empty eyes, the hows and the whys.
I have purposefully limited my news consumption, but still I keep thinking of the lives cut so very short and of the parents of these little ones. I keep thinking of the Christmas presents hidden in closets or arriving by mail and the family Christmas cards with smiling pictures waiting to be sent. I keep thinking of the funerals that will happen in the coming week. I keep thinking of next December and how cruel the joy of the season will feel. I think of next December and the December after that and after that and how slow the light is to come back and how it is never the same.
I think of all this, and I do what so many parents have done the last few days and I hug my girls close. Do I do it more because of the killings? Do I do it more because tomorrow is five years? Do I do it because in this month when I mourn a loss I also celebrate two lives? Do I always do it this much? I don't know, but I snuggled up under blankets and played a bleary eyed peek-a-boo with my freshly minted two year old in the still dark morning. I helped my just-turned-four year old make gingerbread cookies and let her pile on the frosting. We read stories. We walked around the neighborhood. We lit a candle with dinner and ate birthday cupcakes. I cannot make sense, but I hold as much love and hope and joy as I can in the face of inside and outside grief, a tiny star in the darkness. And I wait to see what my own grief brings me as we approach the day.
Tomorrow it will be five years. Five years since Henry was last alive. Five years since I sang out his soul. Five years since I let go and walked out of the room leaving his body behind. Five years and I'm still surprised that this is my life. I look at the pictures on my mantle of my boy smiling and sleeping and sucking his thumb. I had a baby boy and he died. I can't make sense of it, don't want meaning ascribed to it, but I read these lines from Mary Oliver in a book I bought in June that has been sitting on the shelf waiting for me to find it in December.
"If I was the song that entered your heart
then I was the music of your heart, that you wanted and needed,
. . .
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body,
and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable
beauty of heaven
where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes,
and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart."
—from "Red Bird Explains Himself"
I am so thankful for the song that entered my heart back in 2007 and for all my heart as learned from him. Ah, but I wish I could have learned that lesson another way.
Loving, missing Henry, five years later.
Friday morning the girls and I ate pumpkin bread and played with friends. And then the news started coming in. Horror, sadness, fear, disbelief. And a deep welling of grief and sympathy for these parents who dropped their kids off from school and will never pick them up. These parents who will stand hollow beside their child's grave. I am stronger, better, but still in touching distance to that raw, early grief. I feel it—the searing-torn-asunder pain and numbness together, the wild-empty eyes, the hows and the whys.
I have purposefully limited my news consumption, but still I keep thinking of the lives cut so very short and of the parents of these little ones. I keep thinking of the Christmas presents hidden in closets or arriving by mail and the family Christmas cards with smiling pictures waiting to be sent. I keep thinking of the funerals that will happen in the coming week. I keep thinking of next December and how cruel the joy of the season will feel. I think of next December and the December after that and after that and how slow the light is to come back and how it is never the same.
I think of all this, and I do what so many parents have done the last few days and I hug my girls close. Do I do it more because of the killings? Do I do it more because tomorrow is five years? Do I do it because in this month when I mourn a loss I also celebrate two lives? Do I always do it this much? I don't know, but I snuggled up under blankets and played a bleary eyed peek-a-boo with my freshly minted two year old in the still dark morning. I helped my just-turned-four year old make gingerbread cookies and let her pile on the frosting. We read stories. We walked around the neighborhood. We lit a candle with dinner and ate birthday cupcakes. I cannot make sense, but I hold as much love and hope and joy as I can in the face of inside and outside grief, a tiny star in the darkness. And I wait to see what my own grief brings me as we approach the day.
Tomorrow it will be five years. Five years since Henry was last alive. Five years since I sang out his soul. Five years since I let go and walked out of the room leaving his body behind. Five years and I'm still surprised that this is my life. I look at the pictures on my mantle of my boy smiling and sleeping and sucking his thumb. I had a baby boy and he died. I can't make sense of it, don't want meaning ascribed to it, but I read these lines from Mary Oliver in a book I bought in June that has been sitting on the shelf waiting for me to find it in December.
"If I was the song that entered your heart
then I was the music of your heart, that you wanted and needed,
. . .
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body,
and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable
beauty of heaven
where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes,
and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart."
—from "Red Bird Explains Himself"
I am so thankful for the song that entered my heart back in 2007 and for all my heart as learned from him. Ah, but I wish I could have learned that lesson another way.
Loving, missing Henry, five years later.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Lights: Early December
Snow
December 1, we woke to snow. A mere dusting that covered only the pavement and our dirt driveway, the grass was still its early winter mix of slumped green and blah beige. I might no have even bothered to note the snow if not for my girls who crowed, "It snowed!" upon looking out the window. They delighted in putting boots on over their jammies to walk down the driveway to feed our neighbor's cats, leaving smudged footprints behind them.
Lights
Out for a late afternoon walk, in the deepening dusk of winter 4 PM, we crested the little hill down the street. "Lights!" my girls cried seeing the reindeer and tree that they had walked by the past couple of weeks lit up for the first time.
Love Notes
I have a little tree that I put up for Henry. We bought it in December 2007 when we thought we might be in the hospital for Christmas. Family members were given little wooden hearts to decorate and send to us. My aunt was horrified hers were already in the mail when Henry died. I put the tree up with those hearts and some cardinals. Until last year, it was the only tree I had. Now, we have the big tree and Henry's tree too. Kathleen, out of the blue, decided she had to make something for Henry's tree, so she cut some strips of paper and wrote "Dear Henry, I love you and stuff, Kathleen" There are many, many of these bits of paper, and I look sometimes and think "What a mess," and other times "What love."
Resurgence
This year I am tackling the project of rehabbing my old dollhouse as a gift for Kathleen. I accept that it will not be perfect or finished really (I got it as a kit 30 some years ago and never put the trim or doors on), but she won't really notice that. Last year, I really wanted to do this for her for Christmas, but I hit my emotional exhaustion wall, and, as I have learned so slowly to do, I let it go. This year, I am finally able to tackle some of the projects that have languished, despite a true desire to do them.
Family Tree
Kathleen and I put up the Christmas tree today. The lower branches are heavily laden and luckily I have a large supply of felt ornaments as opposed to, say, antique glass. I told her the stories of the ornaments—the ones given to her when she was born, the ones I made when I was little, the mountain peak marker and wheelbarrow I gave to Brian, the hearts I made for each of them. And tucked in among those are little red birds ones I've bought each year on the day after Thanksgiving, a paper collage from Amy, a simple stuffed cloth bird from the ornament swap last year, a felted ball from Jenni, a painted glass ball from my aunt. And after Kathleen went to bed, I remembered to open the package that came in the mail (a bit of light and excitement any time) and found my new swap ornament, a cookie cutter with Henry's name on heart with a feather from a desert cardinal hanging. He has his own tree, but he's here with us too.
December 1, we woke to snow. A mere dusting that covered only the pavement and our dirt driveway, the grass was still its early winter mix of slumped green and blah beige. I might no have even bothered to note the snow if not for my girls who crowed, "It snowed!" upon looking out the window. They delighted in putting boots on over their jammies to walk down the driveway to feed our neighbor's cats, leaving smudged footprints behind them.
Lights
Out for a late afternoon walk, in the deepening dusk of winter 4 PM, we crested the little hill down the street. "Lights!" my girls cried seeing the reindeer and tree that they had walked by the past couple of weeks lit up for the first time.
Love Notes
I have a little tree that I put up for Henry. We bought it in December 2007 when we thought we might be in the hospital for Christmas. Family members were given little wooden hearts to decorate and send to us. My aunt was horrified hers were already in the mail when Henry died. I put the tree up with those hearts and some cardinals. Until last year, it was the only tree I had. Now, we have the big tree and Henry's tree too. Kathleen, out of the blue, decided she had to make something for Henry's tree, so she cut some strips of paper and wrote "Dear Henry, I love you and stuff, Kathleen" There are many, many of these bits of paper, and I look sometimes and think "What a mess," and other times "What love."
Resurgence
This year I am tackling the project of rehabbing my old dollhouse as a gift for Kathleen. I accept that it will not be perfect or finished really (I got it as a kit 30 some years ago and never put the trim or doors on), but she won't really notice that. Last year, I really wanted to do this for her for Christmas, but I hit my emotional exhaustion wall, and, as I have learned so slowly to do, I let it go. This year, I am finally able to tackle some of the projects that have languished, despite a true desire to do them.
Family Tree
Kathleen and I put up the Christmas tree today. The lower branches are heavily laden and luckily I have a large supply of felt ornaments as opposed to, say, antique glass. I told her the stories of the ornaments—the ones given to her when she was born, the ones I made when I was little, the mountain peak marker and wheelbarrow I gave to Brian, the hearts I made for each of them. And tucked in among those are little red birds ones I've bought each year on the day after Thanksgiving, a paper collage from Amy, a simple stuffed cloth bird from the ornament swap last year, a felted ball from Jenni, a painted glass ball from my aunt. And after Kathleen went to bed, I remembered to open the package that came in the mail (a bit of light and excitement any time) and found my new swap ornament, a cookie cutter with Henry's name on heart with a feather from a desert cardinal hanging. He has his own tree, but he's here with us too.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Part of our story
Earlier this week, Rachel at 6512 and growing, writing about the premature birth of her son and how her awareness of prematurity has changed over the last eight years, said, "Now it feels like part of our story, but not the main plot."
I've been thinking about this line since, thinking about how Henry's story is part of my story, how it isn't the main plot anymore. I think the tough part is that his story doesn't go on, and I worry about that plot line fading out all together. I find again and again that I need to let go of the fear of him being lost to memory. I am reminded again and again that it is okay to let go, that he is remembered, that he is part my story.
One friend recently asked if we would have a Christmas tree this year. I met her after Henry died, while I was pregnant with Elizabeth, and two years ago, I told her that December is really hard for me, and she remembers this and asks me in different ways, how the month looks for me this year. This same friend dropped off a plant to put in Henry's garden for his birthday.
And my dear friend who knew Henry, who did more than she may know in helping me survive the hospital, just ended a message by saying she was thinking of me and Henry, as she always does come December. This friend has a picture of Henry on a shelf at her house, and when people ask her about it, she tells them he's a friend.
I am a cautious person. I reel out my line, loosen my grasp slowly. Will I have as much trouble letting go of my girls as they are ready more and more to go into the world?
I've been thinking a lot about Henry's story, my story, our story lately. I've been writing more lately (just not here), and I'm working with this story, but I'm not sure which story I'm telling. Is it the story of his life where roller coaster of his health are a major plot, the story that ends with me standing by a hospital door in the dark, arms empty, to go home to a quiet house? Is it the story of the journey that ending started? Is it the story of becoming this person I am now having reassembled my pieces (mostly) these near five years later? I don't know, but I'm going back into the darkness and the fear and the confusion, little by little, and finding it is not so deep below the surface sometimes, though the crust is stronger. I'm looking in these dark corners, as I always do, for the bits of light, the bits of love, the bits of Henry hidden in the shadows of oxygen tanks and ambulance rides, and codes.
It's almost December, the month when I celebrate all three of the lives I brought into this world. Two birthdays, one remembrance all packed tight and barreling into Christmas. I'm approaching December tentatively this year. I wonder if I'm just limping now out of memory, if perhaps I could step more surefootedly through the coming month. I'm just going to take little steps and see.
I've been thinking about this line since, thinking about how Henry's story is part of my story, how it isn't the main plot anymore. I think the tough part is that his story doesn't go on, and I worry about that plot line fading out all together. I find again and again that I need to let go of the fear of him being lost to memory. I am reminded again and again that it is okay to let go, that he is remembered, that he is part my story.
One friend recently asked if we would have a Christmas tree this year. I met her after Henry died, while I was pregnant with Elizabeth, and two years ago, I told her that December is really hard for me, and she remembers this and asks me in different ways, how the month looks for me this year. This same friend dropped off a plant to put in Henry's garden for his birthday.
And my dear friend who knew Henry, who did more than she may know in helping me survive the hospital, just ended a message by saying she was thinking of me and Henry, as she always does come December. This friend has a picture of Henry on a shelf at her house, and when people ask her about it, she tells them he's a friend.
I am a cautious person. I reel out my line, loosen my grasp slowly. Will I have as much trouble letting go of my girls as they are ready more and more to go into the world?
I've been thinking a lot about Henry's story, my story, our story lately. I've been writing more lately (just not here), and I'm working with this story, but I'm not sure which story I'm telling. Is it the story of his life where roller coaster of his health are a major plot, the story that ends with me standing by a hospital door in the dark, arms empty, to go home to a quiet house? Is it the story of the journey that ending started? Is it the story of becoming this person I am now having reassembled my pieces (mostly) these near five years later? I don't know, but I'm going back into the darkness and the fear and the confusion, little by little, and finding it is not so deep below the surface sometimes, though the crust is stronger. I'm looking in these dark corners, as I always do, for the bits of light, the bits of love, the bits of Henry hidden in the shadows of oxygen tanks and ambulance rides, and codes.
It's almost December, the month when I celebrate all three of the lives I brought into this world. Two birthdays, one remembrance all packed tight and barreling into Christmas. I'm approaching December tentatively this year. I wonder if I'm just limping now out of memory, if perhaps I could step more surefootedly through the coming month. I'm just going to take little steps and see.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
In the Coming Darkness, A Light
I love the fall, this downshift season.
I love the colors and the crisp air and the delightful sunny, warm days. I love the gold of the light through yellow leaves and how it can seem bright on even a gray day.
I love layers and sweaters and pulling the covers up at night. I love soup simmering on the stove and hearty casseroles baking in the oven. I love squash and kale and apples. I love clearing the dead plants out of the garden—and still running out to snip some kale or broccoli or mustard greens or parsley.
And I don't really mind winter, but December is another story. I still dread it, still get anxious about how to make space for joy and grief, celebration and commemorating. I made some headway on it last year, but I don't trust it. Grief is not linear. I know this. I've forgotten and been reminded. December was better, but I'm wary.
But here is my light going forward:
I was talking to my aunt tonight and the day for grieving families that I go to at Children's came up. I talked about how it felt right for me to go back in late fall, in what was the middle of our time there. And, I said, It's right before . . .
Your dark time, she finished for me.
Yes.
It won't always be dark you know.
I started to cry. Maybe part of me knew that, but part of me needed to hear it, because sometimes it feels like it will always be dark, despite the light most days. I have come so far in these almost five years. I don't need to reread my journals or this blog to recognize that (though I like to do that). I have come so far in these four years ten months. There will be other milestones, but I think (hope) believe December is the last big hurdle. I pushed back last year to reclaim the month to take back some of the joy. I will keep doing that, but I suspect that there is something beyond my control that needs to happen through grief work, through time. Maybe it will take five years or six or eight or ten. I don't know. But it won't always be dark.
My cousin died 15 years ago. I don't know when the darkness lifted for my aunt. Perhaps it faded slowly so that she wouldn't have been able to tell me if I had asked. I didn't need to know when it happened for her. I know we all have our own timelines.
It won't always be dark you know.
It feels a little lighter already.
I love the colors and the crisp air and the delightful sunny, warm days. I love the gold of the light through yellow leaves and how it can seem bright on even a gray day.
I love layers and sweaters and pulling the covers up at night. I love soup simmering on the stove and hearty casseroles baking in the oven. I love squash and kale and apples. I love clearing the dead plants out of the garden—and still running out to snip some kale or broccoli or mustard greens or parsley.
And I don't really mind winter, but December is another story. I still dread it, still get anxious about how to make space for joy and grief, celebration and commemorating. I made some headway on it last year, but I don't trust it. Grief is not linear. I know this. I've forgotten and been reminded. December was better, but I'm wary.
But here is my light going forward:
I was talking to my aunt tonight and the day for grieving families that I go to at Children's came up. I talked about how it felt right for me to go back in late fall, in what was the middle of our time there. And, I said, It's right before . . .
Your dark time, she finished for me.
Yes.
It won't always be dark you know.
I started to cry. Maybe part of me knew that, but part of me needed to hear it, because sometimes it feels like it will always be dark, despite the light most days. I have come so far in these almost five years. I don't need to reread my journals or this blog to recognize that (though I like to do that). I have come so far in these four years ten months. There will be other milestones, but I think (hope) believe December is the last big hurdle. I pushed back last year to reclaim the month to take back some of the joy. I will keep doing that, but I suspect that there is something beyond my control that needs to happen through grief work, through time. Maybe it will take five years or six or eight or ten. I don't know. But it won't always be dark.
My cousin died 15 years ago. I don't know when the darkness lifted for my aunt. Perhaps it faded slowly so that she wouldn't have been able to tell me if I had asked. I didn't need to know when it happened for her. I know we all have our own timelines.
It won't always be dark you know.
It feels a little lighter already.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Afterward
I'm exhausted today, less drained perhaps than years past, but more drained than I thought I'd be given how "well" the day went.
Yes, yesterday was manageable for the most part. We actually went out in the evening. To a holiday party. And it was okay. In some ways having something to do helped, and it was hosted by my first ever babylost friend so it somehow felt safe.
Just before bed, Brian asked me what we did after Henry died when we left the hospital. I told him we went to his parents house. We ate meatloaf. My parents, his parents, and his brother were there. I think this is true, but it could be a false memory or a mixed up one from some other time. We ate meatloaf and then we went to bed in his sister's old room.
He talked about how sick he'd been, how sick so much of our family had gotten.
Then I mentioned standing by the door at the hospital, waiting for a ride, and he said he remembered that. I didn't know, couldn't remember if he was there with me or not. I felt so separate from everything around me.
Then we said goodnight and he rolled over and then I felt myself break, the shattering I had expected at any point during the day. Before I was waiting by that door, I walked out of a door upstairs. I left by baby, just his body by then, on the bed with a nurse. I walked down a long hall, took an elevator, and stood there, arms empty.
I put him down and I left. And I don't know how I did that, how I came to have to do that, how this is my life, how he is not here.
I split open and everything flooded out. I didn't cry long. Today I didn't have that crying hangover of stuffy head and puffy eyes. I was just tired. I wanted to curl up and take a nap, and perhaps if we didn't have Christmas to celebrate with Brian's family and if I didn't have an insane deadline tomorrow, we might have taken turns getting a chance to do that. But it—life, the world—doesn't stop because I'm grieving, because I'm wiped out and need a break. It never did, never will. (But man, wouldn't it be nice if it did?)
I'm more than halfway through December. I got through the worst day and it's aftermath, tired, but standing. (And every kind word I've received has helped keep me standing and opening to the joy and light that shines alongside my darkness. Really. Thank you.)
Yes, yesterday was manageable for the most part. We actually went out in the evening. To a holiday party. And it was okay. In some ways having something to do helped, and it was hosted by my first ever babylost friend so it somehow felt safe.
Just before bed, Brian asked me what we did after Henry died when we left the hospital. I told him we went to his parents house. We ate meatloaf. My parents, his parents, and his brother were there. I think this is true, but it could be a false memory or a mixed up one from some other time. We ate meatloaf and then we went to bed in his sister's old room.
He talked about how sick he'd been, how sick so much of our family had gotten.
Then I mentioned standing by the door at the hospital, waiting for a ride, and he said he remembered that. I didn't know, couldn't remember if he was there with me or not. I felt so separate from everything around me.
Then we said goodnight and he rolled over and then I felt myself break, the shattering I had expected at any point during the day. Before I was waiting by that door, I walked out of a door upstairs. I left by baby, just his body by then, on the bed with a nurse. I walked down a long hall, took an elevator, and stood there, arms empty.
I put him down and I left. And I don't know how I did that, how I came to have to do that, how this is my life, how he is not here.
I split open and everything flooded out. I didn't cry long. Today I didn't have that crying hangover of stuffy head and puffy eyes. I was just tired. I wanted to curl up and take a nap, and perhaps if we didn't have Christmas to celebrate with Brian's family and if I didn't have an insane deadline tomorrow, we might have taken turns getting a chance to do that. But it—life, the world—doesn't stop because I'm grieving, because I'm wiped out and need a break. It never did, never will. (But man, wouldn't it be nice if it did?)
I'm more than halfway through December. I got through the worst day and it's aftermath, tired, but standing. (And every kind word I've received has helped keep me standing and opening to the joy and light that shines alongside my darkness. Really. Thank you.)
Friday, December 16, 2011
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
Four years tomorrow.
I slept with his blanket last night. It was cold in the house (I woke up in the morning to find the front door ever so slightly ajar) and Brian wasn't home and the 17th was looming. I slept with his blanket last night, like I did every night that first year. Like I did for many nights after that. Like I haven't done in a very long time.
His blanket is yellow, like lemon chiffon. My grandmother made it, one of thirteen she has made for her great-grandchildren. I didn't use it because he always had velcro on him somewhere and it snagged on the knit blanket. But when we went to the hospital for the last time, I brought it. It is what he was wrapped in when we held him for the last time.
I slept with his blanket last night.
Tonight, when I sang Kathleen the "Kakeen" song, the lullaby I made up just for her, my voice cracked and I choked through tears when I got to the Henry verse.
Kathleen, my baby, your brother is Henry.
He is an angel who watches over thee.
He is no here with us upon the earth
but he's watched over you since before your birth.
He is not here with us upon the earth.
"We don't have Henry," she tells me sometimes. "No. No, we don't."
Brian and I went through the timeline again tonight. The discharge into the snowstorm on the 13th. Actually getting home on the 14th. The visiting nurse's stamp of approval that all looked well on the 15th. The fever and vomiting and diarrhea and frantic phone calls and exhaustion on the night of the 15th. The pediatrician, the ER on the 16th. The drill into his leg. The sighing over the weeks it would take to ween him off the ventilator again. Going home for a couple hours. The phone call. Back to the hospital. Brian wrung out sick and needing to leave somewhere in the wee hours of the 17th. The unfamiliar beeping. Singing him out, singing him love. Brian arriving too late, seeing my mom's face and knowing.
I have no idea what time he died. I have looked at his death certificate just to find out, but I never remember. Time had lost all meaning then. And it was the time of year, this time of year, when darkness falls so early and grayness sometimes conveys dark. Had I been looking out the window, it wouldn't have helped.
I am past the joyful days this week. I am not far from the day. I have been feeling it coming on today, even as I worked and read Christmas stories and delivered jams to our church and cooked dinner.
Tomorrow.
Four years.
I don't know what to do with that. Four years. I've come so far, but come these days of December, I am still standing there by the revolving door at the hospital, waiting, arms empty, for somebody to come to take me home. I don't remember if Brian was beside me or behind me or with me at all at that door. I was numb and searing and separate from everything that flowed around me.
I think I will go hold his blanket again and check on my girls and feel them breathe. I will go to sleep knowing my neighbors have been holding me in their hearts and my friend Tricia has been thinking of me this week sending big hugs. I'll go to bed knowing my friend Michelle will listen to You Are My Little Bird with her daughter tomorrow and remember Henry. I'll pass by my tree and see the ornaments others have made to remember him. I'll go to bed and hold his blanket knowing his place in the earth is marked.
I'll go to bed and wake up and it will have been four years and a new year will start.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow
Four years tomorrow.
I slept with his blanket last night. It was cold in the house (I woke up in the morning to find the front door ever so slightly ajar) and Brian wasn't home and the 17th was looming. I slept with his blanket last night, like I did every night that first year. Like I did for many nights after that. Like I haven't done in a very long time.
His blanket is yellow, like lemon chiffon. My grandmother made it, one of thirteen she has made for her great-grandchildren. I didn't use it because he always had velcro on him somewhere and it snagged on the knit blanket. But when we went to the hospital for the last time, I brought it. It is what he was wrapped in when we held him for the last time.
I slept with his blanket last night.
Tonight, when I sang Kathleen the "Kakeen" song, the lullaby I made up just for her, my voice cracked and I choked through tears when I got to the Henry verse.
Kathleen, my baby, your brother is Henry.
He is an angel who watches over thee.
He is no here with us upon the earth
but he's watched over you since before your birth.
He is not here with us upon the earth.
"We don't have Henry," she tells me sometimes. "No. No, we don't."
Brian and I went through the timeline again tonight. The discharge into the snowstorm on the 13th. Actually getting home on the 14th. The visiting nurse's stamp of approval that all looked well on the 15th. The fever and vomiting and diarrhea and frantic phone calls and exhaustion on the night of the 15th. The pediatrician, the ER on the 16th. The drill into his leg. The sighing over the weeks it would take to ween him off the ventilator again. Going home for a couple hours. The phone call. Back to the hospital. Brian wrung out sick and needing to leave somewhere in the wee hours of the 17th. The unfamiliar beeping. Singing him out, singing him love. Brian arriving too late, seeing my mom's face and knowing.
I have no idea what time he died. I have looked at his death certificate just to find out, but I never remember. Time had lost all meaning then. And it was the time of year, this time of year, when darkness falls so early and grayness sometimes conveys dark. Had I been looking out the window, it wouldn't have helped.
I am past the joyful days this week. I am not far from the day. I have been feeling it coming on today, even as I worked and read Christmas stories and delivered jams to our church and cooked dinner.
Tomorrow.
Four years.
I don't know what to do with that. Four years. I've come so far, but come these days of December, I am still standing there by the revolving door at the hospital, waiting, arms empty, for somebody to come to take me home. I don't remember if Brian was beside me or behind me or with me at all at that door. I was numb and searing and separate from everything that flowed around me.
I think I will go hold his blanket again and check on my girls and feel them breathe. I will go to sleep knowing my neighbors have been holding me in their hearts and my friend Tricia has been thinking of me this week sending big hugs. I'll go to bed knowing my friend Michelle will listen to You Are My Little Bird with her daughter tomorrow and remember Henry. I'll pass by my tree and see the ornaments others have made to remember him. I'll go to bed and hold his blanket knowing his place in the earth is marked.
I'll go to bed and wake up and it will have been four years and a new year will start.
Tomorrow.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
One
It has been a week of celebrations and cake, but we couldn't let today go by without one more.
It was a small celebration, but she's a small girl. The cake was left over from earlier in the week, but I cut a fresh slice and lit a candle and we sang. Kathleen helped Elizabeth blow out the candle. Elizabeth helped herself to the cake.
They opened Elizabeth's present together, a copy of Jamberry to symbolize the blueberry bushes we will plant for her next summer (along with the ones we are overdue to plant for Kathleen). Kathleen pouted momentarily that she didn't get a present.
When Kathleen turned one, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like her first birthday was more than a year in coming. The journey to that first birthday started in the fall of 2006 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Robbed of Henry's first birthday, getting Kathleen to hers seemed like a momentous feat. While I don't take for granted that my children will live, I am able to believe again that they will. Elizabeth's birthday was much more a regular first birthday. It's still amazing though, isn't it?
My baby is one. One!
It was a small celebration, but she's a small girl. The cake was left over from earlier in the week, but I cut a fresh slice and lit a candle and we sang. Kathleen helped Elizabeth blow out the candle. Elizabeth helped herself to the cake.
They opened Elizabeth's present together, a copy of Jamberry to symbolize the blueberry bushes we will plant for her next summer (along with the ones we are overdue to plant for Kathleen). Kathleen pouted momentarily that she didn't get a present.
When Kathleen turned one, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like her first birthday was more than a year in coming. The journey to that first birthday started in the fall of 2006 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Robbed of Henry's first birthday, getting Kathleen to hers seemed like a momentous feat. While I don't take for granted that my children will live, I am able to believe again that they will. Elizabeth's birthday was much more a regular first birthday. It's still amazing though, isn't it?
My baby is one. One!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Run away
I went for a run today. 40 degrees and mid-afternoon sun. I started out wishing I had another layer, grumbling and swearing I wasn't bringing anything to bring to the potluck dinner tonight (I had warned Brian it was on him.)
And then I ran and got warmed up and pushed past my usual turnaround point. I breathed deeply, or as deeply as I could as I ran on and on. I noticed that my run started and ended at a funeral home and my turnaround point was a cemetery, not intentionally, no significance. I didn't think about the hills. I'm not sure what I thought about. I counted. I considered an alternate end to my route. I took that route, extra hill and all. I finished strong.
I got back home and took my shower. The girls and Brian were still gone. I finished the first pass of my chapter for work. I looked at the clock. It was 5. I got up and made the chowder to take to the potluck. It was ready at 5:33, just three minutes after we should have been out the door. Kathleen had fun. Elizabeth didn't get to cranky, despite the late dinner and the third night in a row past bedtime.
I ran off the sadness and anger and frustration. I came back with more energy than a nap or another cup of coffee would have given me. I need more of this. I knew it, but today really reminded me how much good running away does for me.
And then I ran and got warmed up and pushed past my usual turnaround point. I breathed deeply, or as deeply as I could as I ran on and on. I noticed that my run started and ended at a funeral home and my turnaround point was a cemetery, not intentionally, no significance. I didn't think about the hills. I'm not sure what I thought about. I counted. I considered an alternate end to my route. I took that route, extra hill and all. I finished strong.
I got back home and took my shower. The girls and Brian were still gone. I finished the first pass of my chapter for work. I looked at the clock. It was 5. I got up and made the chowder to take to the potluck. It was ready at 5:33, just three minutes after we should have been out the door. Kathleen had fun. Elizabeth didn't get to cranky, despite the late dinner and the third night in a row past bedtime.
I ran off the sadness and anger and frustration. I came back with more energy than a nap or another cup of coffee would have given me. I need more of this. I knew it, but today really reminded me how much good running away does for me.
Monday, December 12, 2011
A crack
There is a crack in my armor. I am not invincible against December, though I was starting to feel like I was.
It started just a hairline last night. I stepped out of my office and saw both my Christmas trees—the full tree and Henry's little tree—glowing. The house was quiet and a glow filled the darkness. I took it in. I smiled. Peace and joy and love.
And the memory of why I have that small tree covered in cardinals and hearts surfaced. It's not that I forget that Henry is dead, but sometimes I don't have to really think about it any more than I have to remember to breathe. But sometimes like last night, it hits me. A gasp, a quick sob. No lying on the floor. No crying for hours, but a crack.
Today, all my efforts to keep things simple fell apart. Brian introduced all kinds of projects into the day despite my efforts, and I ended up doing alone what I thought we would do together and finishing up one of his projects. So I spent the afternoon in a pissy mood and cried some more.
It doesn't help that I'm tired. It doesn't help that I feel fat and most of my clothes don't fit and I can see in pictures how I've gained weight since summer. It doesn't help that despite my best efforts and intentions I'm coming into some tight deadlines for work. It doesn't help that the 17th is drawing nearer.
But I'm not lost yet. As I sat in the car, taking deep breathes, waiting to pick up our pizza, I remembered all the kind words of support I've received this month. While I was gone, Elizabeth took her first steps. My behind schedule author sent me an email telling me how amazing I am. And now my work files have uploaded. I'm going to go sit in the glow of my Christmas tree and light a candle for my boy and drink some chamomile tea. And tomorrow I will do my work and take a run and try to take care of me some more.
It's still December. I'm cracked open, but I'm still standing.
It started just a hairline last night. I stepped out of my office and saw both my Christmas trees—the full tree and Henry's little tree—glowing. The house was quiet and a glow filled the darkness. I took it in. I smiled. Peace and joy and love.
And the memory of why I have that small tree covered in cardinals and hearts surfaced. It's not that I forget that Henry is dead, but sometimes I don't have to really think about it any more than I have to remember to breathe. But sometimes like last night, it hits me. A gasp, a quick sob. No lying on the floor. No crying for hours, but a crack.
Today, all my efforts to keep things simple fell apart. Brian introduced all kinds of projects into the day despite my efforts, and I ended up doing alone what I thought we would do together and finishing up one of his projects. So I spent the afternoon in a pissy mood and cried some more.
It doesn't help that I'm tired. It doesn't help that I feel fat and most of my clothes don't fit and I can see in pictures how I've gained weight since summer. It doesn't help that despite my best efforts and intentions I'm coming into some tight deadlines for work. It doesn't help that the 17th is drawing nearer.
But I'm not lost yet. As I sat in the car, taking deep breathes, waiting to pick up our pizza, I remembered all the kind words of support I've received this month. While I was gone, Elizabeth took her first steps. My behind schedule author sent me an email telling me how amazing I am. And now my work files have uploaded. I'm going to go sit in the glow of my Christmas tree and light a candle for my boy and drink some chamomile tea. And tomorrow I will do my work and take a run and try to take care of me some more.
It's still December. I'm cracked open, but I'm still standing.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
This week
This is the week.
December 11–17
I knew my joy-grief was packed tightly into this month, but the alignment of the calendar brings that so into focus this year. One week to mark birth birth death.
Sunday Kathleen turns three.
Thursday Elizabeth turns one.
And Saturday Henry will have been gone four years.
We have a busy, but low key week planned.
Tomorrow evening, if we can, a train ride through the park to see the lights. A cupcake she doesn't have to share. A gift. Monday birthday dinner with neighbors. Tuesday more cake with friends. Thursday. Oh, my. I haven't planned anything special for Elizabeth's actual birthday. More cake? Something to open (her real gift will be blueberry bushes, as was Kathleen's on her first birthday, though they have yet to be planted). Poor second/third child. I was okay with not giving her a big party, but perhaps, I should do something to mark that day.
And Saturday?
All I knew was I didn't want a birthday party that day, for my girls or anyone else. It was one thing I didn't think I could handle. But we got invited to two holiday parties. We could easily have bowed out of either, but we're going to both. Part of reclaiming this month. Part of reclaiming our lives. And right now, it feels okay, good even. I need to go to the cemetery in the morning, so that we we head out in the evening and drive by his grave, I'll have been there already.
The next day, the 18th we start the Christmas cycle.
But first, this jam-packed week.
And to start that week, a birthday.
December 11–17
I knew my joy-grief was packed tightly into this month, but the alignment of the calendar brings that so into focus this year. One week to mark birth birth death.
Sunday Kathleen turns three.
Thursday Elizabeth turns one.
And Saturday Henry will have been gone four years.
We have a busy, but low key week planned.
Tomorrow evening, if we can, a train ride through the park to see the lights. A cupcake she doesn't have to share. A gift. Monday birthday dinner with neighbors. Tuesday more cake with friends. Thursday. Oh, my. I haven't planned anything special for Elizabeth's actual birthday. More cake? Something to open (her real gift will be blueberry bushes, as was Kathleen's on her first birthday, though they have yet to be planted). Poor second/third child. I was okay with not giving her a big party, but perhaps, I should do something to mark that day.
And Saturday?
All I knew was I didn't want a birthday party that day, for my girls or anyone else. It was one thing I didn't think I could handle. But we got invited to two holiday parties. We could easily have bowed out of either, but we're going to both. Part of reclaiming this month. Part of reclaiming our lives. And right now, it feels okay, good even. I need to go to the cemetery in the morning, so that we we head out in the evening and drive by his grave, I'll have been there already.
The next day, the 18th we start the Christmas cycle.
But first, this jam-packed week.
And to start that week, a birthday.
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