Distance

I'm slow, as I was last month, in getting to Under the Tree, but the first question hit on something I've been thinking about lately.

How long has it been since you lost your child? Has your grief changed at all? Is your life becoming any easier or is it just harder as time passes?

I've been saying lately that Henry died a little over a year ago, though I can't say that much longer. Soon it will be a year and a half, then almost two years or two years in December.

My grief has changed in part because of time and in part because of circumstance.

The first days and months were a haze. Henry died on December 17. We buried him on December 22. I don't remember what we did for Christmas that year. I have vivid memories of Christmas Eve, of sitting on the couch with my friend who's dad had died a couple of weeks before Henry with the energy of kids at Christmas swirling around me. I walked around in that haze for a while. It was a strange mix of numbness and searing pain. I slept with Henry's blanket every night. I avoided going to bed because it always made me cry, so I stayed up late reading babylost blogs or doing mindless tasks. I mediated and cried my way through yoga classes.
I hated the time I had to do it, the time I had to do anything for myself.
I didn't have the energy for the day to day stuff that needs to get done. So a lot of it didn't.
I was exhausted.
I cried every day.

In March, three months out, it hid me harder. I felt like any bit of protective numbness was gone. Outside was mud and dirty remnants of snow, nothing green in sight. It was bleak and lifeless, and it fit my mood perfectly. But March was a turning point: I didn't necessarily feel ready to have another baby, but I felt the need to make the effort, to work to create life as sickness and sadness and death past and approaching surrounded us.

My sister-in-law died in June, and in addition to the grief at this new loss, I was plunged back to December, to a place where just getting up, just breathing felt like too much. Brian and I struggled to communicate, both stumbling to find words and mistaking what the other was trying to say.

Some days were harder than others. Some days just knocked me out--I'd wail and weep, I'd literally be too weak to stand. As time moved on, these knock out days became less frequent, though no less intense.

As we approached the first anniversary of Henry's death, a day I dreaded, we were also approaching Kathleen's birth. Kathleen's birth has had a huge impact on my grief. I cannot focus so much on Henry or on the hole left behind in my heart anymore than I would be able to focus solely on him if he were here. This isn't to say I don't feel it, but more that it has taken more of a background role, tinging my whole life, but not the center of it.

Henry is retreating from me in some ways. I feel more distant from him. This bothers me, though I think it is normal and bound to happen. I don't have guilt, but sadness at the growing separation. In some ways, Kathleen increases this divide as my attention rightly goes to her and her needs, but at the same time, she bring Henry back to me in some ways. I can't help but contrast the experience of living with my two babies, and that brings him back.

And lately, many people have been telling me that they think Kathleen looks like Henry. I have seen it myself in flashes, a certain expression, a particular angle. So I feel heavily the growing distance between Henry and me and I love the anchors that help hold him near, part of our family, part of my life.

Some days still knock me down; they come out of the blue and hit hard and sudden. But they continue to be less frequent. I still start to realize sometimes that I will always carry this loss, that it is part of me forever. It's too disheartening to think that, so I just try to go day by day. I am able to feel joy more, to see the light more. I'm not sure life is easier, just different and still changing. Sometimes it seems so long since I held him, and yet he wouldn't yet be two. It is almost too much to take in, how much has happened since May 2007.

Henry's Song

Under the Tree—March, part III
Do you have a special poem, song, prayer or quote in memory of your baby/ies?

I've written before aboutthe Elizabeth Mitchell CD You Are My Little Bird that I played for Henry in the morning both at home and when he was in the hospital. I still love that CD and even though I play it often for Kathleen, we still call it Henry's CD. We played that CD in the background at the funeral home.

In particular, I think of Henry when I sing "Peace Like a River." I sang that song often to him without the CD. It is the one song we chose for his funeral. I wanted to pick music and readings that were meaningful, but I just couldn't think at that point.

Henry had his own special song, too, one I made up and sang to him all the time. It was very simple.

Your name is Henry. Your mama loves you.
Your name is Henry. Your daddy loves you.
Your name is Henry. Grandparents love you.
Nana loves you.
Papa loves you.
Nana loves you.
Grampy loves you.
Big Nana loves you too.
Yes, they do. They really do.
They love their Henry.
They love their Henry.

It goes on. There is a verse for aunts, a verse for uncles, and one for cousins. Sometimes I would add other family members or friends or neighbors. I started singing this song to Henry in the NICU. I sang it to him at home when he was on oxygen and I was so scared and waiting for his surgery. I sang it to him in the hospital when he was recovering from surgery, and home again during the golden two-week period when we had a healthy baby. I sang it, choking with tears and fear when he ended up back in the hospital again, and as he was dying, as they did chest compressions and gave him medicine and watched his monitor, I started singing to him and my song was a thread of connection to him until they made room around the bed for me and I reached out to hold his foot and I kept singing until he was gone.

I sang this song at his grave side. I sang it months later, deep in despair, the night he visited me.

Your name is Henry.
Your mama loves and misses you.

Signs and Symbols

Under the Tree—March, part II
I have two main symbols for Henry: hearts and cardinals. I chose a heart, not only because of the obvious love connection, but because he had a congenital heart defect. Henry has always been my heart boy. While Henry was in the hospital, my aunt sent in a red stuffed cardinal that made cardinal sounds if you squeezed it. Between the sound and the bright red, Henry was fascinated by the bird. After he died, I found the sudden flash of red in an otherwise bleak landscape reminded me of Henry's smile, which could come out of no where and brighten my darkest mood.

These symbols have come up again and again, and I see them often as signs from Henry. We have collected heart stones, one from the beach when my family was together last summer, one uncovered when we were digging a hole to plant Henry's tree on his birthday, one found on our vacation last summer when I pregnant with Kathleen. I've seen hearts in the shapes of clouds, patches of snow, and leaves as I'm thinking of Henry or when I'm particularly sad. I smile and say to myself, "Henry."

Cardinals too seem a sign from Henry. I've seen one flash across the window as I was falling deeper into despair. A cardinal sat outside my grandmother's window while she ate her lunch on Henry's anniversary. My babylost mama friend Linda reports the cardinals she sees outside her house that make her think of my Henry. I don't necessarily feel Henry's presence with these signs, but they lift me up. They feel like a gift from him, often when I need it most.

The time I most felt Henry's presence was probably over a year ago now. It was late at night and I missed him desperately. I clutched his yellow blanket and I started to sing out loud to him. I sang his special song, the one that names him and all the people who love him. I felt him settle on my chest, snuggling there, as he had in the early months of his life. I finished the song and felt so much more peaceful. He stayed with me while I fell asleep; when I awoke he was gone. I've never felt him with me like that again.

Part of Our Family, Part of Our Home

At a neighborhood party, somebody asked me if I would show Kathleen pictures of Henry when she was older. My answer tied in nicely with one of the Under the Tree questions for this month, so here's my answer to the first question.

Henry is all over our home.

We have large frames with many pictures on our mantle along with the angel that was on Henry's casket during his funeral, and my Willow Tree angel of hope and boy with a HOPE balloon. In the dining room, there is one shelf on in the hutch that has pictures of him, one of his hospital hats and one of his pacifiers.

In my office, I have a little three-tier shelf. One shelf has a picture of a cardinal (one of my Henry symbols) and the stuffed cardinal that makes cardinal calls when you squeeze it that he had in the hospital, and a vase of dried white roses from his funeral flowers and memorials. Next is a picture of him, a stone from his grave before it was resodded, and a little bottle of colored sand from our grief group. The third shelf has a picture of him.

We have memory lamps for him in both the living room and dining room with a picture of him next to each. I light the lamps each evening and leave them burning all night. If Kathleen is with me when I turn them on and off, I show her his picture and we say good night, Henry or good morning, Henry.

We will show Kathleen pictures of Henry. We will tell her stories and talk about her brother. He is part of our family, part of our home.