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.
Showing posts with label anniversaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anniversaries. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
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.
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.)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The countdown
Just over a week until this baby is born.
If all goes as planned.
I feel the need to add that disclaimer. I usually say, "December 15—or early if the baby has other ideas," but lately I've been worried that it might be later. I've been fighting off a chest cold/asthma flair up. I feel like I've turned the corner, but I'm not 100% yet, not even 90%. I'm tired and coughing more than I'd like, certainly more than I'd like to be doing after abdominal surgery. Then Kathleen woke up with her nose running all over her face and had a fever by mid-morning yesterday. No fever so far, but green snots galore. I'm wiping her nose constantly and washing my hands obsessively and eating chicken soup and drinking orange juice and hot tea with honey and waiting to see how I feel a week from tomorrow.
My back, which bothered me since the earliest days of my pregnancy, seems to have decided it's okay. Aside from the coughing, I'm breathing easier. Sleep is elusive, though, but I'm trying to rest when I can.
That's the physical.
As for the emotional, that seems to be mostly okay too. I have moments of panic—that they won't do my c-section as scheduled, that the baby will need to go to the NICU and they won't let me in because of my cough, that Brian will catch something from one of us and won't be able to be there, that my low weight gain that my OBs have commented on but aren't worried about is actually a sign of something bad . . . mostly these thoughts stay in check except in the middle of the night when our demons are strongest.
December hasn't really hit me this year, but perhaps that's because my calendar ends on 12/15. I can focus on that mid-month date. I can spend less energy on the lead up to 12/17. There is no pressure, internal or external, to have a holly, jolly Christmas. I'm having a baby on 12/15, whatever I do for Christmas is enough. I can cut myself a little slack this year, as I did the year Kathleen was born. Other years, though, I don't want it to be like this. I want to put up a tree, bake cookies, sing carols, wrap presents, feel the magic and the joy and the anticipation.
This year there will be only Henry's little tree, a few presents wrapped, and anticipation, but not of the holiday, but of a birth that comes ten days before.
A week from tomorrow. If all goes as planned.
If all goes as planned.
I feel the need to add that disclaimer. I usually say, "December 15—or early if the baby has other ideas," but lately I've been worried that it might be later. I've been fighting off a chest cold/asthma flair up. I feel like I've turned the corner, but I'm not 100% yet, not even 90%. I'm tired and coughing more than I'd like, certainly more than I'd like to be doing after abdominal surgery. Then Kathleen woke up with her nose running all over her face and had a fever by mid-morning yesterday. No fever so far, but green snots galore. I'm wiping her nose constantly and washing my hands obsessively and eating chicken soup and drinking orange juice and hot tea with honey and waiting to see how I feel a week from tomorrow.
My back, which bothered me since the earliest days of my pregnancy, seems to have decided it's okay. Aside from the coughing, I'm breathing easier. Sleep is elusive, though, but I'm trying to rest when I can.
That's the physical.
As for the emotional, that seems to be mostly okay too. I have moments of panic—that they won't do my c-section as scheduled, that the baby will need to go to the NICU and they won't let me in because of my cough, that Brian will catch something from one of us and won't be able to be there, that my low weight gain that my OBs have commented on but aren't worried about is actually a sign of something bad . . . mostly these thoughts stay in check except in the middle of the night when our demons are strongest.
December hasn't really hit me this year, but perhaps that's because my calendar ends on 12/15. I can focus on that mid-month date. I can spend less energy on the lead up to 12/17. There is no pressure, internal or external, to have a holly, jolly Christmas. I'm having a baby on 12/15, whatever I do for Christmas is enough. I can cut myself a little slack this year, as I did the year Kathleen was born. Other years, though, I don't want it to be like this. I want to put up a tree, bake cookies, sing carols, wrap presents, feel the magic and the joy and the anticipation.
This year there will be only Henry's little tree, a few presents wrapped, and anticipation, but not of the holiday, but of a birth that comes ten days before.
A week from tomorrow. If all goes as planned.
Friday, January 8, 2010
One Year
A year ago today I started writing here, soon after Kathleen was born, a time when many seem to retreat. I didn't write in the first raw days, weeks, months after Henry died. It took me a little while to discover this online community of people who had lost a baby. Once I did, I wanted to add my voice to the conversation, but I couldn't wrap my mind around how to get started. Should I just jump in? Did I need to explain everything that had happened to Henry, all we had been through together? Where to start? It overwhelmed me as so many things did that first year. So I waited. Then after the first year without Henry ended and we had survived the holidays and were beginning to settle in to the ever changing rhythms of a new baby, I just jumped in. A paper in the mail triggered a memory, and I was off. A year, 110 posts later, here I am, and I think I'll stay for a while. Thank you for joining me along the way.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
How it hits
Two years ago today a buried a baby, my son, my love, my Henry.
And yet this morning I got up with my baby girl, ate breakfast, laughed, played.
I wrote Christmas cards and packed up gifts.
It was any other day.
At 9:15 I was out the door for Christmas shopping.
A stop at the post-office, a package dropped off at a friends house.
The first strip of stores, running through my list, waiting in lines,
Gathering the things I was looking for.
It was the bank that did me in.
I went to the drive through, sent my request up through a tube
I was starting to tire of my errands and was staring blankly across two lanes of cars,
There in the window. Today is December 22.
The 22 was so big. My baby was so small.
We had four pall bearers, which was perhaps overkill.
Two grandfathers, his godfather, and my uncle (who knows too what it is to bury a son)
And his grandmothers read the eulogy that I wrote.
Today is December 22.
My chest tightened and my arms and legs got both heavy and light:
almost too much to lift and yet feeling as if they might float right off my body.
This is how it happens for me. How it comes on.
I thought about heading right home.
Lying on the bed, wrapped in his blanket. Retreating yet again
But there are nieces and nephews who deserve something to open on Thursday night
So I pressed on, but my steps were heavier, my mind distracted.
I buried my baby today. Two short and endless years ago.
I was rushing on the way home.
I had been gone longer than I expected. There was traffic when I just wanted to get back.
And I drove right by the cemetery.
The cemetery where two years ago I buried my baby.
Drove right by, distracted by the falling down house that is finally being torn down.
I didn't stop, didn't look to see if the wreath I left on the 17th was still there.
Didn't even throw out an I love you, I miss you as I passed.
But I know he is there underneath the snow
Too close to the road, still unmarked with stone. He is there whether I look or not
And yet he is not really there at all, and he doesn't care if I stop or wave or leave trinkets.
But I wish I had stopped, just for a moment and left my handprint in the snow ever him.
Two years ago I buried my baby boy.
I know this, have known this, will always know this.
And yet still it hits me suddenly, unexpectedly, this reminder of what I cannot forget,
what I carry with me always. It hits me and leaves me drained.
And yet this morning I got up with my baby girl, ate breakfast, laughed, played.
I wrote Christmas cards and packed up gifts.
It was any other day.
At 9:15 I was out the door for Christmas shopping.
A stop at the post-office, a package dropped off at a friends house.
The first strip of stores, running through my list, waiting in lines,
Gathering the things I was looking for.
It was the bank that did me in.
I went to the drive through, sent my request up through a tube
I was starting to tire of my errands and was staring blankly across two lanes of cars,
There in the window. Today is December 22.
The 22 was so big. My baby was so small.
We had four pall bearers, which was perhaps overkill.
Two grandfathers, his godfather, and my uncle (who knows too what it is to bury a son)
And his grandmothers read the eulogy that I wrote.
Today is December 22.
My chest tightened and my arms and legs got both heavy and light:
almost too much to lift and yet feeling as if they might float right off my body.
This is how it happens for me. How it comes on.
I thought about heading right home.
Lying on the bed, wrapped in his blanket. Retreating yet again
But there are nieces and nephews who deserve something to open on Thursday night
So I pressed on, but my steps were heavier, my mind distracted.
I buried my baby today. Two short and endless years ago.
I was rushing on the way home.
I had been gone longer than I expected. There was traffic when I just wanted to get back.
And I drove right by the cemetery.
The cemetery where two years ago I buried my baby.
Drove right by, distracted by the falling down house that is finally being torn down.
I didn't stop, didn't look to see if the wreath I left on the 17th was still there.
Didn't even throw out an I love you, I miss you as I passed.
But I know he is there underneath the snow
Too close to the road, still unmarked with stone. He is there whether I look or not
And yet he is not really there at all, and he doesn't care if I stop or wave or leave trinkets.
But I wish I had stopped, just for a moment and left my handprint in the snow ever him.
Two years ago I buried my baby boy.
I know this, have known this, will always know this.
And yet still it hits me suddenly, unexpectedly, this reminder of what I cannot forget,
what I carry with me always. It hits me and leaves me drained.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
December
We are two days into December and I already I can feel it. There is a darkness to this month that has nothing to do with our winter short days. There is a weight that drags along with me.
December 17 looms ahead. It will be two years. Two years since Henry left us.
But in this darkness, my light—Kathleen turns one. Her smile dimpled, different than her brother's, adds brightness. Her laugh makes me smile—even in this dark month.
I have been holding deep sorrow and great joy together, give each its due, knowing that each can stand on its own without muddying the other, but this month tests me.
December, my time to weep and my time to laugh; my time to mourn and my time to dance.
December 17 looms ahead. It will be two years. Two years since Henry left us.
But in this darkness, my light—Kathleen turns one. Her smile dimpled, different than her brother's, adds brightness. Her laugh makes me smile—even in this dark month.
I have been holding deep sorrow and great joy together, give each its due, knowing that each can stand on its own without muddying the other, but this month tests me.
December, my time to weep and my time to laugh; my time to mourn and my time to dance.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A New View on an Old Loss
My cousin Peter died 12 years ago today. I've been thinking of him today and of my aunt too.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
I was 25 when Peter died. I was shocked by his death, that he could go so suddenly, so young. One minute I was laughing in the hallway at work on the way to my desk to answer the phone. The next minute my brain repeatedly failed to comprehend that Peter, my cousin, was dead. When my mom said there had been an accident and Peter was gone, I ran through every Peter I knew, not understanding why she would call me at work about my landlord, their friends' son, a second cousin I did not know well . . . and then it hit.
I remember the silence in their driveway when we arrived. Silence in spite of the knots of kids that filled it. Silence where it was never quiet. It was a July, very much unlike this July. The heat and humidity were oppressive, the air heavy. To this day, I can't stand the smell of lilies, the thick smell that filled their house where they waked the body. I remember being with my cousins, but I don't remember much of my aunt at that early stage.
I remember though, years later, hearing her laugh, a real laugh that replaced the sometimes brittle sometimes overanimated laugh she had had since Peter died. I don't remember how long that was and it doesn't really matter. But that laugh stands out to me.
***
When Henry almost died in October 2007, when I really wasn't sure he was going to make it and my mom was calling our family and Brian's, I wanted my aunt to come to the hospital. Even as my mom was calling her to go be with my grandmother, I wanted her to come to me. At that moment, I wanted somebody there for me, somebody who would know.
I've been thinking about Peter's death from the perspective of a mother who has also lost a son, thinking of my aunt today on this day that will always bear a special weight. I'm thinking of her, holding her close in my heart.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Namesake
Kathleen was named after Brian's sister. Today, we marked the one-year anniversary of Auntie Kathleen, or Auntie K. It's hard to believe it has been a year.
We announced my pregnancy with Kathleen early, much earlier than I would have. But we knew Kathleen was dying, and Brian wanted to give the news to his sister, to let her enjoy that news for as long as possible. After we shared the news, Kathleen told Brian's mom that she already knew we were pregnant, that she had had a dream in which the Virgin Mary told her that we were going to have a little girl and that her name would be Avery.
A couple of months later, Kathleen died, and Brian and I agreed we would name the baby Kathleen if it was a girl, and to fulfill Auntie K's dream we would use Avery as a middle name. And of course we did have a girl, and we named her Kathleen Avery.
Our Kathleen's namesake lived with a wonderful grace and enthusiasm and humor. I hope our Kathleen will share these qualities. I wish she would have a chance to know her aunt, just as I wish she would have the chance to grow up with her brother.
Tonight, as I do most nights, as I rocked Kathleen to sleep, I sang to her of the story of her name and of the aunt who dreamed of her before she was born, the aunt she will know only in pictures and stories and song.
To Auntie K, we miss you.
We announced my pregnancy with Kathleen early, much earlier than I would have. But we knew Kathleen was dying, and Brian wanted to give the news to his sister, to let her enjoy that news for as long as possible. After we shared the news, Kathleen told Brian's mom that she already knew we were pregnant, that she had had a dream in which the Virgin Mary told her that we were going to have a little girl and that her name would be Avery.
A couple of months later, Kathleen died, and Brian and I agreed we would name the baby Kathleen if it was a girl, and to fulfill Auntie K's dream we would use Avery as a middle name. And of course we did have a girl, and we named her Kathleen Avery.
Our Kathleen's namesake lived with a wonderful grace and enthusiasm and humor. I hope our Kathleen will share these qualities. I wish she would have a chance to know her aunt, just as I wish she would have the chance to grow up with her brother.
Tonight, as I do most nights, as I rocked Kathleen to sleep, I sang to her of the story of her name and of the aunt who dreamed of her before she was born, the aunt she will know only in pictures and stories and song.
To Auntie K, we miss you.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
One Month
Kathleen is one month old today. I've spent the last year counting days without someone. It is nice to mark a month of counting days with someone.
One month and a few hours ago, I heard her cry for the first time, a strong, lusty, insistent wail, and I began weeping. She was here. She was okay.
With those first cries, the first assurances that she was okay, I let go of the anxiety that had been building throughout my pregnancy. Building, building, building. I was so on edge. I was afraid she would have a heart defect like Henry, afraid she would have another major health issue that we had not looked for or looked for but not seen. I was afraid she would need oxygen, be sent to the NICU, come home with equipment, or not come home at all. I was afraid of all the things that I knew could go wrong because they had for us—ambulance rides, codes, surgery, infection—and all the things I now knew could go wrong because I had met other babylost mamas and heard their stories, absorbed their losses.
As we got closer to her birth, I inexplicably gained a some confidence that she would be born alive and healthy, but I became terrified of her getting sick soon after birth. Why was I having a baby in cold and flu season? How would we negotiate the holidays and all the people who were sure to want to see her?
We've been careful. I do make people wash hands before touching her. I have limited visitors some, especially kids. But hearing her cry eased my anxiety. Yes, I'd love to keep her from getting a cold or the ugly stomach bug that's been going around, but I am no longer paralyzed by the thought. I realized that the anxiety had dissipated while we were still in the hospital.
I didn't realize until later that I had let go of an even deeper seated fear—or perhaps that it had let go of me. Since May 2007, when we learned that Henry's small to moderate VSD was in fact a larger, more serious AV canal defect that would require surgery, I have lived with fear. Fear about his health, fear of his surgery, fear when he was rehospitalized for his health, that we would never go home, only briefly that he would die. That fear should have died when he did, but somehow it was buried under my grief and never really left me. And then I got pregnant again and the fear bubbled up again. With Kathleen's birth, it seems to have left. I didn't realize the depth of that fear, the strength of it, until it was gone. It is a relief.
So one month—one month with Kathleen, one month without fear.
One month and a few hours ago, I heard her cry for the first time, a strong, lusty, insistent wail, and I began weeping. She was here. She was okay.
With those first cries, the first assurances that she was okay, I let go of the anxiety that had been building throughout my pregnancy. Building, building, building. I was so on edge. I was afraid she would have a heart defect like Henry, afraid she would have another major health issue that we had not looked for or looked for but not seen. I was afraid she would need oxygen, be sent to the NICU, come home with equipment, or not come home at all. I was afraid of all the things that I knew could go wrong because they had for us—ambulance rides, codes, surgery, infection—and all the things I now knew could go wrong because I had met other babylost mamas and heard their stories, absorbed their losses.
As we got closer to her birth, I inexplicably gained a some confidence that she would be born alive and healthy, but I became terrified of her getting sick soon after birth. Why was I having a baby in cold and flu season? How would we negotiate the holidays and all the people who were sure to want to see her?
We've been careful. I do make people wash hands before touching her. I have limited visitors some, especially kids. But hearing her cry eased my anxiety. Yes, I'd love to keep her from getting a cold or the ugly stomach bug that's been going around, but I am no longer paralyzed by the thought. I realized that the anxiety had dissipated while we were still in the hospital.
I didn't realize until later that I had let go of an even deeper seated fear—or perhaps that it had let go of me. Since May 2007, when we learned that Henry's small to moderate VSD was in fact a larger, more serious AV canal defect that would require surgery, I have lived with fear. Fear about his health, fear of his surgery, fear when he was rehospitalized for his health, that we would never go home, only briefly that he would die. That fear should have died when he did, but somehow it was buried under my grief and never really left me. And then I got pregnant again and the fear bubbled up again. With Kathleen's birth, it seems to have left. I didn't realize the depth of that fear, the strength of it, until it was gone. It is a relief.
So one month—one month with Kathleen, one month without fear.
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