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.

An evening out

I went out for drinks and apps with a good friend tonight to celebrate my birthday. After what feels like weeks of rain bracketing a mini heat wave, it was absolutely perfect weather-wise to sit on the deck, sipping beer and eating nachos and fried catfish and mussels. It was the kind of night that makes me wonder why I don't go out more often.

We were there for a little over three hours, and for probably half of that time we talked about Henry, about what happened when he died, what she remembered, what stood out to her, what I remembered, what I couldn't remember or what was fuzzy.

And here's the thing: it wasn't depressing at all. I love having conversations like these. (Not the experience that led to this conversation, but that, given that experience, the conversation happened.) It was not what I expected of my birthday outing, and yet it was what I needed right now.

A friend

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with my friend Tricia (who I wrote about here). I was visiting her new home for the first time. When I visited her last in her old home, I was touched to see she had a picture of Henry sitting on a bookcase.

It's the kind of thing that could easily get tucked into a box and not make it out during a move. But there he was. She said that people see the picture and ask if it is her daughter (you know, the oxygen and all), and she tells them it's Henry. And when they ask who Henry is, she tells them he's a friend.

And she is an amazing friend, one I never would have met without Henry, and I'm so glad to know her.

Just in case

Earlier this week I got together with an old friend. I haven't seen her since I was pregnant with Henry, and then for a while I couldn't talk to her. I don't know why. Every time I tried to call or email her, I got stuck.

It wasn't a case of a friend not being there for me. She sent sent a card at the one month mark. She made donations in is name. She noted that she had never met him and that she would always regret that. There was nothing she had said or done, or not said or not done, but anytime I tried to get in touch, I stopped. Finally I wrote and told her that I didn't know why but I was having a hard time talking to her, but I didn't want to lose our friendship.

Eventually we started again: e-mail, Facebook, . . .  we joked about reviving our Birthday Weekend tradition, which had lasted from 1993, the year we met, until 2006. Some years were more extravagant (month-long cross-country trip, California wineries and spa, a week on the Outer Banks) than others (a weekend of watching bad movies and eating junk food and playing cards), but we kept up the tradition.

We didn't actually revive Birthday Weekend, but we did what we haven't done in over three years: actually get together. We started looking for a date in the spring and ended up picking one in late-August.

She asked if she should she bring the kids or try to get her cousin to babysit. We haven't seen each other in over three years. I know how hard it is to have a conversation with three kids demanding attention. Lunch or dinner, just the two of us, was appealing, but I told her I didn't know what Brian's schedule would be like and we don't have a regular babysitter. I'd have to plan on having Kathleen, so she might as well bring her kids. Besides, I added, you haven't met Kathleen, and I haven't met Charlotte.

I did want to meet her daughter, her second child, and I wanted her to meet mine. But the unfinished part of that sentence was, we should meet each other's kids—just in case.

She never met Henry, will only ever know him from pictures and stories. Most likely I will have years of hearing about Charlotte and seeing pictures as she grows from baby to little girl to young woman, and most likely, she will have years of the same with Kathleen. But you never know. So now I've met Charlotte, and she's met Kathleen. She'll never get to meet my first baby, but I made sure she met my second. I hate thinking this way.


It was a good visit. We talked, with interruptions and distractions, about our garden and her house and my pregnancy and recent health scares in extended family. We fell into that comfortable pattern of good, old friends, despite the long time since we last met, despite babies we had birthed and the one I had buried. It was comfortable and easy, and I hope it isn't three years before we get together again. And I'm glad that the paralysis I had in getting in touch with her for so long didn't choke off a friendship of so many years.

The Weekend in Reverse

Today, a friend came to visit. I had volunteered in Dr. Olu's ABE class several years ago until she retired and moved back to Nigeria. I showed off Kathleen and we chatted for a bit. As she was getting ready to go, Brian shared the story of Kathleen's name. I lost the thread of the conversation for a moment, but the other woman there, a woman I knew from the same organization but hadn't seen in years, said, "Did your husband say something about a son?" It made sense she did not know. I thought I had emailed Dr. Olu at some point. I thought she had actually met Henry, but I wonder I'm mixing up memories of visiting her at the school after I got married and visiting the school without her there after Henry was born . . . I don't know. So I gave the short version of Henry's story. It is getting easier to tell his story, or it was easier today anyway. No tears. No need to lie down or retreat from the rest of the world for the rest of the day.

I told his story. But I still wish it had a different ending. No matter how good I get at telling it, I'll always wish for a different ending.

***
Saturday afternoon, Brian and I went for a paddle. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. Hot (a dip in the river felt good) and sunny. We worked hard paddling upstream, pausing only briefly to pull out the binoculars to study the bald eagle still in a tree above us. How much easier the return trip was.

We stopped in to change and see the girl before heading out to dinner. Oh, how she smiled to see me. We earned a good dinner: a beer and shrimp on the deck of a local brewery and then dinner at the Sierra Grill, where we had had my birthday dinner. Ribs with blueberry barbecue sauce for him; duck with Thai coconut sauce for me. And we split a peach lambic as part of our dessert. Yum.

It was good to get out, to spend time together, to remember things we love to do and hope to do with kids some day.

***
Friday, friend had extra tickets to the Green River Festival. I envisioned going with a hot, sticky, fussy, overtired, up-past-her-bedtime baby and it seemed less than appealing. Oh, and it was supposed to rain. Brian wasn't inclined to go. I checked the line-up and saw a number of familiar names (though only one singer I knew well). The friend with the ticket had to come to our town to pick up her tickets and stopped by and I was convinced to go.

And I had a great time. There were three of us and a two-year-old. I didn't until I started writing this realize that it was the three of us who were pregnant together when I had Henry. I did have my bittersweet moments watching the two-year-old dance. These lyrics struck me: "I wanna be ready. I wanna be ready. I wanna be ready when joy comes back to me." The music was infectious and joyful and I let it lift me. I stood outside in the rain on a summer night watching a tethered hot air balloon light up against the darkening sky listening to live music and it felt good. Good to be out. Good to be in it, not, as I felt so long, as if the world were swirling around me. Joy has come back to me. Grief and longing for my boy have not left, but joy is back. Sometimes muddied by sadness, but other times instead sharpened by it.

Food for Thought

I think I'm heading into something of a food kick. Reader beware if you are hungry. After my last post, I went to bed thinking about food. Namely about food we ate while Henry was in the hospital. There was too much hospital and restaurant food, but there were also many meals made for us.

Kim made me mac and cheese with squash, enough to put some in the freezer. Tina made me raspberry brownies and when asked for her recipe confessed she was afraid to send them to me because I am a good baker. Amy made 5-layer squares with excellent precision (the key to a good 5-layer square is careful distribution of ingredients and not skimping on the chocolate). Carol and David made Guinness beef stew, which we made later; it's time consuming, but hearty and very tasty. We got homemade salmon chowder and shrimp and corn chowder. My dad brought in fish chowder from The Causeway, a milky, rather than thick, chowder with mounds of fish and potato in it. We had turkey dinners and meatloaf, lasagna, and pork chops. Our friends and family were good to us.

And when meals were in short order, our favorite thing to get was burritos from the place across from the hospital. Despite the sad connotations, I'd still eat one of their summer burritos (mmm, mango salsa) with pork any day. Usually we'd grab breakfast there, though. That's where I became partial to breakfast burritos.

Breakfast burritos were one of my two cravings when I was pregnant with Kathleen. I had a breakfast burrito nearly every day. On my laziest days, I'd simply wrap a scrambled egg in a whole wheat tortilla with shredded cheddar cheese and a little salsa. On a more ambitious day, I'd add black beans, avocado if I had it, or chili and sour cream (I have been lucky to not suffer heartburn during my pregnancies). My burritos were smaller and not nearly as well wrapped as the ones we used to get when Henry was at the hospital, but they were quick and tasty and a fairly balanced meal.

Thinking about my cravings during my Kathleen pregnancy brought me to thinking of my cravings/aversions during my Henry pregnancy, but it's almost lunch time here, Kathleen has turned herself 180 degrees on the floor and is suggesting she might like to eat whether or not I'm hungry, so that will have to sit for another time. To lunch.

Devouring

I've been cruising through Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life. It's been sitting on the floor for weeks, but I just got a library reminder that it is due (today) and can't be renewed. Fortunately it is the perfect kind of reading for the time I have right now—brief stories plus recipes—and I'm whizzing through it.

I would have devoured this book last year. I immersed myself in books about food and gardening. And I cooked and I ate. People talk about not tasting food as a symptom of grief. Perhaps I had that for the first couple of weeks. But then I couldn't stop cooking. Gooey mac and cheese, hearty beef stew, warm oozy cookies, cheesy lasagna, roast pork with warm apples and onions . . . I sought comfort in food. Not simply eating, but eating well, making food, choosing food. I spent more than I should have on good wine and fancy cheese and local eggs and small-farm meat. I made up for months of hospital cafeteria food and restaurant meals. I read and I cooked and I ate and I savored. It was what I could do for myself—that and buy flowers all through the dark days of winter—and I had plenty of time to do it.

Time is at a bit more of a premium now, but I still find myself baking cookies or bread or muffins a couple of times a week. Today, my mouth has been watering for banana and chocolate, maybe Molly's recipe with crystallized ginger; maybe my friend Julie's banana's bread, which is one of my favorites; or maybe the banana oat bran muffins with chocolate chips that sound healthy but are deliciously buttery and best warm. I just wanted that combo of banana moistness and melty chocolate.

But I'm making myself wait, because I'm having coffee with friends tomorrow, two friends and their kids, a meeting I couldn't have done last year. A meeting that would have paralyzed me last year, exhausted me just thinking about it. The idea of being in a room with two moms who could talk about their three kids, two moms who were dealing with sleeplessness and feeding issues and discipline and growth spurts. Two moms and me, a mom who had known mostly hospitals and paralytics and procedures and then knew empty arms and aching heart. No, I wouldn't have done this meeting last year, just the muffins.

Muffins are good, friends are too. I'm looking forward to both.