It has become a January tradition for me to sit in this chair that I got to rock my babies in and reflect on what I see and what has changed and where I am.
The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.
The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.
CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.
Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.
From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.
It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.
Showing posts with label this year last year. Show all posts
Showing posts with label this year last year. Show all posts
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Just last year?
Kathleen has been climbing on the plastic play structure in our backyard. She climbs up the ladder section and right up over the top. "Look at this!" she calls me. Eventually she goes down the slide and climbs back up again and again and again.
Last summer, she could not climb the play structure. She wanted me to pick her up so she could slide, again and again and again. My belly was big and my back ached and I would pick her up a few times and sigh enough. Often a neighbor would take pity on me and help her up more and more and more until I convinced her it was time to go in.
Just last year.
***
Yesterday I stopped at the outlets on my way home from my sisters to buy pajamas for Kathleen and see if there were any other good deals. Kathleen ran around hiding under racks of clothes and played at the Lego table; Elizabeth checked things out from the Baby Bjorn.
As I poked through wintery, Christmas sleepers, I remembered searching last year for matching winter-themed pajamas for a newborn and a 2-year old, something not too girly in case that newborn was a boy.
Just last year.
***
Elizabeth roams the house on hands and knees, pulls herself up to standing anywhere she can, and jerks around whenever she hears her sister's voice.
Last September, a baby kicked and rolled and squirmed about as Brian read The Hobbit to me.
Just last year.
***
Nine months in seemed to fly by and take forever.
Nine months out has simply flown by.
Last summer, she could not climb the play structure. She wanted me to pick her up so she could slide, again and again and again. My belly was big and my back ached and I would pick her up a few times and sigh enough. Often a neighbor would take pity on me and help her up more and more and more until I convinced her it was time to go in.
Just last year.
***
Yesterday I stopped at the outlets on my way home from my sisters to buy pajamas for Kathleen and see if there were any other good deals. Kathleen ran around hiding under racks of clothes and played at the Lego table; Elizabeth checked things out from the Baby Bjorn.
As I poked through wintery, Christmas sleepers, I remembered searching last year for matching winter-themed pajamas for a newborn and a 2-year old, something not too girly in case that newborn was a boy.
Just last year.
***
Elizabeth roams the house on hands and knees, pulls herself up to standing anywhere she can, and jerks around whenever she hears her sister's voice.
Last September, a baby kicked and rolled and squirmed about as Brian read The Hobbit to me.
Just last year.
***
Nine months in seemed to fly by and take forever.
Nine months out has simply flown by.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter, Then and Now
Easter three years ago, I was still waiting to meet Henry, still naive, still happy.
Easter two years ago, Henry missed his first Easter. I was newly pregnant again and anxious.
Easter last year, Henry missed his second Easter. Kathleen was toothless, sitting supported.
I was a jumble of happy and sad.
Easter, this year, this day, Henry is still absent from the egg hunt*. Kathleen is toothy grins alternating with fussing, wanting her mama to hold her. Most of the day I was okay, tears welled in church and at his grave. Most of the day, I marveled at how my baby girl has changed in this last year, how different, toddling around, picking up eggs, dropping them to pick up a leaf. She gave me kisses today. This is brand new today, and so sweet.
*(He was in the picture with all the grandchildren though. My mother-in-law had Brian run in and get a picture of Henry to hold, so he would be part of "all the kids.")
Easter two years ago, Henry missed his first Easter. I was newly pregnant again and anxious.
Easter last year, Henry missed his second Easter. Kathleen was toothless, sitting supported.
I was a jumble of happy and sad.
Easter, this year, this day, Henry is still absent from the egg hunt*. Kathleen is toothy grins alternating with fussing, wanting her mama to hold her. Most of the day I was okay, tears welled in church and at his grave. Most of the day, I marveled at how my baby girl has changed in this last year, how different, toddling around, picking up eggs, dropping them to pick up a leaf. She gave me kisses today. This is brand new today, and so sweet.
*(He was in the picture with all the grandchildren though. My mother-in-law had Brian run in and get a picture of Henry to hold, so he would be part of "all the kids.")
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Looking back on the day
Last year, walking through the soft, big flakes would have triggered a memory. I would have found myself back on Longwood Ave., stumbling along the slippery sidewalk, Henry heavy in his car seat, the oxygen tank slipping off my shoulder. Yes, a bit of weather could have thrown me back into the full-blown panic of trying to get my baby back to the hospital after being discharged into a massive traffic jam caused by a not so massive snow storm. But yesterday, I just noticed the beauty and sighed at the sight of more fallen lilac bush limbs. Then later in the day, my brain made the connection but I didn't get the emotional punch.
***
Today we went to our favorite sugar shack. We took Kathleen for the first time last year, and it triggered a flood of memories and missing. This year was different. We ran into friends who have a little boy who was born three days before Henry. We sat together and talked about a mutual friend who is pregnant again. We laughed at their son bestowing kisses on Kathleen. I fed Kathleen; they admonished their son to sit down and eat. It was fun to have breakfast with somebody we know.
Not once did I look at their son and think that Henry should be sitting across from him at the little kids' picnic table. Not once did I have a stab of what should be but isn't.
Later in the day I thought about the fact that their son is Henry's age, a simple fact once would have paralyzed me. I might have cried all the way home or curled into bed with Henry's blanket once we got here. But lately, things haven't been triggers tripping off emotional explosions. Lately, they just make me connect memories, that may be sad but are not as loaded as they used to be. It's a curious thing.
***
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the slant of sunlight coming in the window or the scent of moist soil or a paper that got tucked into the wrong box may set me off, leave me clutching the counter top to stand and wipe me out for days. I know I have no power over these triggers. They come unbidden and unsuspected. Right now, the likely candidates aren't hitting me that way.
So for now, for as long as I can, I'll enjoy the fluffy snow and the conversations with the woman who I shared my first big belly days with. I'll watch with a smile as her son plays with my daughter and not bemoan that he doesn't play with my son. I'll enjoy these things as they are today, unmarred by scary memories, unshadowed by what what should have been.
***
Today we went to our favorite sugar shack. We took Kathleen for the first time last year, and it triggered a flood of memories and missing. This year was different. We ran into friends who have a little boy who was born three days before Henry. We sat together and talked about a mutual friend who is pregnant again. We laughed at their son bestowing kisses on Kathleen. I fed Kathleen; they admonished their son to sit down and eat. It was fun to have breakfast with somebody we know.
Not once did I look at their son and think that Henry should be sitting across from him at the little kids' picnic table. Not once did I have a stab of what should be but isn't.
Later in the day I thought about the fact that their son is Henry's age, a simple fact once would have paralyzed me. I might have cried all the way home or curled into bed with Henry's blanket once we got here. But lately, things haven't been triggers tripping off emotional explosions. Lately, they just make me connect memories, that may be sad but are not as loaded as they used to be. It's a curious thing.
***
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the slant of sunlight coming in the window or the scent of moist soil or a paper that got tucked into the wrong box may set me off, leave me clutching the counter top to stand and wipe me out for days. I know I have no power over these triggers. They come unbidden and unsuspected. Right now, the likely candidates aren't hitting me that way.
So for now, for as long as I can, I'll enjoy the fluffy snow and the conversations with the woman who I shared my first big belly days with. I'll watch with a smile as her son plays with my daughter and not bemoan that he doesn't play with my son. I'll enjoy these things as they are today, unmarred by scary memories, unshadowed by what what should have been.
Friday, January 29, 2010
The view from where I sit, revisited
Last January, I wrote about sitting in my glider rocker in my living room and how that experience had changed from sitting in that chair the January before.
As I sit in my chair now, my view has changed again. The room itself is different. The pictures of Henry are still on the mantle and on top of the TV. His memory lamp and picture still sit on the bookcase next to dried flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral.
But the walls are no longer bare. Paintings and the shelves we took down to paint the room before Henry was born are finally back up. The table of sympathy cards and thank you notes in that sat next to my chair in 2007, made way in 2008 for the baby swing. Now that corner is home to a giant basket of stuffed animals and a milk crate full of board books. The homey braided rug made way for a cushy Oriental, and the golden tones pick up the light of the morning sun. The coffee table is gone (one less thing to climb or bump a head on), more room to play. Toys of all types fill in the perimeter of the room.
My chair sits in the living room where it has been since we brought Henry home the first time. These days it sits, but I don't sit in it much. I'm on the floor playing with Kathleen or we are out visiting people or running errands or having a snack together in the kitchen, and if she is asleep, I'm most likely sitting at my desk trying to get a little work done.
My surroundings have changed. The rhythm of my day has changed, too. Mostly I am asleep in those quiet pre-dawn hours Kathleen and I used to share; rarely do I see the darkness turn gray and then rose and then bright yellow as day begins in earnest. Kathleen still sits with me when she is not feeling well and sometimes when she is tired, but mostly she is busy: pulling books off shelves, testing her balance, trying to climb onto the ottoman, finding the Cheerios she dropped earlier, emptying and filling bins of toys . . .
Much has changed in a year.
But when I have a chance to sit again, this remains: I still look at the pictures of Henry, now two years gone, and I still struggle to believe, to comprehend that I had a baby boy, that I sat in this chair and rocked him, that he is gone, gone, never to be held, never to be rocked again. I look around at all the signs of my girl, who I held so new and so precious last January; she is still with me, now chubby cheeks and chunky thighs and giddy giggles.
I sit in this chair and remember, remember sitting with both my babies, rocking them, feeding them, singing to them.
I sit in this chair, one baby tucked into bed, the other tucked into my heart.
As I sit in my chair now, my view has changed again. The room itself is different. The pictures of Henry are still on the mantle and on top of the TV. His memory lamp and picture still sit on the bookcase next to dried flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral.
But the walls are no longer bare. Paintings and the shelves we took down to paint the room before Henry was born are finally back up. The table of sympathy cards and thank you notes in that sat next to my chair in 2007, made way in 2008 for the baby swing. Now that corner is home to a giant basket of stuffed animals and a milk crate full of board books. The homey braided rug made way for a cushy Oriental, and the golden tones pick up the light of the morning sun. The coffee table is gone (one less thing to climb or bump a head on), more room to play. Toys of all types fill in the perimeter of the room.
My chair sits in the living room where it has been since we brought Henry home the first time. These days it sits, but I don't sit in it much. I'm on the floor playing with Kathleen or we are out visiting people or running errands or having a snack together in the kitchen, and if she is asleep, I'm most likely sitting at my desk trying to get a little work done.
My surroundings have changed. The rhythm of my day has changed, too. Mostly I am asleep in those quiet pre-dawn hours Kathleen and I used to share; rarely do I see the darkness turn gray and then rose and then bright yellow as day begins in earnest. Kathleen still sits with me when she is not feeling well and sometimes when she is tired, but mostly she is busy: pulling books off shelves, testing her balance, trying to climb onto the ottoman, finding the Cheerios she dropped earlier, emptying and filling bins of toys . . .
Much has changed in a year.
But when I have a chance to sit again, this remains: I still look at the pictures of Henry, now two years gone, and I still struggle to believe, to comprehend that I had a baby boy, that I sat in this chair and rocked him, that he is gone, gone, never to be held, never to be rocked again. I look around at all the signs of my girl, who I held so new and so precious last January; she is still with me, now chubby cheeks and chunky thighs and giddy giggles.
I sit in this chair and remember, remember sitting with both my babies, rocking them, feeding them, singing to them.
I sit in this chair, one baby tucked into bed, the other tucked into my heart.
I sit, as I did last year, with the grief and the gratitude, the ache and the awe.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
First Day of School
Kathleen and I stepped outside to say hello to our neighbor M. before she got on the bus for the first day of school. She's in second grade now and will be picked up at the other end of our short block, so we saw her and wished her a good day but didn't actually see her off as we did so many times last spring. She's an old pro at the bus now, having ridden it for two years.
But two years ago, I watched her get on that bus for the first time. Henry and I sat out on the porch on a cool September morning to wave goodbye. She was so tentative. I watched and Henry watched and her parents watched and her brother waited to see if she would actually go. Then, an older girl she knew met her at the door and M. got on and sat with her and the bus left. A few days later, M. told me that she would hold Henry's hand on his first day of school and sit with him so he wouldn't be scared to get on the bus. I smiled seeing the two of them five years in the future, my boy with his bright smile, his bigger friend taking care of him.
A few days later, Henry ended up in the hospital. Two days after that we were moved back to Boston, and we didn't know what was wrong. During that long hospitalization, I kept telling Henry about home. I'd sing "Old McDonald" to him and tell him about all the animals he would see at the farm down the road. I told him how M. would teach him to feed a lamb a bottle. I talked about playing with the kids, working in our garden. And I told him about M. and the school bus. And I kept believing she would one day help him onto that bus.
Last September, it was me with empty arms and a big belly watching her get on that bus. The bus stop was on the side of the house rather than out front. She was more confident. And all I could think was that she would never hold Henry's hand as he got on that bus.
Today was a gorgeous, cool, dry, perfect fall morning. The sky was blue and clear. The day screamed September. I reveled in that and I delighted in Kathleen's laugh as we stood by the back door. Just a little piece of me was out front on the porch steps with a different baby in my arms, a littler baby, one who couldn't hold up his own head yet, but one who had just as much possibility ahead of him as the girl I held today.
On the first day of school, I can't help but think back to a lovely morning with my baby boy, a morning when my fear for him was gone, when I was just a regular mama who could expect that in five years she'd wave goodbye and wonder how her baby got so big.
But two years ago, I watched her get on that bus for the first time. Henry and I sat out on the porch on a cool September morning to wave goodbye. She was so tentative. I watched and Henry watched and her parents watched and her brother waited to see if she would actually go. Then, an older girl she knew met her at the door and M. got on and sat with her and the bus left. A few days later, M. told me that she would hold Henry's hand on his first day of school and sit with him so he wouldn't be scared to get on the bus. I smiled seeing the two of them five years in the future, my boy with his bright smile, his bigger friend taking care of him.
A few days later, Henry ended up in the hospital. Two days after that we were moved back to Boston, and we didn't know what was wrong. During that long hospitalization, I kept telling Henry about home. I'd sing "Old McDonald" to him and tell him about all the animals he would see at the farm down the road. I told him how M. would teach him to feed a lamb a bottle. I talked about playing with the kids, working in our garden. And I told him about M. and the school bus. And I kept believing she would one day help him onto that bus.
Last September, it was me with empty arms and a big belly watching her get on that bus. The bus stop was on the side of the house rather than out front. She was more confident. And all I could think was that she would never hold Henry's hand as he got on that bus.
Today was a gorgeous, cool, dry, perfect fall morning. The sky was blue and clear. The day screamed September. I reveled in that and I delighted in Kathleen's laugh as we stood by the back door. Just a little piece of me was out front on the porch steps with a different baby in my arms, a littler baby, one who couldn't hold up his own head yet, but one who had just as much possibility ahead of him as the girl I held today.
On the first day of school, I can't help but think back to a lovely morning with my baby boy, a morning when my fear for him was gone, when I was just a regular mama who could expect that in five years she'd wave goodbye and wonder how her baby got so big.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Vacation Snapshots
We got home Sunday from a week in the White Mountains with my family. It was chaotic and fun, exhausting and wonderful. I laughed a lot, cried a little.
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)
This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
As I packed the car, I couldn't help remembering our vacation last summer. It was just Brian and me and a baby in my belly. There was no car seat, no stopping to give the baby a bottle, no need for diapers or stroller or Pack & Play. Last year in the car on the way to Maine, the empty backseat made me cry. This year, I kept peeking back, reaching back, making sure Kathleen was breathing okay in her new car seat even as her head lolled forward in sleep.
***
Seven adults + 5 kids five and under + one condo = utter chaos
***
I stayed up too late every night of vacation. My sisters and I, and some nights my mom, would play games: cribbage, Pictionary, 100,000 Pyramid, Farkle, Taboo . . . and we laughed. We tend to get incredibly silly when we are all together and at some point somebody says, "Stop, I'm gonna wet my pants." I remembered how a few weeks after Henry died, I visited with my family. We played games, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants. For me then, the laughter was simply a release of the stress and the sorrow. I was all cried out. The next day my back and belly hurt from the exertion. I didn't feel guilty for laughing, but I didn't feel happy either. This vacation, I laughed a lot. I laughed hard. And I felt it.
***
***
My family took Kathleen for a day so that Brian and I could go for a hike together. The mountain we chose, Mount Tremont, wasn't particularly challenging, but Brian was fighting off a summer cold, we're both out of shape, and it was convenient. And we had tried to climb it before. The last time was on snowshoes, about a month after Henry died. We lost the trail somewhere along the way and decided to turn back. I remember the mountain being cold and bleak and beautiful. I remember me being cold and numb and worn out. (There are no pictures from that winter climb. The first
pictures on my camera for 2008 are from March.)This time all was green and wet. Mushrooms flourished. We saw frogs and snakes. It was sweaty hot. We summited. While we ate lunch, I watched a flock of dragonflies, huge ones as big as my had flitting and drooping about. And I thought of Henry and the other babies I know who have left too soon.
***
Homecoming
We got home in the early afternoon, so I didn't mind that Henry's lamp was dark. It was after the bustle of unpacking and getting Kathleen to bed, when the house was still, that I sat an missed Henry a little more. Somehow he always feels a little more missing, a little more gone when I come back from being away.
***
Despite the thread of grieving and Henry throughout these memories, it was not a sad time, mostly. The missing was always there, but not always insistent on being recognized. I enjoyed my baby girl. I loved watching her with her cousins and look forward to the fun she will have with them as she gets a little bigger.
Our first family vacation
Monday, June 22, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
In Bloom
Last year, for Henry's birthday, we planted a peach tree.
I had decided, when I thought Henry would actually see his first birthday, that that's what Brian and I would give him as a birthday present. He didn't need toys or clothes, and the tree would grow and hopefully bear fruit that we could all enjoy. We already had one peach tree, one that had been given to us as a wedding present, and I thought we'd start a little family orchard.
After Henry died, I decided I'd still plant his tree. It was something I could do for his birthday, something we'd have for him.
Maybe it will bear fruit.
Maybe the squirrels won't
plunder it.
Maybe Brian and I will taste sweetness from a tree planted in bitterness.
I noticed the other day that Henry's peach tree is in bloom. How beautiful and bright and hopeful on this gray, rainy day.
***
Later, the sky remains gloomy gray, but somewhere the sun keeps peeping out, so it is bright off and on. And as I sat on the porch with Kathleen, a cardinal flew onto my neighbor's porch, sat for us briefly and then flew away. My Henry smile for the day.
I had decided, when I thought Henry would actually see his first birthday, that that's what Brian and I would give him as a birthday present. He didn't need toys or clothes, and the tree would grow and hopefully bear fruit that we could all enjoy. We already had one peach tree, one that had been given to us as a wedding present, and I thought we'd start a little family orchard.
After Henry died, I decided I'd still plant his tree. It was something I could do for his birthday, something we'd have for him.
Maybe it will bear fruit.
Maybe the squirrels won't
plunder it.
Maybe Brian and I will taste sweetness from a tree planted in bitterness.
I noticed the other day that Henry's peach tree is in bloom. How beautiful and bright and hopeful on this gray, rainy day.
***
Later, the sky remains gloomy gray, but somewhere the sun keeps peeping out, so it is bright off and on. And as I sat on the porch with Kathleen, a cardinal flew onto my neighbor's porch, sat for us briefly and then flew away. My Henry smile for the day.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Maple and Memories
We had our first sugar shack breakfast of the season yesterday: pancakes, French toast, eggs, homefries, ham, bacon, sausage, and of course syrup. Mmm. And Kathleen was there sitting next to us on top of the vinyl covered picnic table. She was smiling, and we were telling her how much she would like coming next year when she could eat too. It was another in the long string of bittersweet moments comparing what is to what wasn't, what will never.
March 2007—I pulled out the full-panel maternity pants for the first time to go to the sugar shack. I watched kids at the little plastic kids tables, saw babies in the clamped to the table baby seat, and imagined bringing our baby there the next year.
Fall 2007—We thought Henry was coming home. On oxygen. Medically fragile. But home! I told him all the things we would do. I was overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of him, but I believed he would come through. I was looking ahead. I talked about March and sugar shacks. I figured that we'd go early when it wasn't too busy to minimize germ exposure. We'd sit in the outer room to keep the oxygen tank away from the wood stove. He'd taste maple syrup.
And then he died.
March 2008—Last year Brian and I did the sugar shacks as we had for years. We sought out normal things, so we made two trips to High Hopes, our favorite (they have an all you can eat buffet): once with my parents and once with Tricia, my friend from the hospital, and her husband and daughter. We went when they were busy and waited in line. We sat next to wood stove and enjoyed the warmth. We went for the sweetness, but those visits were bitter.
We tried a new place, too, and I ran into Carol. She scanned the room for me so that I could be prepared for Henry age baby boys—none. Brian and I sat in a sunbeam waiting for our pancakes. It was bright and cheery. We were just there; noise and life and syrup smells swirled around us.
March 2009—We went back, as usual. We went early, not to avoid crowds, but because we were up early with Kathleen. We sat in the room with the wood stove, but not near it. We took turns sitting with her and going up to get our food. Like so many things, our sugar shack breakfast brought back memories of expectations and dreams, memories of the depths of our early grief. And it brought a new set of dreams and expectations as we anticipate bringing Kathleen back next year.
March 2007—I pulled out the full-panel maternity pants for the first time to go to the sugar shack. I watched kids at the little plastic kids tables, saw babies in the clamped to the table baby seat, and imagined bringing our baby there the next year.
Fall 2007—We thought Henry was coming home. On oxygen. Medically fragile. But home! I told him all the things we would do. I was overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of him, but I believed he would come through. I was looking ahead. I talked about March and sugar shacks. I figured that we'd go early when it wasn't too busy to minimize germ exposure. We'd sit in the outer room to keep the oxygen tank away from the wood stove. He'd taste maple syrup.
And then he died.
March 2008—Last year Brian and I did the sugar shacks as we had for years. We sought out normal things, so we made two trips to High Hopes, our favorite (they have an all you can eat buffet): once with my parents and once with Tricia, my friend from the hospital, and her husband and daughter. We went when they were busy and waited in line. We sat next to wood stove and enjoyed the warmth. We went for the sweetness, but those visits were bitter.
We tried a new place, too, and I ran into Carol. She scanned the room for me so that I could be prepared for Henry age baby boys—none. Brian and I sat in a sunbeam waiting for our pancakes. It was bright and cheery. We were just there; noise and life and syrup smells swirled around us.
March 2009—We went back, as usual. We went early, not to avoid crowds, but because we were up early with Kathleen. We sat in the room with the wood stove, but not near it. We took turns sitting with her and going up to get our food. Like so many things, our sugar shack breakfast brought back memories of expectations and dreams, memories of the depths of our early grief. And it brought a new set of dreams and expectations as we anticipate bringing Kathleen back next year.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Gap
We are in the midst of the gap months—January, February, March, and April—the months untouched by Henry's life. Although he was born at the tail end of May (he was supposed to be a June baby like me), May is a month very much a Henry month to me. But March? Henry was never here. He never visited a sugar shack with us. I never pointed out the snowdrops peeking out by the back door.
This time last year I ticked off the things that we did for the first time without Henry. The first Christmas without him, the first New Years, first Valentine's day, first muddy days that smelled of spring . . . all things we had never experienced with him and yet his absence was as strong as if we had had him with us for years. May is a month of waiting to mark his arrival and then a long string of memories that lead into the short dark days of December. But right now is that gap of time where I had a big belly and movement and "the baby" inside, but he was not yet Henry to me.
This time two years ago I was expectant, oh so excited. The baby was coming in just a couple of months. I envisioned spring walks and the baby sleeping under the pear tree by my kitchen garden. I was doing yoga and swimming and feeling fabulous.
This time last year, I was grieving. March was a particularly hard month for me. It felt like I had been sad for so long and yet I knew it was nothing compared to what lay ahead. Life was moving on around me, the weather was bleak, and each day was such a struggle.
And now? Still grieving, still letting go bit by bit, still holding on to Henry, and yes, excited and expectant again as I watch Kathleen grow, see her smile.
This time last year I ticked off the things that we did for the first time without Henry. The first Christmas without him, the first New Years, first Valentine's day, first muddy days that smelled of spring . . . all things we had never experienced with him and yet his absence was as strong as if we had had him with us for years. May is a month of waiting to mark his arrival and then a long string of memories that lead into the short dark days of December. But right now is that gap of time where I had a big belly and movement and "the baby" inside, but he was not yet Henry to me.
This time two years ago I was expectant, oh so excited. The baby was coming in just a couple of months. I envisioned spring walks and the baby sleeping under the pear tree by my kitchen garden. I was doing yoga and swimming and feeling fabulous.
This time last year, I was grieving. March was a particularly hard month for me. It felt like I had been sad for so long and yet I knew it was nothing compared to what lay ahead. Life was moving on around me, the weather was bleak, and each day was such a struggle.
And now? Still grieving, still letting go bit by bit, still holding on to Henry, and yes, excited and expectant again as I watch Kathleen grow, see her smile.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
'Enry 'Ome
Our neighbor Nicholas was here for lunch today. He is almost three and a half and has been very interested in Kathleen. He wants to hold her, show her toys, and give her a bottle. The first thing he did when he came in the door today was to ask where she was.
Last January, February, March, he visited too. He would come in the door and say, " 'Enry 'ome?" The first time he said it, I couldn't breathe.
Each time he came again, he'd ask again. I would say no and remind him that Henry was in heaven with Oma (his great-grandmother), which is how his parents had explained it to him. And he would walk over and look in the bassinet in the dining room, just to make sure. Then he would ask to see Henry's other bed (the crib that used to be his), and we would go up and look at the crib. We'd come back down stairs and he'd ask for Henry again. And I would say that we could look at his pictures, so we'd go around and look at all the pictures.
It broke open my heart each time he asked, but in some ways that question was easier than "How are you?" I watched him try to make sense of it all, not wondering that he couldn't, for I couldn't—still can't really—wrap my brain around it.
Today he came in asking for Kathleen, and I showed him where she was almost asleep in her swing. I smiled watching them, but I wish 'Enry were 'ome.
Last January, February, March, he visited too. He would come in the door and say, " 'Enry 'ome?" The first time he said it, I couldn't breathe.
Each time he came again, he'd ask again. I would say no and remind him that Henry was in heaven with Oma (his great-grandmother), which is how his parents had explained it to him. And he would walk over and look in the bassinet in the dining room, just to make sure. Then he would ask to see Henry's other bed (the crib that used to be his), and we would go up and look at the crib. We'd come back down stairs and he'd ask for Henry again. And I would say that we could look at his pictures, so we'd go around and look at all the pictures.
It broke open my heart each time he asked, but in some ways that question was easier than "How are you?" I watched him try to make sense of it all, not wondering that he couldn't, for I couldn't—still can't really—wrap my brain around it.
Today he came in asking for Kathleen, and I showed him where she was almost asleep in her swing. I smiled watching them, but I wish 'Enry were 'ome.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Turning a Corner
One thing I know about grief is that it is not linear, not a straight progression from bad to better. You may wake up okay and fall apart in the afternoon. Two bad days can be followed by a good one. And sometimes you turn a corner.
Carol noted recently that I had turned the corner into joy again. And I have. I love being here. Kathleen certainly propelled me into this place faster than I might otherwise have arrived.
This time last year I couldn’t have imagined being here in a place where there is light and joy along with the shadow and sorrow. I was deep in the darkness, the heaviness. I knew it would get lighter but I couldn’t see how or when. I couldn’t envision the me of today; I could only look back at pictures of the me who had been and wonder at her smile, her sparkle, her joy. I still wonder at her, that she who was me. I may not sparkle, but I smile again. The joy is tempered by loss, but it is still deep. The missing and the delight are wrapped closely together.
I have turned a corner, started a new part of my journey. This road of grieving, of missing, of Henry being gone still stretches out before me. But I have turned a corner.
I look back at this time last year, not to dwell in the sadness or because I cannot move forward. I look back sometimes to see how very far I’ve come.
Carol noted recently that I had turned the corner into joy again. And I have. I love being here. Kathleen certainly propelled me into this place faster than I might otherwise have arrived.
This time last year I couldn’t have imagined being here in a place where there is light and joy along with the shadow and sorrow. I was deep in the darkness, the heaviness. I knew it would get lighter but I couldn’t see how or when. I couldn’t envision the me of today; I could only look back at pictures of the me who had been and wonder at her smile, her sparkle, her joy. I still wonder at her, that she who was me. I may not sparkle, but I smile again. The joy is tempered by loss, but it is still deep. The missing and the delight are wrapped closely together.
I have turned a corner, started a new part of my journey. This road of grieving, of missing, of Henry being gone still stretches out before me. But I have turned a corner.
I look back at this time last year, not to dwell in the sadness or because I cannot move forward. I look back sometimes to see how very far I’ve come.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Beacons
Just about a year ago, I stumbled out of my house on a cold, dark night and drove ten minutes down the road to the hospital where Henry was born. I wended my way through the halls, took a deep breath, and walked into a conference room for a meeting of Empty Arms, the local SHARE group.
Henry had been gone just over a month. I was so numb yet raw, so lost. How did I get here? It didn’t feel real—his death and sometimes even his life.
I missed my baby. Losing him devastated me shook the core of my world. I used to live in a world where babies only died in far away places, in poor places, on TV, to other people. I don’t like living in a world where babies dying is a part of a terrible daily reality, my reality.
And I didn’t know who I was any more. What does it mean to be a mother when you have no child to care for? What was I going to do with all the baby stuff? with my time? with my love? How did I hold on to Henry when I had already had to let him go, told him it was okay, released his spirit as I held onto his body? And how would he stay part of our family if we welcomed new children into it, children who couldn’t remember him because they had never known him?
I met Carol who showed me how very real her daughter Charlotte is, how very much a part of her life and her family. She was five years down the road, five years ahead of me in this journey. And she gave me great hope and a sense of possibility. Months later I found her blog, which made me cry, but which again touched my confusion and fear and sadness.
She is one of my beacons, the people ahead of me on this journey who have helped me along the way. She has continued to inspire me, help me, and now rejoice with me. I am so thankful to have found her.
Henry had been gone just over a month. I was so numb yet raw, so lost. How did I get here? It didn’t feel real—his death and sometimes even his life.
I missed my baby. Losing him devastated me shook the core of my world. I used to live in a world where babies only died in far away places, in poor places, on TV, to other people. I don’t like living in a world where babies dying is a part of a terrible daily reality, my reality.
And I didn’t know who I was any more. What does it mean to be a mother when you have no child to care for? What was I going to do with all the baby stuff? with my time? with my love? How did I hold on to Henry when I had already had to let him go, told him it was okay, released his spirit as I held onto his body? And how would he stay part of our family if we welcomed new children into it, children who couldn’t remember him because they had never known him?
I met Carol who showed me how very real her daughter Charlotte is, how very much a part of her life and her family. She was five years down the road, five years ahead of me in this journey. And she gave me great hope and a sense of possibility. Months later I found her blog, which made me cry, but which again touched my confusion and fear and sadness.
She is one of my beacons, the people ahead of me on this journey who have helped me along the way. She has continued to inspire me, help me, and now rejoice with me. I am so thankful to have found her.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sleepless
Kathleen has been pretty good at sleeping at night. She still wakes up a couple of time to eat, but she tends to go longer stretches at night. Usually she wakes up, we change her, I nurse her, and Brian or I give her a bottle. Then we settle her and put her back in the bassinet or she doesn't want to be put down and one of us lies down with her on our chest. It's not a bad system. I can't complain.
Last night, she slept for a few hours and woke up around 2 a.m. She nursed; she had her bottle; and she looked at me with her big eyes, wide awake. She wasn't fussy, though her mouth kept going. I tried feeding her more. Still wide awake, and her mouth was still going. She'd close her eyes and then pop them back open. I let her suck and suck and suck. We did another bottle at 4. She had a series of loud, satisfying burps, and I put her down a little after 5.
As I sat there in the semi-dark with her, I remembered my sleepless nights this time last year, my grief so raw. I was afraid to go to bed then. As my mind and body started to settle down, any protective measures I had put up to get me through the day came down and the pain that seemed intolerable intensified. I'd sob briefly hugging Henry's blanket and eventually sleep. Every night I dreaded bedtime and I tried to avoid it. I'd sit up for hours doing crossword puzzles or endlessly searching online for something to comfort or help me through. I'd go to bed in the wee hours and sleep late.
I remember talking to a friend in March. It was almost 11 a.m., and I had just gotten up. "Lucky," she said. She had a new baby at home and had been up with him. Really? I thought. Lucky? Do you want my kind of luck? I wish I had a reason to get out of bed before 11. I wish I was up all night because somebody needed me.
I knew there might be a day when I had a new baby, when I had no sleep, and all I could think of was lying down and closing my eyes, but at that moment, I would have given anything to be up all night with a little one.
Now, with a new baby home, I do appreciate sleep. But while there are times I'm exhausted, I know it could be worse. Last night, I longed to get back into bed. I yearned to lie down and get some rest. But there was a warm little body in my lap. For a time there were big eyes staring up at my, there were soft tugs at my breast, and then there was a snuggly, sleepy little girl, eyes closed, face peaceful, so worth staying up for. I'm tired this morning, but I really can't complain. No, I can't complain at all.
Last night, she slept for a few hours and woke up around 2 a.m. She nursed; she had her bottle; and she looked at me with her big eyes, wide awake. She wasn't fussy, though her mouth kept going. I tried feeding her more. Still wide awake, and her mouth was still going. She'd close her eyes and then pop them back open. I let her suck and suck and suck. We did another bottle at 4. She had a series of loud, satisfying burps, and I put her down a little after 5.
As I sat there in the semi-dark with her, I remembered my sleepless nights this time last year, my grief so raw. I was afraid to go to bed then. As my mind and body started to settle down, any protective measures I had put up to get me through the day came down and the pain that seemed intolerable intensified. I'd sob briefly hugging Henry's blanket and eventually sleep. Every night I dreaded bedtime and I tried to avoid it. I'd sit up for hours doing crossword puzzles or endlessly searching online for something to comfort or help me through. I'd go to bed in the wee hours and sleep late.
I remember talking to a friend in March. It was almost 11 a.m., and I had just gotten up. "Lucky," she said. She had a new baby at home and had been up with him. Really? I thought. Lucky? Do you want my kind of luck? I wish I had a reason to get out of bed before 11. I wish I was up all night because somebody needed me.
I knew there might be a day when I had a new baby, when I had no sleep, and all I could think of was lying down and closing my eyes, but at that moment, I would have given anything to be up all night with a little one.
Now, with a new baby home, I do appreciate sleep. But while there are times I'm exhausted, I know it could be worse. Last night, I longed to get back into bed. I yearned to lie down and get some rest. But there was a warm little body in my lap. For a time there were big eyes staring up at my, there were soft tugs at my breast, and then there was a snuggly, sleepy little girl, eyes closed, face peaceful, so worth staying up for. I'm tired this morning, but I really can't complain. No, I can't complain at all.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The View from Where I Sit
I've been sitting in this chair a lot lately, the glider rocker that was intended for the nursery. We moved it to the living room after we brought Henry home on oxygen and were afraid to bring him upstairs for fear one of us would trip on the tubing. I fed him and rocked him and sang to him in that chair during a sweaty summer of 2007. Now I sit in this chair to nurse Kathleen and rock her and sing her her own song in this chilly winter.
Last January, I spent hours in this chair, clutching a yellow blanket. My grandmother knit the blanket for Henry, and when we headed to the hospital for the last time, I grabbed it. I did not want to, could not admit that Henry might die, but I grabbed it, knowing without admitting why I was bringing it. But when he died, when the monitors stopped beeping and they unhooked all the machines, it was that yellow blanket we wrapped him in, that yellow blanket he was in as family took last turns holding him. I clung to that blanket for a year, but in January last year, I was clinging hard. Last January, I sat with tear swollen eyes, staring dully at the pictures of Henry all around. I had a baby and he's gone.
I sat in that chair in a home that felt strange and alien. I had been gone three months with Henry in the hospital, not even home two full days before he got sick again. I live here. I had a baby and he's gone. It didn't seem real. I had mixed feelings about going to his grave. There were times I felt compelled to go, but I wasn't quite sure what to do when I was there. But at home, I sat in the chair, the chair where I had held him. Somehow it seemed like a better place to visit him.
This January, I sit in this chair and hold my baby girl. I look at her with wonder that she is here, that she is okay. And from my chair, I still look at the pictures of Henry, my eyes bleary with sleeplessness rather than swollen with tears, though the tears still come. I had a a baby and he's gone. It still doesn't seem real. I still miss him, still long to hold him. But I'm thankful that this January I'm holding more than a blanket. Kathleen, I love you so much, and I'm so glad you are here.
Last January, I spent hours in this chair, clutching a yellow blanket. My grandmother knit the blanket for Henry, and when we headed to the hospital for the last time, I grabbed it. I did not want to, could not admit that Henry might die, but I grabbed it, knowing without admitting why I was bringing it. But when he died, when the monitors stopped beeping and they unhooked all the machines, it was that yellow blanket we wrapped him in, that yellow blanket he was in as family took last turns holding him. I clung to that blanket for a year, but in January last year, I was clinging hard. Last January, I sat with tear swollen eyes, staring dully at the pictures of Henry all around. I had a baby and he's gone.
I sat in that chair in a home that felt strange and alien. I had been gone three months with Henry in the hospital, not even home two full days before he got sick again. I live here. I had a baby and he's gone. It didn't seem real. I had mixed feelings about going to his grave. There were times I felt compelled to go, but I wasn't quite sure what to do when I was there. But at home, I sat in the chair, the chair where I had held him. Somehow it seemed like a better place to visit him.
This January, I sit in this chair and hold my baby girl. I look at her with wonder that she is here, that she is okay. And from my chair, I still look at the pictures of Henry, my eyes bleary with sleeplessness rather than swollen with tears, though the tears still come. I had a a baby and he's gone. It still doesn't seem real. I still miss him, still long to hold him. But I'm thankful that this January I'm holding more than a blanket. Kathleen, I love you so much, and I'm so glad you are here.
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