Reclaiming this month

Perhaps it was a bit melodramatic to say that I feel like I am being challenged to simply survive this month. I've tied too much importance to December this year, but December 2009 scared me. I don't want to be in that place again, so I've made this the test, as if it will determine what every December here on out will be like.

But as I stumbled through draft after draft of a post last night that never came together, I realized that I'm not waiting for the month to test me. I'm stepping in and trying to reclaim it. I want to be able to listen to Christmas carols and put up a tree and host birthday parties and wrap gifts and bake cookies. And I want to enjoy all these things, not just go through the motions.

I want the 11th and the 15th and the 25th to hold their own against the 17th.

I want joy and peace. I want light in my darkness.

So I came into this month ready to battle my December demons. I came in armed with space carved out by turning down quick turnaround jobs and postponing pediatrician appointments and getting much of shopping done early. I carried a plan for simple birthdays and marched in with December 17th left purposefully empty on the calendar. I have candles to light and chocolate to eat and red wine to drink. I am moving forward planning birthday cakes and thinking about little hands plunging into Christmas stockings and the nip of a Christmas morning hike. I am enjoying the preparations, my crafting and shopping and figuring out where to put the tree. I don't quite trust this month still, but I'm trying to take it back and hold the peace and joy and light while knowing the time will come to sit with the darkness.

Thanksgiving

Each Thanksgiving, I stand there again in the hallway right outside Henry's room. Ready to go to Thanksgiving dinner, eager to see my family, filled with guilt about leaving Henry. He doesn't know it is a holiday, that he should be seeing his cousins and grandparents and wearing a pilgrim hat. I'm standing there talking to Magie's mom, admiring her coat, talking about how we won't count this Thanksgiving, how next year will be the "first" Thanksgiving for both our babies. We were so sure they would both be home to celebrate the next year.

Neither of them made it to Christmas.

I'm thankful for many things. I don't spend all day stuck on this memory. I don't only lament what I don't have. I do give thanks. Henry taught me that. I was perhaps my most grateful when he was in the hospital, when we didn't know what was wrong with him, when every day seemed bleak and improvements seemed miniscule and setbacks huge. Each night I prayed for him, and I always began with thanks—thanks for another day, for better sats, being one step closer to extubation, a card in the mail, an email, open eyes, a smile.

It is easier when the daily challenges are more mundane to forget about the little reasons for thanks. Perhaps because nothing is all that bad, nothing is all that great. I like to think I am more aware of the small joys and blessings around me. Maybe. Most days.

Kathleen woke up too early this morning. She was cranky all day, throwing tantrums off and on. And yet, I was thankful.

I was thankful to sit with her,
to hold her,
to read to her,
to kiss her head,
to have her shout, "Bye! Ta ta! Cheerio!" as I tucked her in for the night.

I'm thankful for a warm home,
a comfortable bed,
and a full belly.

I'm thankful to have work that I (mostly) like,
and for three days off,
and for a break from that work starting a week and half from now.

I'm thankful for the blue skies today,
the November chill,
and the smell of smoke in the air.

I'm thankful for a close-knit neighborhood,
friends near and far,
and the amazing people I've met because of Henry.

I'm thankful for Thanksgiving traditions, 

for two families that I will happy to see tomorrow, 

for family that acknowledges the missing among us. 

I'm thankful for my baby boy whose smile still warms me,
for my baby girl who amazes me with something new every day,
and for the baby I have yet to meet.

I'm thankful I'm not standing outside that hospital room this year,
thankful for having survived year one and year two,
thankful to feel the sharp edges of grief softening, slowly, yes, but softening still.


Thank you for reading here,
for bearing witness,
for supporting me on this journey.

Surprise excitement

We took Kathleen trick-or-treating on Halloween. She didn't quite catch on to saying trick-or-treat, but she got the idea of grabbing some candy out of an outstretched bowl, and after the first few houses started saying "thankyouwelcome" after she did. We went with her friend from our neighborhood and saw lots of people that she knows. I think her favorite part was walking outside in the dark and holding the flashlight.

That's when I decided I would get her her own little flashlight for Christmas—perfect stocking stuffer.

And I was excited by the idea. I love the idea of filling her stocking this year, watching her opening her presents. It was a switch from the dread I've had facing December. I've worried about giving her the happy birthday she deserves. I've worried about sharing the anticipation and joy I used to feel about Christmas with her. I wasn't sure I could pull it off.

I'm still not sure, but I have a glimmer of hope. Maybe instead of giving her the joy and excitement, hers will carry me. I am beginning to see that she might lead my way, carry the light for me through the dark.

Maybe it will work that way. Maybe it won't, but December feels a little more doable.

Mother's Day

Kathleen and I were up much too early today, so I laid on the couch for an hour half watching her play and periodically hoisting her on to the couch so she could cuddle with me. She is usually too busy these days, this girl of mine, too busy to sit on my lap. Maybe she just wasn't feeling well, or maybe she knew it was Mother's Day. Either way, we had lots of snuggles today. 

And in the late afternoon, I cut three clumps of lilacs, one for each of his years, wrapped them in a wet paper towel and then in foil. I clicked Kathleen in her car seat and we drove to the cemetery together. I put the fragrant flowers on Henry's grave, knowing they would likely be stolen or tossed or blown away by the wind. I stopped to sniff them deeply, spoke briefly to Henry, and then got back in the car. I peeked into the back and smiled at Kathleen before we headed home again. 

This holiday no longer paralyzes me. I can walk down the card aisle without crying. I can (though I didn't) go out to brunch. 

But still it is laughter and tears, snuggles and the cemetery.

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.")

Halloween Past and Present

My Pumpkins

Glow in the Woods' 7 x 7

Glow in the Woods recently posted it's 7x7 questions for January. Here are my responses:

1 | Welcome to 2009. What have you left behind in the year just past? What do you hope to find in the year to come?
I left behind year one of grieving, the firsts of everything without Henry.

I think I’ve left behind a lot of fear. I hope to find more moments of peace and more moments of good memories rather than the fearful, traumatic ones that seemed to have surfaced so much last year.

2 | We've just come through the season in which our culture touts cheer and peace and family togetherness rather relentlessly. How did your child's death impact your experience of the "holiday" season, personally or culturally?
I definitely felt the hole in our family. This year we marked two missing faces: Henry’s and my sister-in-law’s. This Christmas marks our second without Henry, though it felt like the first. Last year he had been gone only eigh days, buried only three. But this year also marks a different kind of first: our first with our daughter, born two weeks before the holiday.

3 | If you celebrate in any way through December, are there ways you include or acknowledge your lost baby/babies?
This year I could not deal with a proper Christmas tree, but I decorated a small, table top tree with hearts and cardinals (my symbols for my son) and a tiny angel, and I lit candles for him throughout the season. I made an ornament with his name on it, to match the one I made for my daughter, to be hung when we do have a tree again. I brought a heart-shaped wreath to his grave on Christmas day. It felt insufficient, but I needed to do something, to mark his place somehow.

4 | Through the year are there any holidays, seasons, or parts of what were once cherished rituals that have changed for you because of your child's death?
I wonder if I will ever find December to be a season of peace and joy again. It seems like a month that will always be complicated, marked as it is by both birth and death. Birthday, death anniversary, Christmas . . . right now it just feels exhausting.

5 | Do you do anything to remember your baby/babies' birth and/or death day? Or will you?
We planted two trees for Henry’s first birthday: one a hawthorn that family gave us planted on his actual birthday and one a peach tree that I had planned to be his first birthday gift from us. We marked the day with our families, eating cake and bring balloons to the cemetery, one for each of the cousins and one released for Henry. I’m not sure how we will handle it in the future.

6 | Is there anything about the winter season (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere right now) that lifts your spirits? Is there anything that especially brings them down?
I like the coziness and camaraderie of storms. I love the beauty of fresh snow. The flash of a red cardinal in a bleak landscape reminds me of Henry’s smile. But early darkness and being in all the time sometimes lead to a sense of isolation.

7 | During your hardest times, how have you found your way forward?
I just keep taking it day by day, step by step, and remind myself that grief is not a straight, linear path.