The gift

I took a nap on the day before Christmas. It helped that I was feeling a little off, but I looked at my to do lists (the one for this week and the one for the day) and dropped them in the recycling bin. I decided the ornaments I was making for my girls didn't need to be finished before Christmas morning. I had already decided to nix a bunch of craft projects that would have been nice but didn't need to happen. There are presents to wrap for my family later this week. I still have a jumble of jams and pickles to be bagged and delivered to friends and neighbors. But it was done. And it was enough. 

I have not always been good at this, at letting go of what I want and expect to do. The truth is I'm still not always great at it, but I've gotten so much better. I still make my lists and sometimes they are ambitious, but I recognize when I can't. And then I don't. And it turns out, it keeps being enough.

For so many years, I set the expectations and then got frustrated and overextended trying to meet them. And then I got pregnant. I was exhausted in December 2006 and I looked at the list of ornaments that I planned to make for my nieces and nephew and friends babies, oh and wouldn't want the older sibling to be left out, and . . . yeah, nobody cared. It was one of those traditions I had established and clung to and finally realized I could let go of. Henry gave me this gift even before he was born.

And then after he died, there was just so much I couldn't do. So I didn't. And it was enough. Even now, as I start to reintroduce things and face new options I don't pile it on and if I do and realize it is too much, I back off. Sometimes it seems like less a lesson learned and more utter exhaustion, but for many years I simply pushed through exhaustion as if completing it all were a badge of honor, as if giving in was defeat. I still make to do lists, still like them as reminders of what I'd like to do, still love the satisfaction of crossing of the things I've done, but I've learned to love crossing things of the list that don't have to be done, that I can let go of. I've learned a lot about letting go these past five and half years. This is the bit that has served me the best.

Work in progress

In comments about my post about patterns, Catherine and Kate both talked about the trust factor and I've been thinking on that.  Trust is huge.

I've only recently gotten to the point where I find myself really, truly trusting that people I know--people who knew Henry, who loved him and love me--will not forget him, will understand that we continue to miss him, despite the joy and blessings that have entered our lives.

So how do I trust people who never knew him to feel his powerful, determined spirit and not simply the weight of “dead baby”?

I suppose that is where I feel I fail, because I am still mired down in the separation, the oxygen, the ambulance rides, and the ICUs. I’m still burdened by the codes and the med schedule and the endlessly shifting ground of new diagnoses. I am still, for myself, trying to dig Henry out from that rubble.

I can list all the meds he came home on in December 2007, but I can’t remember what he smelled like or if his eyes were the same clear blue as Kathleen’s or if he had my fingers as it looks like she does.

I get him in flashes: A cardinal streaking by my window brings to mind his smile. Kathleen’s face studying a flower reminds me of Henry’s effort and determination to kick his babychimes. I have felt his wholeness in an inky black sky strewn with stars. I have felt his absence standing before the vastness of the ocean, my love stretching away beyond the horizon.

Saying that Kathleen is 9 months old, has three teeth, is taking great delight in feeding herself Cheerios, and nestles her head into her mama’s shoulder only when she is tired, does not tell you who Kathleen is, but you begin to get a picture.

Do you begin to get a picture when I say Henry died at 6 ½ months, had hardly any hair, worked doggedly at getting his pacifier in his mouth (when he didn’t have a tube in there), and kept his mama going with his smiles? Or do you get stuck at the word died?

That’s where I get stuck most of the time. So maybe it isn’t about trusting others and their responses, but about trusting myself to be okay in that moment when somebody asks how old my son is and to remember and express my Henry, my baby boy, who I carried and loved, not just the medical interventions and loss that swirl between us. I’ll keep working on it.

Patterns

The other night, I sat down and read through my blog posts. I do this occasionally, the same way I read through old journals. I do it to see where I was, who I was, and how far I've come, and to find the patterns that emerge over months and years.

Earlier this month:
Sometimes talking about him seems so hard.
"And you have a son, Henry."
"Yes, we do."
It's that simple.

It's a theme I found repeated. Back in March, I wrote about talking about Henry at two baby groups:
I don't purposefully hide Henry. I don't avoid talking about him, because I do like to talk about him. But perhaps sometimes I think too much about talking about him.

[The group leader] also said that whenever I say his name she pictures his beautiful little face. Somebody thought of my baby yesterday—and all I had to say was his name.


I described getting together with somebody I had met when I took Henry to babygroup, how hard I expected it to be. How natural it was.

In July, there was the surprise of people willing to talk beyond platitudes and glossing over:
It is nice when people aren't afraid to talk about my baby and my loss and the wonder of his life and my sadness. I'm always surprised when I find them. 


And in August, there was my Facebook fiasco cleared up.

It's clear: I get anxious about talking about Henry, even though I've seen again and again that it can be a good experience. So why is it still so hard?

Maybe it's this:
It still hurts, still feels like a little piece of me dies when I say, "He died."

Or the memory of what it felt like when somebody just walked away stands out more strongly than any other.

Or I don't know what to say when somebody says, "I'm sorry" and there is a space that I feel like I need to fill.

Or  sometimes I feel like Henry is still buried under all the tubes and wires and procedures and anxiety and fear and to get to talking about him I need to tell about all that.  And sometimes that's exhausting.

Sometimes people have opened the door. They have asked a question about him or have given space to talk about him. Other times I need to open the door, especially with new people I meet. Each time I have to choose to open it and wonder what I will find behind it. And that's the scary part, the unknown outside the door each time. So that's what I'm working on: talking about Henry, saying I have two children, I have a baby who died—and figuring out what I want to say next, if I have the chance. I've been working on it for a while. You've seen me working on it for nine months now, and doubtless you will see me working on it for many more. Forgive me if I repeat myself, if I learn this lesson over and over and over again. Maybe someday it will stick.

Have you found patterns, things you keep coming back to, as you write about your baby or loss?

What I Expected

I walked down to the café at the end of the street the other day with Kathleen. A woman there smiled at me, asked me how old Kathleen was, and then asked "the question": Is she your first? I said that no, she was my second and took a deep breath in preparation for the follow up question that never came. Instead the woman said, "You can tell. You're too relaxed." I smiled at her and thought, "You have no idea."

I suppose it could have gone either way. After what we went through with Henry, I could have been a nervous wreck. I could right now be paralyzed with the fear that gripped me during much of my pregnancy. But I'm not. Maybe I'm relaxed with Kathleen because she is my second baby. I have done this before, at least this part of it, though it was so different. Maybe I'm relaxed because I know I only have so much control over the situation. I think I'm relaxed with Kathleen because in so many ways this is easy, normal, expected.

Summer 2007—Same café, same corner, me, my mom, and Henry. He was roughly Kathleen's age now. We had walked down, pushing Henry in the stroller, and when we got there my mom helped me juggle Henry, his oxygen tank, the monitor, and his diaper bag. I don't know that I enjoyed being there, but I was satisfied. Proud that we made it out, that I had accomplished one of the things I had expected to do with my new baby. Relaxed? Not at all. Surgery was looming. We had a better handle on keeping the oxymeter from driving us crazy than we did in the first week or so, but we were constantly on guard for signs. How is his color? Is he struggling to breathe? Does it look like he's retracting? What are his numbers? It isn't that I did not enjoy any of that time, but I was constantly vigilant—and waiting. I counted the days until he'd have his surgery and life would be "normal."

With Henry nothing went as expected and Brian and I did so many things to lend some sense of normalcy to our life which seemed any but normal. With Kathleen, I tried not to expect anything, but things went smoothly and life seems normal.

In fact, life is quite mundane lately, and I’m not complaining. Our days have fallen into something of a routine of waking early, changing diapers, feeding, smiles and play, changing diapers, feeding, sleeping, changing diapers, feeding, fussing, . . . We take walks when the weather cooperates, entertain visitors, and make the occasional outing. I wash bottles and diapers and tiny, cute outfits. This is what I expected having a new baby at home would be like, what I expected the first time around—except it's not, not quite, because I have done this before and I am missing Henry.

I hate the idea that losing somebody helps us sort out our priorities. I like to think mine were in order before and not much has changed. Family has always been high on the list. Surely even if I hadn't lost Henry, I'd take the time to trace Kathleen's tiny ear and stare deep into her eyes and have my heart melted by the warmth of her tiny hand on my chest as she sucks. I'd hold her tight and enjoy her warm body snuggling into mine. Yes, surely I would. But perhaps I wouldn't caress her cheek quite so often or keep her in my lap when she could surely be transferred to her bed or recognize the wonder of her being quite as deeply. Perhaps I would be distracted more easily from her smile or take the time to hold her less. Perhaps I would find the repetition, the very ordinariness of our days to be dull. But I relish every smile, I hold her knowing that this simple act is not a given, and I delight in our day-to-day, normal life. I will mark milestones with Kathleen, but in between them, I marvel in the miracle of the mundane—the weight of her warm body curled on mine, the quiet coos, and sweet smiles.