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.

Love Like an Ocean

I got back yesterday from a few days visiting my parents. I grew up on the coast, spending every weekday at the beach every summer of my childhood. It wasn't until I grew up and moved away that I realized just how lucky I was. The ocean soothes me, calms me, sets me straight. If I go too long without seeing it, smelling it, feeling its rhythm, I get out of balance. So it was good to be there.

We went to the beach each of the three full days I was there and I soaked it all up. I played cold in the water with my nieces. I found periwinkles and crab shells and feathers with them. I ate sandy sandwiches with lemonade. And I walked with Kathleen up and down the beach when she got fussy. I thought about last year on the 4th of July when I walked up and down the beach with my cousin's baby girl, just a tiny two-month-old bundle, how she nestled into me and fell asleep to the sound of the waves, and how I felt the need to hold her and walk with her, but how it made me cry because I hadn't had the chance to walk like that with my baby. Henry never made it to the beach, though he heard about the ocean from me so much. Walking with my cousin's baby last year was a reminder of so much that had never been and never would be. Walking with Kathleen this year reminded me of that too, but also of what is and what is yet to be. In summers to come she will play in the sand and the sea, she'll take walks with her grampy and make sand castles with her nana. The tides will continue to flow in and out. The ocean will continue to stretch out its endless blue expanse. And my love will swell like the waves and stretch beyond where you can see for Henry and for Kathleen.

***

Henry out and about:

• At dinner while I was visiting my family, my brother-in-law commented that he thought Kathleen looked a lot like Henry. I see it sometimes, certain expressions. A bit later, my niece said, "I miss Henry." I told her I missed him too. "But," she said, brightening, "now you have Kakaleen." From a grown-up, this would have bothered me, but from a five-year-old, I accept her thought process, her attempt to sort it all out.
• My cousin told me about his bird feeder and how a cardinal came and sat with them for a while last week.
  
• Last night at dinner, our friend's daughter wanted her dad to read to her. The book she picked was Hello, Henry. They had gone to the dump on Henry's birthday and visited the book discard area, where they found half a dozen Henry books, including this one, one of their daughter's current favorites.

***

Fourth of July

Kathleen 2009






Henry 2007

Bits and Pieces

There is a school bus stop outside my house. If Kathleen isn't in an early nap (or strangely still asleep), we go out and say hello to our neighbors. Today was the last day of school, and as I stood holding Kathleen watching Meg get on the bus for the last day of first grade, I remembered holding Henry watching a younger, much more tentative Meg get on the bus for the first time on the second day of kindergarten. And I smiled, a bit wistfully, but I smiled.

***
Wednesday I made jam. Strawberry, strawberry rhubarb and a batch of double strawberry rhubarb. The pectin I use doesn't specify amounts for strawberry rhubarb, but I knew I had the recipe on a little scrap of paper somewhere. I sifted through my recipe box and a pile of papers tucked into my jam book—and there it was. I dropped it, and picking it up realized it was written on the back of an appointment card, one of Henry's pediatrician visits. I took a deep breath. I sighed. And that was all. It didn't break me. Not that day.

***
On Tuesday night, we went to a regular potluck dinner hosted by friends, the potluck where two other bellies grew large at the same time mine did when I was pregnant with Henry, the potluck where we went numbly after Henry died. It has gotten easier over time to be there, to see the other spring 2007 babies, but there are still twinges. But this Tuesday, Zoey, who adores Kathleen, wanted to see her as I was feeding her in the high chair, so I scooped her up on to my lap. And it struck me. This should be Kathleen's little brother on my lap, this child of just the right age. But again, it was strange, rather than crushing.

***
Earlier, or perhaps still now on a different day, any one of these things could have flattened me, reduced me to a sobbing heap, wiped me out, left me useless for the rest of the day and worn out the next. I feel in some ways stronger, but also more distant. Is the distance part of the strength? Am I simply letting go of some of pain to make room for more pleasant memories? Or is all this just a fluke and tomorrow a memory, a scrap of paper, or another child will take me down? I'm not sure. I'm hoping for b) the less pain, more pleasant memories option. Though that thought makes me sigh again—I wish there were more than memories.