a good day and a goodbye

Sunday was Father’s Day—our first with Ben and Ellie, our third without Gus and Zoey.  And even though we will always have two more Father’s Days and Mother’s Days without Zoey and Gus than we will with Ben and Ellie, it was alright.  It was good.  It was a day for going to the farmer’s market and the gym and the movies to see two of my favorites on the big screen.  Yes, it was a good day.

Sunday completed a trilogy of Father’s Days: the first was raw, last year’s was fraught, and this one was normal at last—or at least as normal as circumstances allowed.  Sometimes, moving through grief seems like like a Zeno’s Paradox of getting better: you heal by half, and then by another half, and then by half again… until the distance between you and wholeness is imperceptible, but still there.  Or still there, but imperceptible, depending on where you want to put your emphasis.

On Sunday, M. asked me if I had been thinking of Zoey and Gus.  I had, of course—as much, and in the same way, as I do every other day.  It was not until the next morning, while taking the dog for his morning walk, that I thought of them with a more acute sadness.  Maybe it was because I missed them.  Maybe it was because I thought I should have missed them more.

 ---

My first post for Glow was last Father’s Day.  It struck me as fitting then, that this brief one, a year later, should be my last.  At least for a while. 

This decision to step aside is one of the hardest I have made in recent memory.  Since I last posted, I managed to return to the book I have needed to (re)write about Zoey and Gus.  I’m thankful to say that it has been going well.  But increasingly, I have come to see how hard it will be to find time—and more critically, the focus—to devote to the book and Glow both.  I hate to take my leave of Glow and its amazing contributors and community, but there is a limit to the number of pieces into which I can divide myself.  To fix Zoey and Gus in the world the way I want to, I need the book and the book needs this.

Thank you for reading my posts over this last year.  Thank you for your comments: for the kind words you offered me and for what you courageously shared of your own lives. Going forward, I hope you will give yourself permission to live where you are: in your grief but also, hopefully, outside it.  I do not wish you comfort alone, but rather, comfort and openness to comfort.  Getting to the other side is not forgetting.  Give yourself permission.  Some people don't.

Whether ocassionally or regularly, I do hope to be back.  I hope to be checking the site often.  (So if you would like to reach me, leave comments on this post.)  And with my time away, I hope to write a good book that honors Zoey and Gus, their memories, and our experience—mine and M.’s, of course, but also yours.  After all, the particulars of our stories may vary, but we all belong to one another in a way that we don’t belong to others, no matter how long we have known this one or that one.

I hope we will go on knowing each other.  I think that is a good hope, as is most hope.  Because, as I try to remember, not all farewells are forever.

Be seeing you.

Be well.

Eric



bling

Here’s what’s in my stash.

A tiny pendant of a round and zen-like angel given to me by my mother-in-law immediately after it happened. Lorraine is sturdy and Yankee and Catholic. I love that she reached out to me this way. It came with matching dangly earrings, but metal makes my ears inflate and turn purple.

A wonderful “your heart in my heart” pendant made for me by Barb. She lost her baby boy around the same gestational age that I lost my Mae, and she makes pretty things. I ordered it as soon as I realized that I was going to need her name next to my skin all the time.

A slick, wire-wrapped crescent moon of tiger eye. Brian bought it for me at a country fair last August. We were wandering through the tents in the late summer light, and I was in a mood. A dark and golden stone for my dark moon baby. I strung it next to the heart pendant.

One of those bronze, semi-industrial, semi-romantic tiny tags (love. angel. mae. 2-28-09.) strung with a heart and more e.e. cummings. An unexpected gift from lovely Paige, only a few weeks ahead of me on this grief journey.

My Mother’s Day surprise from Tina. A group of us were swapping “bouquets” – anything with a flower theme – and now my bouquet hangs around my neck. Three little flowers and the word “mama.” Her initials. Her birthstone. Her dates. I’m spoiled.

My tattoo. I think of it as back-up. I don’t wear a necklace every day. Sometimes it doesn’t go with the outfit. Sometimes I just forget. But I never wanted to forget and then feel guilty. I never wanted panic myself into the deep, dark, sobbing missing of her for lack of having her name on me somewhere. So there is the strawberry—almost bruisey red at the bottom, white and not quite ripe near the stem. Her name is hidden in the veins of the leaves for me to point out to you. Or not.

Photo by marie-II.

“I like your necklace.”

“Gee, thanks!”

That’s usually as far as it goes. Unless I know you’ve caught the significance, and maybe I can see you’ve got one of your own.

A soccer mom approached me at the fields the other day, she and her husband both round and grey and fair. Their junior high girl was playing center forward, and their younger boy was kicking dirt, impatient. Both kids had dark skin, sleek hair. Cambodian? I wondered, and tried to remember if Cambodia has had an active adoption program. Because that’s something I might have recall of, now that I’ve been infertile for two years. And I wondered about her journey, and if they had lost anyone. Because that’s the kind of thing I might reasonably wonder about anyone now.

She keyed in on my necklace immediately. “That’s so beautiful!” She peered closely, trying to read the cryptically stamped metal. I casually place my hand over the pendants, blocking her view.

I could have told her my story. She was perfectly nice. Maybe she would have understood. But I deflected her glance.

On a recent class trip with a boat load of moms and 6^th graders, someone was talking about “appropriate dress. I brought up, unprovoked, my tattoos and how someone else in our family would have to deter my stepdaughter from inking herself as a teenager. I even pointed them out – one on my shoulder, the strawberry on my ankle, god knows why.

The very sincere woman sitting across from me asked how I selected images that I knew would be meaningful to me forever. I blinked at her slowly and changed the subject.

* * * * *

I question myself. Why wear a necklace out in public, right there above my cleavage to dangle and attract attention, if I don’t want to talk about it? Why flash my big red tattoo in the summer? I feel subversive. This jewelry is just for me, and I’m wearing right out there in front of you. Look away! It’s weird.

But sometimes a moment opens unexpectedly. I started a new job a few months back. My boss and colleagues know little about my personal life, but lately I’ve had the urge to let them in, if only for honesty’s sake.

At a recent meeting my boss and our consultant simultaneously zeroed in on my necklace. They asked what was written on the charms, and I told them, along with the 60-second version of my daughter death story. I think it was the directness of their questions that did it – I didn’t think, I just answered. They ooohed and ahhhed and looked surprised and made sympathetic noises and then restarted the meeting. They were jittery and unfocused for a while after that. But I didn't feel scrambled at all.

That moment, and ones like it, has been good for me. Some families have a strong and open instinct to speak of their missing little ones. Not me—I’m more likely to hide, to protect. But often, when I’m forced out into the light, it goes better than I think it will, and I feel a little stronger for it, a tiny bit more whole.

Maybe that’s why I keep wearing the bling. It’s hard for me to create those moments of openness for myself. But sometimes, if the light is just right, my necklace will shine, and I’ll speak.

* * *

Do you wear any memorial jewelry or tattoos? What does it mean to you? How do you respond to comments and questions about it? Where are you, these days, on sharing your loss in public or with those outside your immediate circle?

Pull up a chair

It's cold and rainy 60 degrees here. So far today I've had a big mug of homemade latte (long live my foam-making gadget) and two medium mugs of hot tea. I am planning to have at least one more of those.

I don't know whether it's because it's a rainy day, or because a fellow medusa and her family are staying with us for a couple of days, or because I'd nursed a general unease for half the day today before locating its source in it being a date of significance, the first of the "five years since..." ones, but whatever it is, I am suddenly feeling that it's been way too long since last we asked how you are doing.

So grab a mug of steaming with whatever you are in the mood for. Or, if you prefer, pretend it's actually nice and sunny outside and we are sitting in a sidewalk cafe, and umbrellas above us are reflecting in our drinks.

(Though if your drink is really reflecting an umbrella above you, I am jealous and I am not sure I want to know.)

Whichever way you go on the drink, though, do stay a bit and tell us how you are. What's been going on? What is on your mind? Let's talk.

When These Mountains Were the Seashore

Mrs. Spit's son Gabriel was born fifteen weeks too soon, in December 2007, as a result of severe pre-eclampsia. Catapulted into the swirling world of grief while trying to grow her family, Mrs. Spit lost four pregnancies after Gabriel. Earlier in the year, she made the decision to live child free. She blogs daily at Mrs. Spit . . . Still Spouting Off, writing with equal fierceness and love about her life as a wife, a friend, a knitting-gardener, boss and occasionally, as the mother to a dead child. Mrs. Spit is the kind of compassionate warrior that is not afraid to write about politics and religion and all the thoughts in between. And so here, she just fits perfectly. Please join us in welcoming her as a regular contributor and fellow Medusa. - Angie

My name is Mrs. Spit. It hasn't always been this, but to some - in a small corner of a particular universe - I am Mrs. Spit. I have many names: I am wife, I am friend, I am project manager, I am boss, I am employee, and oh, yes, I am sometimes mother.

Like all people, I didn't start out with these names. Like all people, these names started out as a title. A name is after all, a personal thing. I took on a new title in March, a title that I am trying to make a name. I am now perpetually childless. I am now "child free". After three years, a perinatal death as a result of pre-eclampsia, four miscarriages and more medical specialists than you can imagine, Mr. Spit and I decided to stop trying to have children. We decided to be done - forevermore.

So, here I am, trying to find my way in a new world once again. Here I am with a new title that I am trying to make into a name. This wasn't, I should tell you, where I planned to start this post. I planned to start with the title, which is the title of a song by a musician called Hawksley Workman. As inspiration or at least incentive, I planned to play that song when I started to write this blog. Instead, because I got a new keyboard for my iPad, I wound up starting ahead of myself.

Instead of being in my favourite coffee shop in Jasper, AB, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, listening to one apple device while typing on another; I am in a hotel room typing away. I should tell you I'm like that. I think that I will go one way and then all of a sudden I find myself on another path entirely, not quite certain how I wound up there but knowing I'm heading in the right direction.

For point of reference this is exactly how it came to be that I conceived my son. I went to go and see my gynecologist to get an IUD and I came out of his office convinced I should conceive instead. I went to go and see the fertility specialist in February of 2011,  attempting pregnancy number six and I walked out of her office knowing that we were done having children, we were done getting pregnant. Indeed, we were just done.

The reason I thought I would begin with Hawkley's song is not just because it is the sort of song that is so achingly beautiful that you wonder at the ugliness of the world around you, but because it talks about what I am doing, turning from one thing into another. Metamorphosis.

That's what I will be writing about. I don't have all the answers. I probably don't have any of the answers. I am only starting to ask the questions. A good question, I would posit, is at least as important as anything else. You can't ever get to any sort of good answer without it.

So, I am asking questions. It would be easy enough, I suppose to just decide to invest in some sort of permanent birth control, empty the basement of baby things carefully stored and paint the nursery so that it becomes completely my office. I could do this. I am doing this. But I'm not sure it's wise to act without asking questions. I’m not sure reaching decisions without asking questions takes you anywhere.

In my scheduled posts at Glow in the Woods, I will be asking those questions. I’ll be asking about how you find meaning without children. I’ll be asking questions about how to live the rest of my life - deliberate questions about what is next.  

I know for some of you, this idea of living without children in the newness of your loss is impossible. It is a bridge too far and a cut too deep. I have been there. I can remember the days when I could not consider life without a living child. It has taken me three and a half years to reach this point. Where you are now is where you should be.

Some of you will never need to be on this path. Some of you might find yourself with me. Some of you might not be sure. Where you are now, is where you should be. Hawksley was right, mountains were once sea shores, and the desert was once the ocean floor.

right where I am project: 979 Days

The day after he died I thought Lu was next and me right behind her.  On days two through five I was certain of it.  At the time I talked a lot about how we couldn't let this loss destroy us and poison us and tear us apart but they were words mostly, words I spit out into the World hoping I could make them true.  I had no confidence at all but no one knew.

Days five through thirty-something were a brutal crawl back from the edge of the greatest Abyss I had ever encountered.  The sheer magnitude of what happened to us was impossible to to contain within my brain, my soul, my body.  I could only capture pieces of it.  The physical ache of no-child-in-my-arms was palpable.  Having no reason to sleep and nothing to wake up for was another.  The constant flow of people through our house distracted me at times, until I couldn't fake another conversation I didn't give a flying fuck about.

After that first month I managed to find my feet and started walking upright again.  It was all fake--all a facade--but it was necessary to go through the motions if I ever wanted to heal, that I knew for sure.  Besides, I had Lu to worry about and I needed to be strong.  Sometimes I think I'm still faking it 32+ months later.  Sometimes I think I always will be, that a vital of part of me vanished when Silas died.  Then I remember that blind innocence is no virtue and that this experience is as real and true as love and hope and friendship and fear.  It is always better if he lived but he didn't, so I had to, somehow.  That's where I stood then and still do today.

Three months out I started to accept that I was probably going to survive his death and that our marriage would, too.  Getting a tattoo on my arm that was visible to all was a big step forward for me.  The pain of the ink entering my skin permanently ensured that I would always have a piece of Silas as part of my physical being as well as my heart & soul.  To this day this tattoo is a balm and solace I treasure absolutely.  Along with my wedding ring that has his name etched within, it is my most valuable possession.  I love it when people ask about it and I get to decide how much to tell them.  If it is someone I'm just getting to know it is a powerful way to deepen our friendship.  If I'm in a conversation with someone who has recently experienced the loss of a loved one it is a mark of authenticity and truth, that I know their grief, I understand their pain, that despite everything they feel they are not alone.

Months three through twelve and beyond were eye-opening for me.  I was constantly surprised that I could navigate the day so effectively, even though I felt like a shell of a human.  Stressful moments were impossible and the pit that lived in my gut only expanded and contracted but never vanished completely.  Sadness descended in waves I couldn't expect and couldn't surf.  For the first time in my life I became a shitty, shitty sleeper.  That has gotten better but I still don't sleep through the night like I did before.  I guess I'm still listening for Silas' cries in the night, or his steady breath in the next room.  I'm certain I always will be.

I began to wonder how many other people went through their days that way: faking the okay-ness, pretending to be fine and normal and happy.  I was astounded to realize how deeply everyone held their pain.  Lost parents, dead pets, an impossible relationship with someone they thought loved them, over and over again I learned how pain and sadness and loss and death were as much a part of life as the gorgeous sunrise and the beauty of the infinite stars above.  Silas dying was terrible but everyone's story contained their own powerful losses in a thousand different ways.  And through it all, Lu and I held on to each other and somehow managed to keep each other upright, loved and true.

But by the time a year had passed since his death a new bit'o'awfulness began to become clear.  Getting Lu pregnant again was not happening.  And that is when I started to learn how much bullshit people could throw our way without even thinking about it.  "Oh you just need to relax!"  "Once you stop trying it'll happen right away!"  "She probably just needs a little wine and a vacation and it will be all good."  Best of all were the, "Everything happens for a reason" jackasses.  My son dying did not "happen for a reason."  Our inability to get pregnant wasn't some dumbass fucking cosmic plan.  Life is just fucked up and crazy shit happens and this was another example of that.  Every month when Lu got her period it was like the Universe taking the little seeds of hope we had scattered in our souls and grinding them into a powdery dust we could mix with our tears and consume as a thin, awful gruel.  IUI, IVF, hcg, acronyms I came to hate more than full words can describe.  STFU and GTFO and LMTFA is more like it.  I wanted nothing to do with any of it and it was all we had to hold on to.

Two years out and I was resigned to the fact that we just might not get to have kids.  It wasn't something Lu was able to think about or hear, but I was preparing.  I started to wonder how far she would want to go with all of this.  Donor eggs?  A surrogate?  Perhaps a vat for growing a baby, no human required.  I wondered how far I was willing to take this, as well.  As a guy, I can never have a baby.  I can have a child that has half my genes, but I can never create, gestate, grow and produce a living human being.  With so many other children destitute and discarded I began to prepare my brain, heart and soul that I would have to love and nurture a child that wasn't a half replica of me.  And quickly I realized that would be no problem at all.  At 2 years out I had not given up on the possibility of having our own kid but I was definitely preparing for that eventuality.  I had to in case I had to get Lu to that point, too.

Unending disappointment is a powerful force.  Consistent and repeated negative reinforcement is unstoppable.  I learned to make do with the fact that I was alive and often happy even though Silas had died, but that I could and should never expect anything more than that.

Now there is more than that for the first time since he died, and I have no idea how to feel.  Or rather I know exactly how I feel, but I don't know if it is safe or wise or terrible to feel this way.  I just know I feel all of it, all the time right now and so I try to go slow through the World and do everything right, everything I can.  Yet still, once again, all I can do I watch and help from the outside as Lu goes through growing this next new life within her.

So I will tell you right where I am 2.66666667 years after Silas died.  I'm in the same apartment where he was pulled from Lu, where the ambulances tore up to, where the EMTs stormed in.  I'm in love with my wife and the love of my life.  I'm sore and tired from a gorgeous weekend of camping and music with friends and fun and laughter.  I'm amazed by the bulge in Lu's belly and the ultrasounds that finally show another little life.  I'm terrified of what could happen, what we could lose, what we did lose without Silas here today asking questions.  I'm right here at home, hoping for hope, still perfecting the plummet that should end in flight.  Still waiting for a child in my arms.  Still alive. Still easy to cry.  Still angry, still sad.  Still okay.  And as often I as I can, just still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post is part of Angie's Right Where I Am Project.  I read hers and my wife Lu's and I felt a strong connection to the theme.  Angie gave me the go-ahead to post mine here at Glow but it would be great to continue her project over on her site as well.  I will post her instructions in the comments so we can keep this whole thing going.

wild is the wind

photo by KevinGrahame

On the west coast of New Zealand overlooking the fierceness of the Tasman Sea, the trees growing in the rocky crags of the shoreline jut sideways. The branches on the sea side are barren, twisted. The force of the wind changes their structure, the way their nature demands to grow beaten into submission. The limbs bend permanently off to the side pointing towards the land. "Go this way," they point. "Go away from the brutal sea." They morph from the relentlessness of the coastal wind. Their shape is the shape of the wind. It is the shape of abuse. Sometimes when I think back on how captivating those trees were, how haunting, how few pictures I took of them, yet how often I think of them, sometimes I think that shape is the shape of love.

Let the wind blow through your heart, for wild is the wind.

All the love songs are written about Lucia. All the heartbreak songs. All the songs about loss and want and ache. All of the songs. I want to write about her too, but I can't seem to find the words. I know nothing about Lucy except that she isn't here. And the cadence of her not being here is like the wind beating on me, changing me. I relent. My branches bend over, growing uncomfortably sideways, damaged, impossible. I bend from the love. The love disguised as sadness and grief. Sometimes I get confused by that, thinking that I am bending from the hurt, but it is love that bends me, that points me away from everything else. I look debilitated. I feel debilitated. Until, suddenly, I realize that it has become so much a part of who I am, I am not uncomfortable anymore. And until it became so much a part of who I am, the way I was, unbending and sure of the world, makes no sense anymore.

You're Spring to me, all things to me.

I never thought I’d survive the death of one of my children. That is what I used to say when I would hear a horror story about stillbirth, or infant death. "Oh, I would never survive," I would muse. I thought I would turn into dust and ash and be carried off, a bit of me left everywhere until I was nowhere at all. I'd close my eyes to banish the thought of it. Cross myself. Throw salt over my left shoulder.  Touch wood.  Hold my breath.  Make a wish. Knock on wood.  Throw salt over my shoulder. Whisper on the wind.

Let me fly away with you.

Maybe I really thought I would never survive it, or that is simply all the further I could think of such a scenario. It seemed so horrid, I wouldn't dignify imagining how it would really be. Maybe I said things like that because I thought I was not the kind of person that babies die inside of. I remember that feeling of talking myself out of the anxiety of the stillness. I felt silly for being afraid. I felt silly. I used to think I was a humble person. Confident, perhaps, but humble. Humility, in fact, was my religion. That seemed the key to a spiritual existence. Humility and compassion. Hand in hand. Then I thought I was humble because I lost so much. Before that, I thought I was humble because I didn't think I was the prettiest, smartest or most talented person and that realization didn't floor me. My philosophy of life was simple: "I am not anyone special. And neither are you."

I suppose now I see humility differently. Humility to me is accepting that I am not capable of transcending my humanness. My child died in me not because I am bad, or good, or humble, or arrogant, or I deserved it or didn't deserve it. She died because I am human. I am not a terrible person, just a person. And I am changed by the grief. My branches own the hurt perhaps further are the hurt of simply being human and loving so much.  

Wild is the wind. So wild.

Though I thought I'd never survive my child's death, I survived it. What did I think I would do? Kill myself? Expire from lack of wanting to survive? After living through the death of my child, I realized that surviving isn't the hard part. You can live despite yourself and in spite of yourself. You can punish, abuse, disengage with you, you can cut yourself off from everything. You can try to will life to stop, but it won't. You wake up everyday and remember what happened again. And your arms bend a little more.

It is the thriving that feels impossible. It is the hope that gets choked, the loneliness that settles onto your bones like an old wet wool coat, useless and bulky in its wetness, and uncomfortably heavy. It is the juxtaposition of the old, wet, wool coat, and the wind that blows through your heart. And the wind that blows through the holes in you. Your arms tire. Everything is tired. But you still live.

My love is like the wind.

There is a hole in me that seems bigger than any one person could have ever filled, especially someone so little and dead. The wind blows through her tree this morning, moving the tiny Buddhist bell and the flags that send a prayer off to the corner of the globe. That prayer can never be answered. And still I pray for the impossible--a moment with Lucia again. A moment. One tiny wisp of her. The grief that whirled in me after she died touched all the other grief in me. I can see that now. That is why I am defined by grief now, because we are all defined by grief. I am not special because of that. And neither are you.

I am more beautiful, though, because of Lucia. More beautiful because grief debilitated me until I grew into the shape of grief and into the shape of love. I am sideways and ugly and in that way, I suppose I am beautiful.

For we're creatures of the wind and wild is the wind.

What ways has grief shaped you? What parts of you feel leafless and empty? What parts of you are heartier? What ways have you grown more beautiful because of your grief? In what ways have you thrived? In what ways have you merely survived?